Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 7: March 2014 (3 page)

Jim swore softly, over and over again, and wept.

When she looked at him she was dry-eyed, for she had done her crying already.

And she listened as he began to talk about food, about leaving the city, the two of them. “All right,” she said.

Then clamped her lips, shut her eyes against what she saw in his face. When she opened them it was still true, the sudden transparency,
the
wash of blood. She trembled, and he shook at her, his ghost-face di
s
traught.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

She could not tell him, would not. She remembered the boy who had drowned, remembered the other ghosts. Of a sudden she tore from his hands and ran, dodging the maze of debris that, this morning, was solid.

“Alis!” he cried and came after her.

“No!” she cried suddenly, turning, seeing the unstable wall, the cascading brick. She started back and stopped, unable to force herself. She held out her hands to warn him back, saw them solid.

The brick rumbled, fell. Dust came up, thick for a moment, obscuring everything.

She stood still, hands at her sides, then wiped her sooty face and turned and started walking, keeping to
the center of the dead streets.

Overhead, clouds gathered, heavy with rain.

She wandered at peace now, seeing the rain spot the pavement, not yet feeling it.

In time the rain did fall, and the ruins became chill and cold. She visited the dead lake and the burned trees, the ruin of Graben’s, out of which she gathered a string of crystal to wear.

She smiled when, a day later, a looter drove her from her food supply. He had a wraith’s look, and she laughed from a place he did not dare to climb and told him so.

And recovered her cache later when it came true, and settled among the ruined shells that held no further threat, no other nightmares, with her crystal necklace and tomorrows that were the same as today.

One could live in ruins, only so the fires were gone.

And the ghosts were all in the past, invisible.

Copyright © 1978 by C. J. Cherryh

*************************

Steve Cameron is an Australian whose stories have twice been included in The Year’s Best Australian Horror & Fantasy Recommended Reading List, and he has been nominated for two Ditmar Awards and three Chronos Awards. This is his first appearance in
Galaxy’s Edge.

.

.

Brigadier Arthur Holbrook (Ret.)

Ainsburgh Manor

Old Schoolyard Road

Upper Longstocking

West Albionshire

NW8 9AY

England

15th July 2014

General Sir Edwyn Blaine

Chief of the Defence Staff

Ministry of Defence

Whitehall

London

SW1A 2HB

My dear Sir Edwyn,

I am writing to you regarding a matter of the utmost importance. I have tried ringing the village co
n
stabulary, the army and the Home Office—even MI6, but all those fools simply won’t listen. You are my final hope; otherwise I shall be forced to resort to those dreadful television news people.

This matter affects national security and places our once great empire in a position of grave peril. It is my patriotic duty as an old soldier, a retired Brigadier, to inform someone in authority. An alien invasion force is poised ready to strike at any moment, and I have evidence locked in my garden shed.

Don’t laugh, it’s true.

I am very well aware this letter could easily be mistaken as the crazed ramblings of a demented old man.
However I do not suffer fools gladly, nor am I prone to flights of fancy, and I certainly can’t stand this science fiction rubbish the young folk seem to like. As a schoolboy I tried to read some of it.
War of the Worlds
, I think it was called. Complete rubbish! I even knew one of those science fiction chaps during the war. I first met George Orwell when he was in the Home Guard and I asked him why he didn’t write real stories. He wasn’t too happy about that. Mind you, he smelled of mothballs and was a right dour sod most of the time. Big Brother this, Big Brother that. I thought he had surely been bullied as a child. The funny thing is he didn’t even have a brother, only two sisters. I must admit I’m not sure whether
Big Sister is watching
would have worked quite the same way, though. That just sounds, well … perverted.

I shall, of course, impart my information regarding the alien invasion, but please permit me to first offer my credentials and introduce myself. My name is Arthur Holbrook, and I managed to survive the war relatively unscathed, although
I do still have some shrapnel in my neck. It was discovered a couple of years ago when an x-ray revealed a piece of metal high in my spine, up near my skull. My doctor decided it was safer to leave it there. It has never caused me any pain, although I get marvellous reception from the BBC.
Even when the wireless is switched off.

I knew your father back in good old WW2. We were both young Privates then, strong and handsome, keen and courageous. Side by side we fought in the foxholes of France, then shoulder to shoulder across the battlefields of Belgium. We even stayed in touch for a few years after the war. A funny old chap, he was. He liked to wear frocks on a Saturday night and demand we call him Joyce. Now, I’m as happy as the next chap to tart up. I have fabulous legs and I’m not ashamed to show them off. We’d all done that in our student days at Oxford, but your father seemed to revel in it a little more than he should have. I suspect, however, those tales are best left for another time, perhaps one night when we can share a few pints of Old Speckled Hen down at the local. Please pass on my kindest regards to old Joyce and buy her a sherry from me the next time you see her. The last I heard the operation had gone rather well.

I confess I am not familiar with your security clearances, although I would presume they are rather high. And I certainly have no knowledge of whether you have been given any information regarding the exis
t
ence of aliens by our cousins across the pond. If you have been told they do not exist, then the Yanks are lying to you. Which I must admit to finding rather strange since the American public seems to know all about their presence on Earth. My wife’s niece,
a splendid young lass
, is married to a colonial and lives in a small place called Protection, Kansas. Now I ask you, is that any sort of name for a village? Sounds more like something she should have used prior to the birth of that horrid child of hers. The last time my wife’s niece, her American husband and their festering offspring came to visit, I discreetly asked if she believed in aliens. I’m afraid I don’t really comprehend all this computer mumbo-jumbo,
megapretzel
camera, kindle ballyhoo and so on, but she brought out a laptop computer device and connected to something called the interweb. She showed me pictures of something called Area 51 which is apparently full of alien creatures and flying saucers and government agents wearing crisp black suits. If you don’t believe me, ask a youngster to show you on a computer thing.

