Glimpses of Alien Worlds
Fiction
Patrick Harris
Issue date: 2/26/10 Section: Creative Writing
The air is thin here, on this desolate plateau, but the stench of disaster is inescapable. Streaks of soot and shattered rock point the way to the demolished behemoth that fell from the sky. The solidity of the earth seems misleading, as though it should still be shuddering at the violence done to it, and the absence of the sounds of destruction is deafening.
There was never a question of survivors. None who witnessed this devastation doubted the thorough nature of Death's sure hand in the matter. Months of cleanup pass, not of the crash site but of the remains of civilization for miles around it, before a team is sent to investigate.
Our voices are hushed as we sift through this pile of alien technology. Isolated within our masks, it seems profane to fill the airwaves with idle chatter in this mass grave. A simple language of hand signals develops between us, and we mourn in near silence as we exhume the unknown.
A flickering light draws us through the maze of debris, black-clad moths following the lure of flame, and we find ourselves in an area that might have been crew quarters, if these creatures had such things. The source of the illumination is a small cube, flickering weakly in our searchlights. It seems to stabilize gradually as we approach, and at the first touch of flesh it leaps to life, shooting a hologram into our midst.
The image reveals a lush jungle from a bird's eye view, traveling rapidly over shades of green we have never before encountered, and goes on for several moments before disappearing in a flash of static. It is replaced by a sweeping view of a crystalline structure that appears inhabited and stretches high into a blood red sky. The perspective pans down to the base, revealing countless other towers, a forest of spines as far as the eye can see.
The image ends again in static, and as the display cycles through several more scenes, we realize the room is filled with strange scents and noises on the edge of our perception, all of which end abruptly as one final scene flashes into existence: A barren landscape lit by the brilliant glow of planetary rings. Dark shapes like the one we saw before the impact swoop about, and several fall in slow motion, trailing fire like liquid in their wake.
The hologram is replaced by one final burst of static, and the cube flickers once before going dark. We stand in silence for several minutes before turning as one, no gesture necessary to know we all agree: some things are best left to the unknown.
There was never a question of survivors. None who witnessed this devastation doubted the thorough nature of Death's sure hand in the matter. Months of cleanup pass, not of the crash site but of the remains of civilization for miles around it, before a team is sent to investigate.
Our voices are hushed as we sift through this pile of alien technology. Isolated within our masks, it seems profane to fill the airwaves with idle chatter in this mass grave. A simple language of hand signals develops between us, and we mourn in near silence as we exhume the unknown.
A flickering light draws us through the maze of debris, black-clad moths following the lure of flame, and we find ourselves in an area that might have been crew quarters, if these creatures had such things. The source of the illumination is a small cube, flickering weakly in our searchlights. It seems to stabilize gradually as we approach, and at the first touch of flesh it leaps to life, shooting a hologram into our midst.
The image reveals a lush jungle from a bird's eye view, traveling rapidly over shades of green we have never before encountered, and goes on for several moments before disappearing in a flash of static. It is replaced by a sweeping view of a crystalline structure that appears inhabited and stretches high into a blood red sky. The perspective pans down to the base, revealing countless other towers, a forest of spines as far as the eye can see.
The image ends again in static, and as the display cycles through several more scenes, we realize the room is filled with strange scents and noises on the edge of our perception, all of which end abruptly as one final scene flashes into existence: A barren landscape lit by the brilliant glow of planetary rings. Dark shapes like the one we saw before the impact swoop about, and several fall in slow motion, trailing fire like liquid in their wake.
The hologram is replaced by one final burst of static, and the cube flickers once before going dark. We stand in silence for several minutes before turning as one, no gesture necessary to know we all agree: some things are best left to the unknown.
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