An Alien Rescue (4 page)

Frell turned to Drang and telepathically informed him it was time to depart.
They had stayed on guard for two days and all seemed to be safe “Apart from that little mishap near the cliff’s edge, where he slipped and fell, he seems fine,” she said. She felt there might be a bit more to the fall than just a simple accident, but as he had recovered and put some distance between himself and the cliff's danger she thought nothing more of it. As for the humans who had arrived further away, she surmised, they seemed preoccupied with whatever they were doing and presented no risk to Scott.

Drang nodded to the command, pausing for a moment longer while watching Scott’s image on the monitor before returning his attention to the
ir ship’s control panel. He would also miss Scott. He had never met or known such an individual and admired his courage, bravery and ingenuity with the deepest possible respect. He could never forget him and hoped he would be available to escort Frell back to the small rocky isle should the opportunity arise again, which he was certain it would. Drang secretly hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

“He did appear to have a very high level of psychic awareness about him,” Drang added. “His ability to communicate by telepathy was most extraordinary too.”

Frell gave Drang’s comments some careful thought before replying, “Yes... , he is a very extraordinary person… in many ways.”

Drang nodded again, seeing a happy glint in her eyes and knowing why. He smiled and initiated their departure.

The little ship’s orbit was breached as their programmed destination commenced. Small tears appeared in Frell’s eyes as the craft began its departure, forming tiny rivulets running down her golden cheeks. She had never known such sadness, it was a feeling of losing something and someone so dear and personal to her, almost as if she were losing a part of her own body or something inside was breaking. Frell swept her blonde hair back over her shoulders while hiding the fact she was also wiping away tears. She hoped Drang had missed the action as her love for the man being left behind was strictly forbidden among her kind. Drang saw her action but chose to ignore it, for he too was filled with sadness. And besides, was Frell not Scott’s lover, he considered.
It may be a love that shouldn’t be
, thought Drang, but he could see no reason why he should do anything to prevent it. He was just as human and could feel the sorrow she was obviously experiencing within her breaking heart. It was such a powerful and emotive force that his own reaction was to try and speak about anything in order to take her thoughts from her loss and onto something else, anything except the fact she might never see him again.

“I don’t think Scott will locate many fossils from the area where he is at present,” he commented.

She turned towards him. “I’m sorry? What did you say, Drang?”

“Fossils,” he replied, “I don’t think Scott will find many around the area where his tent is located.”

She reached across the Control panel to touch a few illuminated buttons. One of the three slightly elevated screens above changed from showing their present position in the surrounding solar system to one of the local strata where Scott now fumbled with his belongings.

“You’re right, Drang, they’re there alright, but deeply buried beneath the upper basaltic lava flows. He’ll need to try somewhere else if he wants any relics from Earth’s ancient history.”

“Unless he can remove many tonnes of solid rock with his bare hands,” Drang added with humour to lighten the situation.

Frell released a heavy sigh and turned her gaze downwards. Her body ached slightly from the passion she had shared just a few hours earlier in the ship’s
lounge area. How she wished she could turn the clock back, even for only a few earth hours.

“Oh well”, she said quietly, resigning herself to the fact that Scott was gone and she was heading back to their base. She looked around her, remembering all the little movements made by her lover as he first entered the Flight deck area, remembering the look of surprise followed by the clear admission of suspicion written on his face when Drang first appeared. The little re
d hat being placed on his head and the explanation of how it would protect him on the lunar surface of Earth's moon. Him pouring his clenched fist of precious black lunar dust into the small container made from the ship’s own structure.

“Oh,” she exclaimed as she realised the missing metal will be noticed when the ship’s dismantled back at base. Drang picked up the exclaimed worry and quickly suggested one of the ship’s metal cups would make up for the loss. “It will not be missed,” he insisted.

“Oh, Drang, you’re such a great help,” she said, considering his idea. I, we, couldn’t have managed without you; I doubt if any of us would have survived the ordeal with the Grey commander either. Like Scott,
you
are also a
great warrior,
” she stated proudly.

This pleased Drang enormously. Scott and his influence made him feel like a different man, dragging out all his hidden courage and mighty fortitude. His debt of gratitude to Scott was so large; Drang doubted if he would ever be able to repay him.

