CUCKOO - PART 1
While stories take a break for the Summer, I'll still be sharing short fiction - mostly introductory segments from projects I'm rewriting, every other week until August. This week, an old sci-fi project I called Cuckoo, about bigger, stronger humans.
It was unusual to see such a bright streak across the sky at night. As it turned and seemed to correct itself onto a collision course with the purple scrublands, animals scattered in terror. Thunder rumbled overhead as it crashed into the atmosphere, burned, tumbled.
Crashed.
It scarred the ground, burning trees and setting the tall grass alight, before it ploughed into a murky swamp of mangrove-style trees and half-sank into the mud. Lit by a ring of flame, the light of burning swamp gas, only the birds above and the occasional basilisk-like creature which filled the evolutionary niche of the crocodile on this world, were witness to the cooling of the strange metal pod.
By morning it had gone from white hot to a shimmering orange, and as midday arrived, far sooner than we know it, it cooled to a grim blood-red. As the hours wore on, it cooled further, until near dusk, when it seemed perfectly cool as it had been at launch.
And then, the pod opened with a mechanical hiss. The water poured in and it sank thickly into the swamp, quickly drowning the child within it.
One of the basilisk creatures ate the young thing, piece by piece.
Across entire worlds these pods landed, a last-ditch effort from a dying planet. They sent out a web of crafts, incubators with children held in stasis, ranging in age from newborn to toddler, none of them old enough to remember the sad days behind them, all of them sent with a promise that, if things ever got better, they would be found and returned home.
Many of them shared the fate of the swamp pod, landing on treacherous ground and being swallowed up or destroyed; some of them landed safely, only to be in unbreathable air or on a planet of undeveloped wildlife which promptly ate them. Few, very few indeed, crash-landed on planets which were not only inhabited, but inhabited by civilisations of intelligent people, and with air that did not choke them where they lay.
Of these, Dillon's pod was most unusual. He was not yet called Dillon, for he was one of the youngest, having barely been born when he was taken from his drugged-up mother's arms and thrust into the metal contraption which sent him to sleep and fired him into space. But Dillon's pod had been programmed with an unusual trajectory; he awoke early, though not so early as cause him much consternation.
In point of fact, he awoke not long after his pod passed through a star, which was not hot enough to burn entirely through the craft (goodness knows how the ore which created it was refined) but which shorted out most systems save the life support. It was, however, the jolt when he breached the atmosphere of a gas giant several hours later, that woke Dillon up. He marvelled at the core of the planet, hard and solid amongst the clouds, before it was gone.
He was fed intravenously, so he was not hungry when he crashed in a field a day later, but it was several hours before he was found, and by that point he was literally crying out for company. It was only after the door of the pod gave way, in part because the intense heat of the star had made it brittle, that the nearby farmstead heard his plaintive wails.
Mr and Mrs Peaseblossom were the people who found him. His pod was still hot to the touch so Mrs Peaseblossom fetched some gloves and lifted Dillon carefully from the wreckage. They then took the walk back to hurriedly discuss what to do next.
'He's cute,' Mrs Peaseblossom said. 'A little big, yes, but cute. We could keep him.'
'I suppose we could spare the money,' Mr Peaseblossom said. His farm was comfortably off, and he was still just on the right side of sixty, so he continued working the fields with his farm hands.
'Still,' he continued, 'I'd like to speak to Sheriff Watts first. If there's any question as to the legality of our raising him-'
'I can't imagine there would be,' she cut in. 'Oof, you're a heavy fella, aren't you?' She cooed at the child, hefting him in her arms.
'Are we sure we can feed him?' Mr Peaseblossom asked with concern.
'He'll eat fine!' she chided. 'You and your silly worries! Talk to sheriff Watts tomorrow, and we'll get it all sorted out and we can look after him.'
Mr Peaseblossom wrung his oversized hat in his hands and bit his lip. How would he explain this?
'Y'see lad,' he began, then paused awhile and considered before he continued.
'You've been with us eighteen years now, me and ma, and considering how you've grown, what you've made of yourself already, yer ma and me... Well, we thought it'd be best if... Y'know, we decided...'
Dillon stared impassively at his adoptive father from his position above. He'd finished tending to the fields, light work for him, and had brought the machinery back into the barn; there was an exposed beam from the hayloft above, jutting out where the floor had rotted away, and Dillon used this every day to do pull-ups, often one handed. Now, he switched to his left hand and continued.
'I understand,' he said. 'Thank you. I will pack my things tonight and take the mail wagon to town tomorrow.'
Mr Peaseblossom had never liked the way Dillon seemed to state everything so matter-of-factly, ever since he could first talk he had been very stoic. It had taken years for Mr Peaseblossom to listen for the tiny nuances in his voice, to hear the anger or the happiness. Now he was having trouble deciphering the moods, they were all jumbled up and confused.
