Tales Of An Alien Invader Read online

  “I know.” I want to say something meaningful, to tell them goodbye in a way that matters, in case something goes wrong and this is the last time I ever see them. However, a buzzer starts to sound and the door to the ship closes before I can say anything. I see my mother mouth I love you through the window as the ship begins to shake. Stumbling to the table, I lie down and energy straps extend across my body, pinning me in place. From above, a mask is lowered down, settling itself firmly over my mouth. The shaking grows stronger, to the point where it seems the whole ship might fall apart. The flesh of my cheeks wobbles from the acceleration as the ship launches itself into open space. Before a warm blanket of sleep overtakes me, I think about the huge task that lies ahead. It’s all up to me now. Time to decide the fate of humanity.

  CHAPTER 2

  When I wake up, there’s a green light flashing above me. This means I must have landed. The energy straps are gone and there’s a cool breeze coming from the side. Turning my head, I see the door has opened, revealing a moonlit night. I grab my bag and rush to the doorway, but something stops me from going through it. As soon as I do, the ship will leave, and I’ll remain here with no way of getting home until my mission is complete. I’ll be trapped.

  The green light turns red—time is almost up. Stepping out of the ship, I stumble a bit as I land on uneven ground. Surveying my surroundings, I see I’m in a field, with trees on every side. Clutching my bag to my chest, I watch as the door to the ship closes and the rockets fire up, causing the ground to tremble. Flattening the grass and blowing away leaves, the ship immediately launches itself back into space, vanishing quickly in the sky. Okay, it’s gone, I think to steel myself. Time to get to business. I take the computer out of my bag and use the GPS program to locate my route. Apparently if I go due west for two miles I will reach a major roadway, and from there it is another mile south to the airport.

  Slinging my bag across my chest, I start for the forest, wishing my friend Roctin was with me. Or anyone, even Prodeon. The trees rustle quietly in the darkness, and somewhere in the distance a creature hoots.

  Earth Observation Number One: the woods are creepy at night, especially when you’re alone.

  I push aside my fear and try to remember that Earth was a lucky assignment. No spewing gases, below-freezing temperatures, or hook-fanged creatures that eat everything that moves. Feeling better, I continue along my route.

  At first, traveling through the forest is easy; the trees are fairly spread out and the ground is mostly flat. My eyes drink in the new sights as I examine the different textures of the leaves and plants with interest. I listen to the sounds of the forest and breathe in the unfamiliar air deeply. Feeling experimental, I suck in some air and blow it out quickly in a failed attempt to whistle. Widening my stride, I try to see how much ground I can cover in a single step. Then I try jumping, hopping, and running; I feel the strain the actions place on this body, but it doesn’t frighten me. I only become more curious. Looking up at a branch dangling a few yards above my head, I raise my arm to grab a glossy green leaf. I feel a small jolt of surprise when my arm remains far below the branch, the leaf hopelessly out of reach. Oh, right. Limitations.

  As I get closer to the roadway, the trees give way to bushes, some armed with thorns. I wrestle my way through the brush and emerge in a small ditch. Above, I can hear noises, which I assume are from the vehicles humans use for transportation. The air begins to smell different as well, like fumes and burnt rubber. Scanning the terrain, I estimate the road is about fifty feet uphill. I begin to climb, grunting as my calves burn from the effort.

  This boy was not in good shape, I think, huffing from exertion. Reaching the side of the road, I shy away as the headlights of vehicles zoom past me at high speeds. I recall from my research how delicate the human body is. If one of these hits me, that’s it. Mission failed. Careful to stay on the side of the road, I pass the time trying to identify the different types of vehicles as they pass. One boy in a bulky, relatively slow-moving vehicle sticks his tongue out at me as he passes. Curious, I wonder what that means. I never came across the action of sticking out one’s tongue in my research.

  A sign on the side of the road points out an exit for the airport. As I follow the exit road, I see buildings in the distance, dark and dull against the horizon. Up above, an airplane soars into the night, its engines humming with power. Primitive, my father would say, but I like them.