The small ship was almost clear of Earth’s solar system, heading back into the heraldic communications traffic of space. The silence of Earth’s isolated system was extremely unsettling, especially when the Grey Empire could use it for their personal and definitive advantage. The ship’s log, regarding their final encounter with a Grey ship and its sad demise, was ready to transmit. The information regarding the battle and its end-result would be known and considered well before they arrived back at their Mothership.
What kind of welcome would they receive
, she wondered. She had just captained a craft that had caused the destruction and deaths of another craft and its cloned crew, something no other member of her colony had ever done before. She felt party to murder, even though she knew it was a case of either them or us, she carefully considered. While wishing it was otherwise, she accepted it.

A blinding flash of green light appeared throughout the Control Room. Various panels with their flashing buttons and switches were instantly extinguished into confusing darkness without any kind of warning or automatic announcement of impending failure. No alarm sounded and the abrupt absence of power supplies persuaded Drang in an instant they were under direct attack. He recognised the enforced power-shutdown as similar to his experience with the Grey Empire’s energy neutralising ray while previously on Earth’s moon. He knew they were in serious trouble as the ship’s motion stabilisers began to fail and the momentum of stopping very quickly could be felt.

“
It’s the Greys
!” shouted Drang as he played the dead control panel keys and switches in the hope of resurrecting their ship’s internal energy source. He continued his attempts to reroute non-functioning commands through various channels until a monotone and mechanical hailing voice commanded them to refrain from attempting to escape.

Frell looked at Drang with concern across her face. He tried to
appear brave but felt he couldn’t fool anyone. Reluctantly, they both sat down and waited for the inevitable to happen.

After packing the tent and his untidy belongings onto the rear of the bike, the much-loved motorcycle was kick-started into a resounding roar from its black-enamelled twin cylinders. With a small cloud of blue smoke and sweet smell of Castrol ‘R’ Racing oil blown from the blackened end of the twin-exhausts, the blades of grass behind each silencer bent over and away with the pulsing and throbbing force inflicted upon them. Scott was beginning his departure from the island with great reluctance because he felt he was leaving something of great value behind, something vitally important to his life. He recalled bathing in the cold sea a short time before, watching more than just a few blonde hairs unpeeling from his sticky and sweaty torso before gently drifting away with the current. He wondered why the memory had returned so vividly while trying to make some sense of it all, realising it was a complete puzzle to his newly troubled mind. He wracked through his recent memories of his island stay but couldn’t think of what it might be; and for the life of him was unable to reach any kind of sensible conclusion. “Oh what the hell,” he said to himself, “I guess I’m just tired.” With that statement no sooner said, he opened the throttle and headed for home.

The long drive, after his unsuccessful fossil finding expedition, was as unhindered as that when he had driven to Skye a couple of days previously, convinced it was only
two days ago. It was the Burger-Van staff and fellow customers who let Scott know he was a day out on his reckoning, which confused him enormously. They thought it was funny, laughing heartily at his confused state of mind. He didn't.

Tired and chilled to the bone, with the usual dirty and oil-encrusted hands, he arrived home. He had tales of his bike journey and intrepid camping adventures to share with his family; those
he could remember. Scott wanted to tell his wife and two little girls all about the time he was away, but only after listening to their exciting and action-packed stories first. While patiently listening to dramatic tales of swimming in a river and sitting on the backs of mountain-high horses, he found his mind was otherwise distracted, preoccupied with another story of sorts. He had this far-fetched idea of writing a novel based on his drive to and from the Isle of Skye, adding some kind of exaggerated adventure to capture the imagination of anyone who might be tempted to read it. He didn’t quite know what the plot would include or where it would lead to, but felt sure something would leap from his mind and astound him and everyone else with its hatching theme. There were all kinds of interesting thoughts appearing within his head, combined with colourful pictures to match. They were concentrated around a science-fiction based adventure, the sort you might only come across in the movies or novels. He did make some kind of progressive sense in what he imagined, however, and slowly began to construct a great adventure across space and perhaps even time itself.

He had also discovered
a small tin of dark grit and dust in one of the motorcycle's panniers. He placed it on a high out of the way shelf within his garage, feeling there was something particularly special about it but couldn't figure why. He did, however, have a great desire to return to the island, to search for fossils once again, believing he would be luckier next time. It was the confession to his wife about losing a day while on the Isle that brought about a scathing accusation about being drunk on booze while away. He found the event of missing out an entire day bewildering at best. He just couldn't work that out at all.

