Confrontation (The Seamus Chronicles Book 4) (11 page)

Waking up in the cabin brings a smile to my face. The excursion and alien encounter must have been a dream. I am home and I am safe.

I expect Dad to come out of the root cellar at any moment. The door in the floor is closed and tough to make out. It also seems like the back wall is further away than I remember.

On the walls are an amazing array of shapes, colors and patterns. I don’t remember seeing any of these in our cabin before.

There was no dream. I am not home or safe.

Mikes body lays in the same spot I left it. His chest rises and falls slightly. I look down and see that his foot rests at an unnatural angle. His ankle is clearly broken.

As I bring myself to a sitting position, I remember the damage my own body sustained. Bruised or broken ribs make every movement painful. Fortunately I don’t sense any other damage. My legs should work fine, which means I can walk.

Along the back wall, David’s’ head is slumped off to the side and I can hear raspy breath coming from his mouth.

If I leave them here, will they die?

Do I care?

More pointedly, do I have a choice?

I do care, but I don’t really have any choices. If Mike ever comes to again he won’t be able to walk. I know that I cannot help him get much further than to the edge of the jungle. Getting him from there to the cabin drained me completely.

My eyes are drawn back to the walls. These are works of art. They are different and not like paintings that I remember seeing on Earth. They mix texture, color and shape to convey a message. I want to liken it to painting with foam, but that is too simplistic.

One piece holds my attention. The two moons are represented in colors I haven’t seen on this planet. The larger moon is painted a golden orange that reminds me of a particular tree in our yard during foliage season. The smaller moon is done in a deep blue-green like the ocean in some tropical paradise.

The art is beautiful and it evokes emotions in me. The only museum I ever went to with my family was the Museum of Science. Dad used to take Grace to the Isabella Stewart Gardiner Museum in Boston, but I refused to go waste my time on art. If I knew that paintings could make me feel this deeply, I would have gone with them.

Using the internet to view classic works of art was a mistake. I feel like I have seen the greats: the
Mona Lisa
,
Whistler’s Mother
,
The Last Supper,
and others. In truth I may have seen them, but I never experienced them.

Maybe it’s sentimentality talking. I miss Earth and the life we used to have. Being able to dismiss art as something I could see anytime I wanted was a luxury. It was also a mistake.

Once again I am reminded of how
not
well-rounded I am. I don’t know how to interpret the significance of a painting. I also do not know what art says about the culture that created it.

Can I use this work to change the minds within our group that are thirsty for blood? Surely a culture that creates things of beauty cannot be evil.

My mind drifts to the Nazis stealing art from across Europe. Hitler was an artist,
and
a monster. His collection of art was about greed and power. Anthropologists reviewed his personal creations and deduced plenty, after the fact.

If these works were stolen, they certainly weren’t stolen from us. Any underlying message is lost on me. The subjects are simple and I notice no depictions of violence.

In fact, I can’t stop myself from smiling.

After blindly bouncing around solar systems, we crashed into a planet with a breathable atmosphere and potable water. The planet not only supports life, but it supports complex life forms and an actual society. Earth was unique, but it was not alone.

With all of the works on the walls, there is one thing missing. Implements. Nothing in this cabin gives any clue about how the art was created. There are no canvases, paintbrushes or pencils.

While I thought about art, my mind decided that I would leave Mike and David here in the cabin. I have faith that the creatures are peaceful and curious. If they are not, I feel that David and Mike will be getting what they deserve. It kind of conveniently takes their immediate survival out of my hands, which eases my mind for the time being.

Navigating these decisions where my heart and my head are in conflict is getting easier. Opposite of everything that has ever been a strength of mine, it seems that not thinking about them is the best way to see them clearly.

I still want to communicate my thinking to the two injured men and that means leaving a note. Unfortunately my backpack is off in the jungle. I’ll need to retrieve it to get the pen and paper I need.

Gingerly getting to my feet, I realize that more than my ribs are sore. Getting to my backpack feels like it will be an epic chore. The walk back to the village may be more than I can handle.