  After walking for what seems like an eternity, I notice the strength leaving my legs and feel a cramp in my left side. Frowning, I put my hand on my side and continue to walk slightly bent over until I reach one of the buildings. I finally enter the international terminal, which is thrumming with activity and bathed in striking light. There are people standing in groups by the doors, embracing each other and waving their hands, but I can’t tell whether they are saying hello or good-bye. There’s a young boy chasing an even younger girl through the crowd, weaving between people and their luggage. And, most of all, there is chatter. Lots and lots of chatter. Wading through the crowd to a check-in kiosk, I follow the instructions and receive my boarding pass. Step one is a success.

  Moving into line behind others waiting for a series of humans all wearing identical clothing to check their luggage, I discover that one of my senses is causing me to gag. Wrinkling my nose, my eyes begin to water. These humans, they stink! It was hardly noticeable with the humans back at home, but now the smell is unbearable. It appears they have piled on many different scents at once—one for their clothes, one for their hair, one for under the arms, one for the rest of their body. And none of the scents match, they’re all different. Not to mention their body odor mixed with the flat, heavy aromas of food they’ve recently eaten; it’s disgusting!

  Putting my hand over my mouth, I attempt to keep bile from rising up my throat. In front of me, a large woman takes out a bottle and sprays herself with its contents, squirting some in my direction. Instinctively, I clutch my throat. Poisoned. I’ve been poisoned. Gagging, I put my hands on my knees and struggle to catch my breath.

  “Oh dear, did I get you? I must admit, this perfume is a tad strong. Are you okay, hun?” The woman looks at me with concern. She is wearing a large white hat that looks like a saucer and she has a soft twang to her speech. Southern, it’s a southern accent that she has. Pleased with myself for remembering, I breathe through my mouth, which seems to make the smell less intense. In front of the woman, two small girls point and giggle.

  “I’m all right,” I say, grateful that the smell is beginning to dissipate.

  “Where are your parents, dear? Are you traveling alone?”

  “Yes.” How much information is reasonable to reveal to this woman? “I am going to Atlanta.”

  “Well, we’re heading to Atlanta, too. You can stay with us until it’s time to board the plane. It’s just not right, a child traveling alone.” Her voice drips with disapproval. The girls creep closer to her and start whispering to one another.

  “I’m not a child, I’m eleven.” I say, wondering if it really was that unusual for an eleven-year-old human to be traveling alone. Another hole in my research.

  “You may not be child, but you’re not grown either. You’ll stay with us until we board,” she says firmly.

  I study the woman’s expression. “Okay, thank you,” I reply, sensing it’s useless to argue.

  Her face softens. “No problem at all. You can call me Mrs. Baker. And what is your name?”

  “Felix. Felix Winters,” I say, trying to get used to the way my new name sounds. The words feel strange in my mouth.

  “What’s wrong with his voice?” one of the little girls says, pulling on Mrs. Baker’s clothes.

  “Hush! Don’t be rude.” Mrs. Baker shoots me an apologetic glance.

  Startled, a wave of heat flushes my cheeks. My voice? What am I doing wrong? I spent countless hours learning English. I have a larger vocabulary than most English-speaking humans on the planet. I even took pains to lea
rn some of the nonsensical phrases known as slang. No, the words are correct, but I must be saying them wrong. I need to gather more information.

  Waiting until Mrs. Baker is busy talking to a uniformed attendant, I motion for the little girl to come over. Hesitantly, she takes a small step forward.

  “What’s wrong with my voice?” I whisper, leaning forward slightly in anticipation of her response.

  “You…you sound like a robot,” she blurts out and hurries back over to the other girl.

  Hmm, a robot. Interesting. Well, I’ll just have to put more of an effort into pronouncing my words with an American accent. However, my aunt and uncle believe I have been traveling around the world my whole life, so maybe they won’t think the way I talk is so strange.

