The Children of Phi Centauri

Terry Adler was the first xenobiologist to set foot on Dvorak Nine, the second and largest planet orbiting Phi Centauri. It wasn't the most promising planet Terry had visited. In fact, Dvorak Nine didn't show much promise at all - to begin with. It was half the size of Earth, with a low gravitational pull that made Terry leap upwards with every step. The blue sub-giant Phi Centauri cast the planet in a dim light that confused his eyes and made everything look alive and moving. Dvorak Nine was like a night-time stroll through a desert on Earth, only illuminated by a purplish-blue moon. Terry Adler relayed his measurements back to the spaceship hovering a few parsecs above. “Atmosphere, breathable but oxygen content is only 3.5%."

“Three and a half?" The distorted voice of Dr. Dakota Adams cut through the squealing interference caused by ETA meson radiation.

"Close, but no space-cigar. There's oxygen here, but we can't survive at three point five."

The heartfelt sigh that reached Terry Adler's ears carried the disappointment of the Terran investors who had poured in fifteen billion dollars to colonize the small planet and mine for Lithuanium. “Any water?" Crackled the faraway voice. Terry walked a few minutes, following a signal on his scanner. There's a stream here, 'bout ten feet wide." He sucked up twenty milliliters of water with a syringe and let the handheld computer do the analysis. “It's pure; drinkable."

“And native life?"

The scanner fluttered once, before going quiet. Terry Adler shook it a few times, before calling base. “That's a negatory, man. This planet is dead, there's not even an insect in sight."

“Bacterial analysis?"

Terry pressed an icon on the analytical advice. The handheld computer took a mechanical breath and electronic taste buds split the Dvorak air into a million compounds.

“Negative!"

“Fifteen billion years and you're telling us this planet hasn't even evolved bacteria?"

“All I'm saying is, we're can't run a mine without air."

“You're asking us to pull the plug on a very expensive mission, Lt. Adler."

“Hey, don't shoot the messenger." Terry Adler felt the combined weight of fifteen billion bucks pressing on his shoulders. “I'm just the guy punching icons." Terry scouted around. The horizon was close, much closer than back on Earth, but the curvature of Dvorak Nine made everything look as seen through a telescope.

A burst of solar particles drowned out the connection in a dissonant wail and Terry turned the phone off. He squatted in the soil and picked up a handful of dirt with a gloved hand. This planet was so close to terrestrial conditions, so why hadn't anything evolved? He pitched an inflatable living dome and crawled inside. With an inflatable bed and a quiet hiss of oxygenated air, the dome was the closest thing Terry had to the comforts of Terra. He didn't need to turn on the heater; at seventeen degrees Celsius, Dvorak Nine had a temperature like a warm summer's day in New Montreal. He stripped out of the protective body suit and stretched out on the bed. Tomorrow he'd beam back to the mother-ship and prospect the next potential planet, somewhere closer to Cygnus. He opened his knapsack and took a long, off-the record swig from the bottle of Farvale Bourbon he'd brought with him all the way from Earth. The drink relaxed him and he drifted off to an uneasy four-hour sleep until the second sunrise of the day woke him. The ascending disk that was Phi cast the planet in an early blue haze. It illuminated the surface dust, but the wake of dawn dragged a living carpet along with it. A yellow growth was washing across the surface, towards the protective bubble at the speed of the rising star. Terry sat up, watching the spread of a short grassy growth closing in on him. As the star passed zenith, the dome nestled in a plain of primordial, yellow lichen. Terry Adler scratched a persistent itch on his left leg and turned on the handheld computer. The display jumped to life at the press of the auto analyze button. Plant-life detected, read the display. Oxygen level: six percent and rising. He dialled the mother-ship, and the second-in command answered with a drowsy “Hello, Terry."

“There's plant-life here," shouted Terry Adler. “And oxygen."

“I'll get the captain," said the commander and slammed the receiver down. Fifteen minutes later, Dakota Adams was in the control seat.