But I’m afraid I digress, and I should return to the matter at hand.

A week ago my wife and I decided to go for an afternoon drive in our Austin Healey. It was a glorious summer afternoon with just a hint of breeze, and so armed with a picnic basket and a flask of tea we merrily headed off into The Wolds. We had such a lovely time together. As I drove I enjoyed the serenity, the nature, the lush trees and the green rolling hills while my wife shouted directions at me. We even opened
the car windows a little to welcome the scent of freshly cut hay from the passing fields. Soon we found a lovely place to stop for our lunch. We spread our blanket under a chestnut tree and cheerfully munched our cucumber sandwiches, pickled eggs and pork pies. Then we ate freshly baked scones with lashing of jam and cream washed down with good old English tea, from India. Once we were done, I had a nap while my wife roamed the paddock enjoying her hobby, cow tipping. I believe she gave three or four of the beasts a good heave. I awoke, completely refreshed after a good kip, so we packed the car and headed home.

The sun was getting low in the sky when the love of my life realised I was on the wrong road. Apparently she tried to tell me. I didn’t hear her. She believes I am starting to ignore her. I’m afraid it’s just that I’m getting old and a little hard of hearing. But as always she has a solution. From the glove box she retrieved her loud-hailer with which she proceeded to point out my many faults.
Loudly.
I tried my best to ignore her and concentrate on my driving. Somehow I managed to find the road home with only a thumping headache.

Twilight was rapidly approaching as we pulled into the village. Next to me, my love slept soundly. And by soundly I mean she snored as though a freight train was arriving in my skull, over and over again. I had just driven through the main roundabout when I happened to notice three pale blue lights, stationary in the darkening sky, just above the steeple of St. Hubbins. The three lights then pulsed in unison, so I wound down my window to better see them. Unfortunately I didn’t see the Morris 1100 coming towards me. At the last minute its headlights caught my eye and I swerved wildly to avoid it. There was a screech of tyres, a violent shuddering, and then a jolt as I mounted the curb. I crashed into a phone box, through a fence, across a vacant plot of land and into a duck pond. You would not believe the resulting carry on and squawking. And that was just my wife! She stormed around the car, opened the door and dragged me out. Soaked and spluttering stagnant pond water, she carried me across the muddy banks and dumped me on the grass. Across the way, on the village green, three young lads wearing grey windcheaters, which my wife called ‘hoodies’, laughed and pointed in amusement. As my wife pushed the car out of the pond, I lay on my back, gasping for air and calming my heart-rate. When I finally recalled how I’d come to crash the car, I scoured the sky. The blue lights had now vanished.

I’ve seen those lights before. But that was in Europe, some 70 years ago.

In late 1944, as part of the Second Army, I was stationed in the Netherlands. My Division was situated near the Meuse River with the ultimate goal of pushing through to Berlin. One night, while out on patrol, I became separated from my comrades-in-arms. I became completely lost. The night was bitterly cold. We were still several weeks away from the first snow, but the air held an icy chill and the moon was lost behind clouds.

I crept through the woods, trying to locate my fellow soldiers, but I only found myself further disor
i
ented. I shivered, and pulled my collar close around my throat. Just as I was about to light a match to read a map I heard twigs breaking underfoot. Then I heard the guttural sounds of a Jerry speaking to another. Instantly, I dropped to the ground and rolled behind a fallen log. It was damp and smelled of fungus, and it felt like hours I lay there, scarcely breathing, unable to move, but it must have only been a few minutes. One of the Krauts almost stepped on me as he stopped to relieve himself. I had to close my eyes and mouth against the warm stream of German urine.

I think I lasted about ten seconds before I could bear it no longer. I coughed and spluttered and leapt to my feet. The German’s eyes widened as I turned and fled. There was a rifle shot, and then another.

“Halt!” someone shouted. “Halt!”

I ran, zigzagging as I’d been taught and charged smack-bang into a tree. My head felt like it had been pushed straight through my skull, and I crashed heavily to the ground.

Before I could stand, the Jerries had dragged me upright, stripped me of my rifle and tied my hands b
e
hind my back. They marched me to a nearby barn, apparently abandoned. One of them shoved me, and I stumbled inside, scraping my face against the roughly hewn door. I was led to the back and pushed down into an animal stall. As a child I was always fragile, and the smell of old hay and animal droppings brought my allergies to the fore. Immediately I started sneezing which resulted in a backhander. My face burned, my head pounded and I lay there, stinking of piss and whimpering softly in the darkened stall while they removed their packs and rifles. Soon they had started a small fire. There was a short guttural discussion before one of them approached me. He made me stand, looked me up and down then untied my hands. He spoke to me in heavily accented English.

“You won’t try to escape, will you? We will simply shoot you if you try.”

“No,” I shook my head and briskly rubbed my hands to get some life back into them.

“What is your name?”

“Arthur Holbrook,” I said.

“Where are you based?”

“Arthur Holbrook.
Private.
7474505B.”

“Where are you based?” he repeated.

“Arthur Holbrook.
Private.
7474505B.”