  After checking my bag, I follow Mrs. Baker and her two girls to the security check. Ten minutes later, I’m at the front of the line. I watch the people ahead of me to figure out what to do—they are placing things onto a conveyor belt, including their shoes. Why their shoes? I could understand placing their watches and keys on the belt, since I learned from my research that travelers have to go through metal detectors at security checkpoints, but what purpose did placing your shoes on the belt have?

  Attributing it to some sort of airport ritual, I go ahead and remove my sneakers. After clearing security successfully, we head for our gate—A-7. The girls are still whispering to one another, looking back at me from time to time as I trail behind them.

  “A-5…A-6… Here we are, A-7,” Mrs. Baker announces. There are many people at the gate already, sitting in little groups, waiting for the plane to arrive. Mrs. Baker points at a cluster of red chairs to the left. “There are some open seats over there.”

  Sitting down, I take a moment to observe the human activity around me, as collecting observations is a very important part of my mission. Across from us is a man, an elder from the looks of it, slouching with his chin resting on his chest, a thin line of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. The position he is in looks remarkably uncomfortable.

  Is he alive? The other humans wouldn’t just leave him there if he died, would they? I’m in the middle of debating on whether or not to check the man’s vital signs when he begins to snore. Breathing a sigh of relief, I turn my attention to a teenaged girl off to the right.

  Sitting in between two adults I assume are her parents, she is listening to a music-playing device, the same kind I have packed in my bag. Singing along to the words, oblivious to her surroundings, she shrieks off-key note after off-key note, causing me to cringe.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Mrs. Baker, “what is wrong with that girl?” I point discreetly to the right.

  “Seems to me she thinks she’s Beyoncé.”

  Beyoncé? I’m not familiar with this word. Unsure, I go on. “Her voice is not pleasant at all, but she keeps on singing. Why would she do this?”

  “Well, I’m she sure she thinks she sings real well. Probably has dreams of being famous one day.” She shakes her head with a look of pity on her face.

  “But if she thinks she sounds good when she actually does not, doesn’t that make her, ah, mentally ill? Should she be,” I lower my voice, “in an institution?”

  “If they put every person who thought they could sing when they actually sound like a hyena in a mental institute, there’d be more institutions than there are schools. Don’t you watch TV?”

  “No,” I say, shifting in my seat. “My family and I travel a lot, mostly to places far from civilization. We’ve never owned a TV.”

  “Never owned a TV, well I’ll be. Isn’t that something?” Mrs. Baker seems very surprised by my news, which makes me wonder, just how much time do humans spend watching TV? I learned about TVs in my training, of course, but humans’ attachment to them still baffles me. It hardly seems like a productive use of time.

  Feeling worn out from the journey, I watch as the girl continues to whine out the words to her song, and I decide to continue my observations later. I pull out one of the books from my bag and begin to read a story about a young human boy who finds out he is capable of magic. Magic—what a preposterous notion. Then again, I suppose most humans would say the same about aliens.

  CHAPTER 3

  This is not what I expected. Apparently, I went about my research all wrong. I spent too much time focusing on the facts when I should have studied the bizarre social customs of humans more closely.

  First of all, it has been fifteen minutes since take-off and everyone is still confined to their seats by the all-powerful seatbelt light, which seems to hold sway over all passengers. Some people seem to just be staring at it aimlessly, waiting for it to turn off. I wonder what would happen if someone simply got up and used the lavatory. Would a flight attendant tackle them to the ground? Would they be shackled to their seat? I’m tempted to get up and find out, but I hear my father’s voice in my mind, “Do not bring unnecessary attention to yourself. Remember the mission.” Sighing, I remain dutifully in my seat.

  There’s an infant behind me that has been screaming ever since we took off. Its mother, a disheveled, red-eyed woman, simply keeps patting it gently on the back, saying, “Shhh, shhh,” over and over again. Meanwhile, people nearby keep shooting the infant wary looks. Can’t someone give it doze gas or something? I could have sworn I read that humans possessed a similar technology. Head pounding, I stifle a groan as the infant’s cries become shriller. I wish I had some doze gas right about now.