The little bit of movement loosens my muscles and dulls the pain slightly. By the time I reach my backpack, I am feeling better about the walk home, though I still wince in pain with each step.

Deciding to write the note in the jungle gives me pause to think about my actions. Am I running away?

The simple words I jot on the paper provide my answer.

“Going for help.  –Seamus”

It’s the sincere truth. The only question is who I want to receive the help: them or me.

Without fanfare, I return to the cabin and place the note in David’s hand. I feel bad for hoping he doesn’t wake up while I am still here. My decision is made and I don’t want his voice giving me any new data points and calling it into question.

Several days after leaving Mike and David at the creature’s cabin, I arrive back at our village. My injuries and my experience have me in a sour mood.

If only one species can survive on this planet, which one will it be?

Do we have a right to survive at the expense of another race?

I didn’t think it was possible, but our two groups are now even more divided. The McMurdo people are using words like “abandoned” and “deserted” to describe my leaving Mike and David.

None of them have suggestions about what I should have done or how I should have handled things. If I had stayed, they wouldn’t know what happened to us. If I tried to help the two injured men get home, we would still be in the jungle, possibly dead. They are angry and scared and, whether they realize it or not, they are taking it out on me.

I have confided in my father that I think Mike and David were blinded by war. They wanted a conflict so badly that it became the only way they could ever have interacted with the natives. He doesn’t disagree; in fact, I’m guessing all the real adults realize this, but his advice is to keep that thought quiet. There’s no sense in agitating the others more.

Horst and Francisco were back at camp about one cycle before I was. It seems that they had made an agreement with Mike about how long they would wait at their station, which highlights another part of the plan I was left out of. More evidence that the McMurdo people are equally guilty of not talking to us.

Right now the other two explorers are sleeping, but Dad tells me they shared a little bit of their experience. He’s not sure why, but my father suspects that there is more to it than they are letting on. With Mike gone, there is a bit of a power vacuum. Dad thinks Horst is trying to step up and lead, but he is extreme and rough.

To Francisco’s credit, he is keeping Horst in check. His strategy is to acknowledge and redirect Horst, and watching him work is a lesson in mediation.

I had been doing so well in understanding others’ motivations and working to satisfy them while I pursued my own goals. The emotions and adrenaline from our conflict have set me back. My instinct to react and lash out clouds my judgment.

If I can’t sustain the practice, maybe it was flawed to begin with. Each of us is motivated by a common thread: survival. Everything else is a means to that end. Meeting everyone on that same level is not just a strategy, it’s a real way of connecting.

When Horst and Francisco finally awake, we all sit down for a debrief. I need to choose my words carefully and think before I speak. The goal is a factual retelling about the events, but I can use tone and word choice to direct interpretation.

I’ve never liked using words to manipulate a situation. Facts should always carry the day and sway an intelligent mind. Maybe adults have seen too many facts manipulated to trust them. Emotions can be manipulated too, but at the end of the day, if you can live with yourself and sleep at night that is the most important measure.

“We can kill them,” I say to start.

My goal is to address their fears first. If I can put their minds at ease about our safety, they will be more open to hearing my other ideas.

“They are strong and they are big, and their bodies are covered in armor, but their head is a vulnerability,” I try to answer their pressing questions before they can ask them.

“So you killed one?” Jane asks.

“David did. He shot it in the body several times with seemingly no effect. Then a single shot to the head dropped the creature almost instantly,” I clarify.

“Then we all need to work on marksmanship. Even with their size, the head is a small target.” Horst has a steely look in his eye.

I surprise them all by saying, “I think that’s a great idea. But I would like to talk about a couple of other things, too.”

“You abandoned two of our people. I vote that you don’t get to have any more ideas,” Marybeth spits.

“Where did you wind up?” Rather than engage in debate, I shift the conversation to Horst. This allows the McMurdo team to talk, but keeps us on a useful topic.

Francisco speaks first. “We found that city Jake saw. We hid out for two cycles, watching for you guys to enter, but you never came.”

Between Francisco and Horst, we get a massive dump of intelligence.

The city is big, physically, but not in terms of population. The creatures all appear similar to our human eyes, so they had trouble counting. They believe that there are well over one hundred creatures, but less than one thousand.