“Return to ship Lt. Adler," cheered the excited commander. “We're breaking out the champagne and moving forward to colonizing Dvorak nine!"

Outside the inflatable dome, an insect-like Borrach rubbed its hind legs together producing a high pitched sound; a chipring that could be heard by anyone with ears not covered by a space helmet. But there was no longer anyone around to hear it; the dome was deserted and it would take another three weeks before the landing crew discovered a neatly folded suit of clothes and half a leftover bottle of Farvale bourbon.

- - -

Hank Drummond was working in his cubicle, drinking coffee and daydreaming about Earth when a Dvorak Nine native towered over him. Hank jumped in his seat; “Holy Shit!" he cried, showering the weather forecast in lukewarm coffee. “How the hell did this thing get in here?" The silent native didn't take any notice of the outburst, but looked around with something in its black eyes Hank interpreted as curiosity combined with confusion.

Gladys Denzel in the neighboring cubicle typed a comma in her calculations, stubbed out her cigarette and looked over the rim of her glasses. “Relax," she said. “He won't do you no harm."

“No harm? It scared the shit out of me!"

Gladys laughed. “The natives wander in here now and then. They are happy to take a look around and walk out. You'll get used to it."

Once, back on Earth, Hank had encountered a stray moose in a Sears store in Saskatchewan. It trotted around with the same look as this creature, ignoring the humans and making sniffing noises until the guards shooed it out of the store.

“Now it's stopped at Paulson's desk; think we should call security?"

Gladys put down her pen and glanced at the newcomer. “It's a stray; he'll find its own way out."

“It's not gonna bite or anything, is it?" Gladys raised an eyebrow and went back to calculating the mining output. “With what? Lankies don't even have a mouth."

Hank felt a little stupid for missing the obvious. During his first six months on Dvorak, he had never been this close to an indigenous Phi life-form before. He'd only seen a lanky once -and that was through a pair of binoculars when hovering above the Mons Phoenix in a hover-drone.

The biological name for the indigenous life form was Centaurius Augustensis, named after Augustus Wegener, a German xenobiologist who first described the species. But in daily use, the natives were known simply as lankies because of their thin frame. Their bone structure was long-limbed and fragile, as evolution had conditioned them to the low gravity on Dvorak Nine. Lankies were bipedal creatures with humanoid features, but standing a foot taller than most, their skin thick and pale like a white elephant's and covered in gray fur from the naval to their ankles. Their heads were pear shaped, pointy side down and smooth where a human has a mouth. The eyes were large and black with no visible pupil, and two large, almost equine nostrils made it up for a nose, through which they breathed and fed on airborne algae. Little else was known about the elusive creatures that had only recently been observed around the human base.

Peter Scanlon from the finance section joined them, *click* *click* *clicking* snapshots of the unexpected guest with his mobile phone. “Wait till I send this back to my wife," he chirped. “She loves reading about all those freaky alien creatures." The lanky stopped by the window, fingering the radiation proof glass and showing less emotion than an aubergine. “Come on big guy, give us a smile," said Scanlon, tapping the camera button.

“They don't smile," said Hank. “They don't have a mouth, remember?"