A year
had almost passed since his visit to Skye and the planned return visit was verging on being cancelled. As an Aircraft Technician in the British Royal Air Force, he was informed he was being posted to the Falkland Islands, a distant island group many thousands of miles away and not so far from Antartica. His overwhelming desire to visit his beloved Isle hadn’t diminished through time. He had become more and more determined to get there, somehow, even if it meant waiting an additional amount of time. He basically had no choice in the matter.

H
is official military posting came through and off he went on a supposed war footing with Argentina in late April. This unstable and sometimes turbulent South American country was still laying claim to the windswept sheep-populated and treeless islands, although the
Argies
’ referred to them as the
Malvinas
. His previous squadron of Boeing Tri-Star aircraft provided his transportation, with, “
Good to see you again mate”
, handshakes from the crew who had been his friends. After a very long and arduous flight, cramped into as small a space as was humanly possible to travel in, he arrived to the great delight of the chap he was replacing. Scott's presence in the Falkland Islands was to last for several long months and he would miss his family. He was currently studying for a science degree, which he found extremely difficult to do while in the military, especially in the Falkland's, where he had to share a room with three other RAF chaps. The situation proved difficult and extremely tasking when considering his monumental studies and the dedication required while operating in sub-zero temperatures and long working hours.

The cold and lonely months dragged by and his eventual departure was forthcoming, with his return to the United Kingdom not expected until late August. Possibly a little too late to visit Skye, he
calculated. Knowing he was due a certain amount of disembarkation leave when he returned home, he wondered if he could use this period to drive to the rocky and windswept island at the first opportunity.

After the usual sentiments and hugs on getting home, and a few more than welcome glasses of draught Guinness
at his local public bar, he felt his body clock resetting back into Greenwich Mean Time. What he couldn’t quite grasp was the necessity to get out of his bed in the middle of the night and stare at the flickering stars through his lounge picture-window in pitch darkness. He seemed unusually distracted with the idea of all the distant heavenly suns with the possibility of orbiting planets and life. The idea of a book had been nurturing itself while in the South Atlantic and had already begun writing it. As time had passed, a story of love, sex and exciting adventures consisting of alien characters from distant galaxies became reality on paper. The thoughts were increasingly getting stronger and clearer with each passing day. The writing had served as a timely diversion from his long working hours, studies and the infernal freezing weather. He hadn’t told a soul about the story that steadily manifested itself within his active mind and imagination. He discovered that drinking alcoholic beverages made his story seem much clearer, but couldn’t work out why. While drinking with his military mates and buddies, he often left their friendly company earlier than anyone else so he could return to his room with the idea of writing all the thoughts and ideas that had been entering his mind. This, he found, was slightly disconcerting, as he had never had the inclination to do anything of the sort before. His new pals began to make jokes about his regular early evenings, suggesting he had something secret to attend to in the privacy of his room. They knew he was studying and put his disappearances down to this reason, but still hoped they could wind him up by making lewd grinning suggestions. Scott laughed at the jokes with the rest of them as he could see the funny side, but still not feeling intimidated in the slightest. His good sense of humour stood him well with the others.

The fantasised story, so far, had concentrated on being a love story. It was between two very different individuals, a man like himself and a six-foot tall
worth-killing-for gorgeous blonde woman. He thought it was a great idea, as his pen seemed to glide itself across the pages, leaving words and mental pictures of their sexual activity in his smile as he worked. This was turning into a science fiction novel, where the male character met an alien female in the strangest of circumstances. They fell in love and shared moments of passion where their union would result in the birth of a child. The original plot seemed to lengthen with each passing day and every alcoholic drink. He felt exhausted by the efforts of writing and working out the plot, and yet the story just seemed to create itself as the words were written in an off-hand and unplanned manner. He wondered if all authors wrote in this slovenly fashion, or perhaps they had a good idea where the plot was heading and how it would end before they started the first page. It also occurred to him that he might simply be trying to live out a fantasy by putting it down on paper. His vivid imagination raised a valid point too, one where he began to wonder if this story was rising from his subconscious memory because it felt real enough within his mind, almost as if he were writing from personal experience. He began to feel a preference for blonde women instead of those with dark-hair, which included his own wife. He once asked himself quietly if he thought he might be going mad, hoping no one had heard him asking the question as an afterthought. His mind was confused and the additional thought entered his head that perhaps he should consult a shrink; then quickly rejected the idea as extremely bad when he realised his mind was
his
property and not anyone else’s to play around with. He astounded himself when the storyline included a flying saucer picking him up from the Isle of Skye, involuntary of course. This was where the blonde woman introduced herself to him and their passionate affair had begun. He scoffed at the idea, shaking his head with a smile as he did so, but secretly he hoped it might be true as the idea appealed to him enormously. He thought it would be romantic to the extreme to have a secret life beyond the stars with a goddess of a woman. In time he might even find out the truth.