  Minutes pass. Hours follow. Eventually, a flight attendant comes by to take my meal order. A choice between chicken, fish, or spaghetti. On Bopton, all food is delivered in a pill or thick liquid form for efficiency. Our species discovered a long time ago that too much time was wasted on eating. However, eager to embrace the full human experience, I order the chicken with a side of mashed potatoes.

  Mistake, big mistake. My meal arrives on a plastic tray, and the smell and look of it is hardly appetizing. Some sort of cream-colored goop covers the chicken breast, and the mashed potatoes have been doused in a brown slime. Nearly breaking the plastic utensils I have been given, I cut into the chicken, which is tough and dry. Finally managing to saw off a piece, I force myself to take a bite, though every instinct in my body is telling me not to. After chewing and chewing and chewing, I finally swallow the sinewy piece of meat. After that, I don’t even bother with the mashed potatoes but settle on eating the gelatinous red blob called “Jell-O” instead. Sweet with an unusual texture, it goes down easily, relieving the hunger pangs in my stomach.

  After my meal fiasco, I settle in for a nap and I wake as we descend into Atlanta. The perspiration returns as I suddenly find my stomach twisting with nerves. I’m about to meet the humans I’ll be staying with until my mission is complete, and a million questions bombard my mind. Will they like me? Will they be nice? Or, most importantly, will they believe I am indeed their nephew? I know my appearance is absolutely identical, but I still have a fear that somehow I’ll give myself away, that they will take one look at me and shout “Alien!” Then men in black will emerge out of nowhere, taking me to the legendary place I came across in my research—Area 51.

  I don’t want to imagine what would happen to me if someone here discovered what I am. I know I would not be sent back to my home planet, unharmed and healthy, like the humans we abducted will be.

  After a relatively smooth landing, Mrs. Baker checks on me one last time and says goodbye (and makes the two girls do the same), and I impatiently wait my turn to exit the plane. While we were packing up the transporter, my father had shown me a photograph of what my “aunt” and “uncle” look like. My uncle is a tall man with a medium build (at least, by human standards), thick brown hair, and glasses. My aunt is a slender, petite woman with vividly red, curly hair and sparkling blue eyes. They appeared happy in the photograph, but apparently all humans smile while having their picture taken, despite what mood they’re in at the time.

  My father told me that they would meet me at the ba
ggage claim, and so I follow the signs, and I come upon a wide space with luggage circling around on conveyor belts. Travelers stand along the sides, waiting to claim their belongings.

  “FELIX!” a voice cries, and I find myself under some sort of attack. Thin arms encircle my waist and squeeze, while a patch of fiery hair obscures my vision. I stiffen for a moment, and then it comes to me. This is what is known as the hug, a human sign of affection. Awkwardly raising my arms, I return the gesture.

  “Oh my goodness, we haven’t seen you in years!” the woman, my “aunt,” exclaims. “You’ve gotten so big! You look just like your father.” Pulling back, she looks me in the eyes and smiles.

  A hand pats me on the shoulder. “Glad to have you here, Felix,” my “uncle” says. Studying them both in person, their discrepancy in height is even more noticeable. He towers over my aunt, whose head just clears his shoulders. Their energy is different, too; his is calm and serene, while hers is a tornado of excitement.

  Smiling back at them in silence, I begin to panic. What are their names again? My father told me, but my mind is completely blank. They will definitely notice that something is wrong if I can’t remember a detail like that. Hers started with an S. Or was it an M? Panicking, I smile at them dumbly in silence until my aunt tilts her head and gives her husband a concerned look.

  Luckily it comes back to me. Aunt Shirley and Uncle Matt—those are their names. And their last name is Parker, from my “mother’s” side.

  “Well, let’s get your luggage,” Aunt Shirley says, cutting through the strange silence. “How many bags do you have? Three? Four?”

  “One. I just have one bag.”

  Her eyes widen. “One bag for the whole year?”