They saw no weapons and no defensive walls. If we wanted to walk into the city, we could.

As far as the architecture is concerned, the natives build with stone. The structures were massive and strong-looking, much like the creatures. Horst believes that they were all single-story and Francisco agreed that they did not build vertically.

No towers or turrets implies that there are no defensive positions. In my head, I wonder if it’s possible that a species capable of independent creative thought can truly live in peace. How do they handle differences of opinion?

“Did you see them communicating?” I ask when their information dump feels complete.

“What?” Horst looks at me sideways.

“Where they talking or using sign language or generally stopping to engage one another?” I struggle to maintain a patient tone with my follow-up question.

“No. The animals didn’t sit down for tea and hug one another,” Horst snaps. He has let anger and fear cloud his judgment. He has set me up perfectly to make my point.

“On the battlefield, communication is a key. If we can learn how they communicate, we can use it to our advantage.” I’m serious. What I am holding back, of course, is that I believe our advantage will be to make peace with them, not to conquer or destroy them.

As Horst and Francisco begin to understand my point, we hear a loud moan.

With a thundering crash, Mike’s body slams into the central cabin. It seemed to fall directly out of the sky. I cannot determine where the noise came from, but I quietly grab the handguns that Horst and Francisco left on the table.

Every instinct in my body tells me to run. My mind is screaming, ‘Find Sofie and RUN!’ but I fight it. Instead I slide off the bench and sit on the ground.

As cautiously as I can, I scoot back until I am sitting in the foliage that surrounds the central cabin. I strain to listen for signs of creatures, but do not detect any.

“Mom!” I call out.

My parents must have scattered just like the others. I don’t remember what happened in the minute following the first noise. The only thing I can see in my mind is Mike slamming into the cabin. I don’t remember any other people, but I’m not sure when they all disappeared.

From the direction of the quarry Sofie and Cassandra come running. They are looking behind them, as if they are being chased.

“Sofie!” I call out to her.

She looks in my general direction, but our eyes do not meet. She cannot see me. I watch as she looks at Mike’s body and the central cabin and then in the opposite direction.

Sofie pushes Cassandra off the path and into the bushes. For a moment, they both disappear in the camouflage. When I am about to call out again, I detect Sofie’s face peeking from beneath a leaf.

Two creatures enter the clearing. They stand still for a moment and look around the space. I listen intently for sounds that may represent language, but there is nothing that my human ears can detect. If they speak at a pitch or frequency above what we can physically hear, communicating with them could be difficult.

After what feels like an eternity the creatures turn and face one another. From my vantage point, I see nothing remarkable. I have to remember that my ability to gather data is hampered by my position. The back of one creature is obscuring most of my line of sight.

Sofie and Cassandra are in the perfect position to observe and I hope that they are watching and not simply cowering in fear.

The creatures break their stance and one goes directly to the cabin. It pushes aside the leaf and carefully sticks its head through the doorway.

Meanwhile, the second creature walks over to Mike’s body and lifts it off the ground. Holding Mike high in the air with one hand, the creature uses the other hand to smash our table. The table legs splinter and snap like twigs. The tabletop remains generally intact, but now it rests directly on the ground.

It places Mike’s body on the tabletop and carefully arranges the arms and legs so that it looks like Mike is sleeping. I watch Mike’s chest, hoping to see the rise and fall indicating breath, but it does not move. 

Once the creature seems satisfied with his work, it turns to the cabin. With a quick silent step, it joins the other creature and takes a turn at sticking its head into our cabin.

The creatures are not behaving violently or reactionary. They appear to be deliberate with their actions. Nothing about their demeanor is rushed or random, but I sense confusion.

Both withdraw from our cabin and turn back toward Main Street. I follow their gaze and am startled to see a third creature standing on the path.

The creature on the path is slightly smaller than the other two and has a colored shape on its chest. Again I am blocked from seeing anything more than an armor-plated back.

After a few moments, they fall into line and head out of our clearing and down Main Street. The smaller creature is in the lead and they walk without making a sound.