- - -

Earn big $$$ in the Lithuanium mines on Dvorak Nine. Hank Drummond picked up the brochure while waiting in the unemployment office. Your choice of a one, two or three-year commitment, with fantastic benefits for the third year. Hank signed up for the full three year package as a weather analyst, and prepared the fifty pounds of allowed luggage. At first, fifty pounds didn't sound of much, but once the complimentary company suitcase arrived, Hank left it open and unpacked for the better of two weeks. What exactly do you take with you on a three year trip to a solar system half a million light-years away? Bad-ass sunscreen? Clothes will be provided, promised the company, but Hank packed two pairs of jeans, T-shirts and two denim jackets anyway. Twenty-three pounds to go. “Bring books," said Roger Doyle, his best friend. “They'll keep you company." Sure, I'll be needing company in space. He threw in his Amazon e-book reader, it weighed in at two hundred grammes but contained five thousand titles by popular authors, including Rowling, George Martin and Ernest Cline: all old books, now in public domain on Project Gutenberg. He threw the e-book reader into the suitcase; twenty-two and eight hundred grammes to go. The jolt turned the e-book reader on, highlighting a selection of writers from Venus and beyond. Zasbudd Deeke: Bullets for a Bully - the best-selling space Western of 2076. Hank Drummond laughed; this was supposed to keep him company for three years? Not all titles were even written by humans; "Between Winters", some fantasy novel was written by a dachs-krieger, a badger-like creature from Theria, also known as a furry. Gods! when animals published books, you knew it was time to get the hell away from Earth. Hank Drummond checked the packing guidelines again: no alcohol, no drugs, no pets, no flammable, corrosive or explosive material either, no musical instruments unless fitted with an electronic tone filter to remove bum notes. No anti-depressants either, and no weapons. Pornographic material, printed or electronic is acceptable, except for acts involving…

Hank Drummond threw the booklet into the company suitcase and grabbed his coat. Screw it! They needed a weather forecast man at Phi Centauri, and if he couldn't make a living on earth, he'd make one in space.

- - -

“I'm gonna apply for a transfer." Peter Scanlon was agitated to the point of shaking when he showed up at the office the next morning. He'd been on Dvorak for almost two years, planning the cargo returns. But now he fidgeted around in his chair and scratching his belly.

“Where do you wanna go?"

“Cygnus Alpha? Sül maybe? I dunno. I just need to get away from this place."

“You're gonna lose your bonus if you bail out before the contract expires."

Scanlon grabbed Hank by the shirt and pulled him close. Hank smelled alcohol on his breath. Had he been drinking in the morning?

“If I don't leave now, I'm gonna lose my mind!" He walked to the window and rested his forehead against the cool glass. “Yesterday I went for a walk; not a long one, maybe forty-five minutes. I went to the wooded area to the west where there's a stream. I sat in the lichen, took off my shoes and dipped my feet in the water, watching the stars. I counted, you know, the star that makes the third ridge in the seahorse. That's where my wife lives.

“You went outside, without protection?" Hank Drummond was speechless.

“I've saved up my outdoor time for a month; I can't stay cooped up like this."

“But you're not supposed to blow all your minutes in one go; your body can only tolerate so much Eta-radiation in one exposure."

Scanlon nodded. “I might have overdone it this time." He unbuttoned his shirt all the way to his belly, where a small bulge deformed the skin right above the appendix. Hank moved closer, but let out an involuntary gasp when he recognized the shape of the growth. It was an eye, sculptured from skin. The eye was blind, but structured down to the tiniest detail. A flap of skin formed the eyelid, a ridge of flesh above it made the contours of the eyebrow. The orb itself was smooth and round with a birthmark for a light brown pupil. It was off-center and it gave the impression the eye was looking at something off to the side.

“My GOD! This happened overnight?"

“I know! And it itches like the dickens." Scanlon scratched the area around the lump and closed his eyes. “Much better," he sighed, then stopped mid-scratch and examined his nails where bits of loose skin stuck to his fingers. Hank! He cried. “This place is rearranging our fucking genes."

- - -

Three weeks later, another lanky passed by the office. “Two visits in one month!" commented Gladys. “That's a first." Hank Drummond was charting the shifting cloud layer above the planet, making predictions of its course and levels of ETA radiation. Today's forecast read LOW radiation levels, but he still warned the settlers to stay indoors. After six months of predicting the trajectories of ETA clouds, the honeymoon was wearing off. I can't do this for another two and a half years or I'll end up looking like that poor creature, thought Hank. The lanky wandered around with no purpose, looking at the people at work and picking up the occasional item. It didn't break, eat or steal anything, but put every object back with indifference, so everyone greeted the stray guest with slight amusement; it was a break from the daily routine. The lanky stopped in front of Hank Drummond and tilted its head, maybe focusing those black eyes on him but it was impossible to tell. Hank had a sudden flash of inspiration; this visitor could be his ticket away from the weather reports. Little was known about the natives and the opportunity was open for someone to write a report, make a change and maybe a small fortune. He rose to his feet and offered the stranger a handshake.