For his own part, Dillon had never mastered emotion. His face was impassive as slate, though strong as granite, and his dark eyes betrayed no emotion. He had not cried since the day he had been found. Again, it had taken Mr Peaseblossom years to break the code of miniscule changes to that mask. He remembered seeing for the first time how Dillon's eyes lit up when he read about space, or the mind, or the workings of machines. In truth, Dillon was far more intelligent than his muscular physique let on, his sloping brow containing a very specific range of knowledge.
He had very little to pack. He took his old eReader, which crackled and popped every time it was used, and the screen was dim and hummed alarmingly, threatening to short at any moment. Aside from that it was his meagre collection of clothes, few and ill-fitting, which he shoved into his stuff sack and placed by his bed.
Mr Peaseblossom poked his face into the doorway. Dillon lay on his cramped bed, staring up at the ceiling.
'There's no need to worry about catching the mail cart, lad,' he said, sighing. 'I'll wake up early, take you in my truck. You can say your farewells before you leave.'
Dillon sat and stared impassively at Mr Peaseblossom.
'Thank you,' he said eventually. He lay down, and Mr Peaseblossom hobbled down the hallway with a sigh of relief.
Dillon did not sleep for a while. He stared at the ceiling, wondering.
He had always found his adoptive father strangely emotive; despite his attempt at stoicism, he worried and fretted and his blood ran hot. Dillon looked upon strong emotion as one might regard a small child who had just learned how to perform a somersault, and now eagerly showed people at every opportunity. He would not say he felt pride in the fact, but it certainly was a fact that he had never felt strong emotion of any kind. He had been cross with people before, but never furious, and he remembered feeling content, but never overjoyed. His emotions were something, he felt, to keep in check, something to be reigned in, they got in the way of proper decision-making. No, he would choose his brain over his heart any day.
Thus decided, he turned on his side and closed his eyes, and slept.
And dreamed.
Elvara ducked again, narrowly dodging the elder's sweeping blow. She retaliated with a fist to the old man's abdomen; he gasped and gritted his teeth, but stayed standing. He stepped forward, hand raised, and brought it down in a diagonal slash, claws bared as he snarled. Elvara dodged to the side and punched; there was a yowl of pain and the elder turned away, clutching his arm.
'Thats... that's enough for today,' he said. Elvara nodded, then bowed; the elder returned the gesture. She left her place on the straw floor and helped him into his chair.
'Elder Vunal,' she said, 'may I get you some sweet tea?' Elder Vunal smiled.
'Always such a polite girl,' he said. 'No, thank you. I am quite alright. But my body is not as young as it used to be – it takes me time to recover from such blows.'
'You stood up well to my first attack,' Elvara said. 'That fells most of the tribe; I'm impressed.' Vunal gave a sharp laugh.
'I thought I was teaching you,' he joked, and brought her up in a hug. She was more heavily-set, but he was taller, and his arms were long enough to wrap around her.
'Hunter Elvara!' They broke the embrace hastily as Elder Falora strode into the hut. She stared at the two of them as they stood side by side, and then hissed at Elvara.
'You would miss the hunt to play with an old fool?' she asked, approaching like a cat stalking a bird. Elvara rooted herself and stared down the woman.
'Training is important,' she replied calmly. 'You said so yourself. And Elder Vunal is a good teacher – I might not be of your kind, but you know I can fight better.'
'Which is why it is important that you do not miss the hunts!' Elder Falora sounded exasperated as she knelt to look Elvara in the eyes. She put her hands on the girl's shoulders, and Elvara suddenly felt very small and young. She looked down at her feet, and Falora smiled.
'Eesh, girl!' she teased. 'You spend too much time here at home; you should be off exploring, seeing the world! Let the stars guide you, for once, rather than the light of our torches.'
'Vunal invited me,' Elvara whined. 'You know how I like to fight in here!'
'And the tribes won't let you join in the tournaments, I know,' Falora said. 'You'd better believe I'm having words with Vunal after this too. He knows better than to invite you to train during hunting season.'
'But it's-'
'Hunting is as much training as this,' Falora interrupted. 'You've got to learn how our prey moves, how to catch it, how to fight it.'
'You know I can't run as fast as you guys!' Elvara protested. 'And I haven't got the claws to bring a Vaani down!'
'But you've got the intelligence,' Vunal interjected. 'You have to start using that brain of yours, think of another way to catch up, another way to kill.'
He knelt beside her, and the three of them hugged. As the sun illuminated the inside of the hut a bright orange, they stood again.
'No more skipping the hunt?' Falora asked. Elvara nodded.
'I promise,' she said. Falora smiled.
'Well we've got two weeks until the next one,' Vunal said. 'That's plenty of time to practise your running!'
Plenty of time to practise running, Elvara thought. She looked out at the setting sun, low on the plains. On the horizon, a trail of dust as a herd of Vaani migrated from one side of the planet to the other, in search of grass.
And so, as the sun sank low over the horizon, Elvara left the warmth of the hut and stepped out into the cool evening air. She felt the wind on her face as she crouched, bent in a predatory pose. The dust trail was lit up on the planet's edge.
She started forward, feet pounding on the ground.