The opportunity to drive to Skye finally arrived; he still had
his disembarkation time to use before he returned to his fast-jet Tornado aircraft squadron. Only this time, he would be driving to the island on a different motorcycle than the previous year. His old and trusty 650cc BSA Thunderbolt, had been replaced with a brand new Triumph Legend TT. The old 1967 bike languished at the rear of his garage gathering dust and the inevitable cobwebs, covered by a threadbare duvet cover to prevent condensation forming on its metalwork that could lead to rust. The new Legend motorcycle was a feat of modern technology and engineering with its three-cylinder, 900 CC’s of up-to-date power-plant to provide an instant response to his throttle-twisting grip. This meant his travelling-time was immensely reduced and his comfort greatly increased. With infinitely less vibration from the engine and suspension to rattle and shake his muscles and bones he could now drive to the Isle in style, not needing to periodically pullover to make necessary adjustments to the engine’s constantly changing settings. His hands had previously been abused with blackened-oil and grease, layered with muck as he periodically removed alloy-casings for access to the engine’s heated and smelly guts, always losing valuable travelling time in the process. Those in the know regularly changed the manufacturer’s abbreviation, BSA to suit their feelings after a long drive. They would alter it from
Birmingham-Small-Arms
, to,
Bloody-Sore-Arse
. His personal experience agreed with this interpretation and knew those uncomfortable days were gone for good, especially as the Triumph’s seat was well padded and cleverly designed for ease of travel. There would be no more numb-bums for Scott this trip, or any other!

The day of departure arrived and his new bike was laden with the gear he would need. All the camping and ancillary equipment was held-down securely with elastic straps onto the rear of the bike, with the multitude of bulky items well thought out in advance. At the bottom of one pannier was his geology hammer and folded ordnance survey maps; whereupon, in the opposite pannier was a flask of hot coffee, milk and mug to counter-balance the weight. Being aware of the shortage of snack vans at various places on the route, he was carrying his own eats and treats to prevent him from going without, just like he had to on his previous trip.

The run didn’t take nearly as long as it had on the 1960’s bike, and Scott’s hands didn’t have the usual grubby appearance they had before. The new machine handled like a dream and didn’t need to be serviced or adjusted at the side of the road. There wouldn’t be any need for the caring motorist to pull over beside him, asking if there was anything they could do to help, always assuming his old BSA had broken down, while usually correct. Following the kind and thoughtful actions of these drivers, Scott’s belief in other motorists was reassured. He was aware there was an unofficial kind of driver’s club, where willing members would try to assist another, if and when they could. This pleased him, especially as
he
always went out of his way to help others too. He would turn down any kind of reward for his help and assistance with a smile, suggesting they could perhaps help others in distress as payment instead.

He understood he needed to find his old bike a new owner; he knew it was for the best, he persuade
d himself. His struggles to keep the beast running well had tired him over the years and his devotion had sometimes waned. He had at times called it every expletive name under the sun when it would refuse to start for no apparent reason, but beneath it all, he loved it. The modern fuel specification had a lower octane, which was not exactly right for the engine and there would be an occasional knocking sound from the cylinders called
pinking
while thumping up a steep hill under load. The elderly bike’s overall performance had declined, which served only to persuade Scott it really was time for his old buddy to move on. There would be a great deal of sadness and Scott might easily shed a tear as his pride and joy would eventually disappear around the corner of his cul-de-sac, driven by its latest and very proud owner, whoever it may be. It had served him well but he now needed something more reliable and a bit more advanced. He would advertise it soon.