“My name is Hank… Hank Drummond."

“Save your efforts," said Gladys. “You might as well rap with a plant. They're kinda slow."

The lanky ignored the handshake and walked past Hank, making another stop at Scanlon's desk. Too bad Scanlon left, or he'd have the opportunity of a lifetime to snap a photo for his wife. Hank took out his mobile and shot six photos of the visitor. Undisturbed, the lanky closed his hand around a pile of printouts and looked at the crumbled papers, not understanding their purpose. Hank laughed, “I'm gonna post this on Facebook: Trajectory calculations -a job so easy, even a lanky can do it."

The lanky put both hands on Hank's shoulders, looking at him for a few seconds before pushing him aside. It wasn't an aggressive shove, but an indifferent, matter-of-fact “get out of my way" nudge, before he shuffled towards the exit. Hank grabbed his E-meter and followed the visitor, two steps behind. “I'm gonna follow this one," he said.

“Don't forget a suit," said Gladys before returning to her duties. “Radiation can mess you up real bad - just saying."

“I know," replied Hank. “Warning people is my job."

The lanky left the building by the automatic front doors with Hank trailing at his heels. Phi Centauri cast the outside in a range of dim blue hues, bordering on purple; the sign of a high eta level. Hank checked his E-meter; TWO MINUTES, FIFTY SECONDS left of today's E-tolerance, better play it safe. Twenty meters down the trail, the lanky turned and looked at Hank with expressionless eyes set in an expressionless face. It raised its hand and made a sweeping motion across its face. Did it just wave at me? Hank replied by mimicking the gesture. The lanky repeated the movement, turned its back to Hank and walked towards the plains, calm and unconcerned with the eta-radiation blasting its hide.

- - -

When Hank awoke the next morning, his hand was itching. He scratched the back of his hand absent minded, but when he discovered a small, fleshy growth that caused the itching, reality hit him hard. The growth was five millimeters large and protruded like a small cone. “Come ON!" he cried. “I was out five minutes; don't do this to me." He turned on his handheld and examined the growth with the magnification app. The growth was a tiny, lifelike thumb, made entirely from skin. It was complete with a minuscule fingernail and horizontal ridges on the part that would be the back of the thumb. Hank charged through the halls of the living quarters like a stampeding bull until he met a senior officer wearing a medical uniform.

“I need a doctor…now!" he bellowed.

“What level are you?" asked the medic. She wore a green name tag reading “Dr. Karen Wills" in white, capital letters."

“Err…Red," answered Hank.

“Newcomer, huh? Then you're not yet entitled to level green medical service."

“Screw the level!" cried Hank. “What about your Hippocratic oath? I've got fucking tumors on my hands."

Dr. Wills sighed and looked at the little thumb still dangling from the back of Hank's hand in a thread of skin.

“You been exposed to Eta radiation?"

Hank nodded. “A few minutes, yesterday."

“Don't go outside without protection," she started, then frowned at Hank. “Say, aren't you that weather guy from the holo-channel?"

Hank nodded. “That's me alright."

“You're the one always telling people to STAY THE HELL INSIDE!"

“Well, I don't put it quite that way."

“You should!" snapped Dr Wills. “And you should follow your own advice. Eta radiation causes skin growths, just like this one."

Hank sighed. “I made a stupid mistake of going outside yesterday. So, are you gonna do something or not?"

“You should see someone of you own level…" started Dr. Wills, she clenched her teeth and examined the growth. “They're benign," she said. “I can scrape it off, but it'll keep growing back until you return to Earth. Then you can have your dermatologist remove it."

“But that's in two YEARS!"

Dr. Wills shrugged. “That's why you get the third year bonus."

- - -

Two more years of maps and mutations? No fucking way. Hank rummaged through the closet of radiation proof suits, looking for one of his size. They were first generation suits with thick padding and bulky helmets that made you look like a twenty first century astronaut. He finally found one that fit. It was much thinner than the other suits and made from a silvery coated synthetic fabric. The new, hyper-mobile suit? This was perfect! And much more comfortable than the old model. He suited up and climbed into the nearest hovercraft, setting the auto pilot for the Phoenix plains. He landed the craft a short distance from a herd of lankies that walked among a cluster of fern-like plants. Hank's heart raced with excitement; with fifteen individuals, this was the largest herd anyone had ever observed. They stroked the leaves from the stem and outward with a gentleness and confidence, so distant from the clumsiness he'd come to expect from the lanky visitors. Their touch made the ferns release a thick cloud of spores which they inhaled through their large nostrils. Then they moved on to the next untouched plant, like bees collecting nectar. The creatures were naked, yet their hide was smooth and blemish-free, immune to the disfiguring eta-radiation. Hank moved closer; if he could only get a picture of two individuals mating, he'd have the scoop of the year. But apart from brushing against each other now and then, the lankies didn't seem to have any interest in physical contact. The fur that covered their bodies from the waist and down like a pair of woollen trousers also covered their private parts -provided they had anything between their legs. Come on you beautiful fuckers, whispered Hank, his voice muffled by the helmet. Give me something I can mail back. You're my ticket off this planet. He took a series of pictures of one particularly handsome specimen sniffing a long leaf. The shape of its head and body proportions were more humanoid than the rest of the heard and somehow, the face looked kind, even friendly. If it hadn't been for the missing mouth the creature might even be considered pretty. Keep that position, whispered hank; if he could only get an angle where the fern covered the lower face, the ugly alienness of the missing mouth would not be noticed. The alien kept the pose, waiting for the shutter to click. He's posing for me, realized Hank. How the hell would he know? He took two steps backwards when he bumped into something soft that made him spin around with a startled shriek. He'd backed into another lanky feeding off a nearby plant. “Hey! you just ruined my picture," cursed Hank, annoyed that his prospective model had now moved away. The lanky looked down at him and made a slow sweeping motion with his arms, waiting patiently while Hank composed himself, before going back to feeding. Did he just shoo me away? Thought Hank. You cheeky bugger.

Without warning, the E-meter exploded in a wail of static and the gauge needle flew into deep red. An unexpected cloud had formed above the valley, casting it in an angry purple flash of eta radiation. The lankies stopped foraging and looked to the sky, clearly enjoying the unexpected flare for the few minutes it lasted. Goddamn, that was a close call; he'd be toast by now if he hadn't been wearing the protective suit. Hank called it a day and returned to the hovercraft. He took off his helmet and browsed the photo index on his handheld before taking off. He had taken more than one hundred photos today, many of them good, and all of them valuable.

“Computer, check the legal status of outdoor photos taken by Mining Corp employees."

The answer came within seconds. “Images not displaying Mine Corp structures are unrestricted by contract."

Hank whooped and fist-pumped the cabin air; a collection like this would earn him thousands, maybe even more if sold separately. He whistled on his return journey, thinking of what digital filters to use for reducing the blue gleam while absentminded scratching an itch on his back. His scalp started itching too, then his arms. I must have taken some radiation during that flare; he thought and examined his itching left arm. There was nothing to see, but he could live with a few skin bumps until he got back to Earth. He hung the suit on the return hook, when he noticed a small, sewn on patch in the neck lining:

maintenance crew, for indoor use only.

Hank gasped for air when the realization hit that he'd been walking around unprotected. Disgusted, he threw away the maintenance suit while his stomach curled up in panic. No wonder he was itching all over. He stormed through the base, and didn't stop until he bulldozed through Dr. Wills' door.

“I need level green HELP!"

“Again?"

“I've been irradiated, BIG time and I'm itching all over."

“We've been through this before, Mr. Drummond. I'm not authorized to treat level red patients. Try Dr. Peterson…"

“Please, doctor. There must be something you can do."

Hank clawed on to Dr. Wills, refusing to let her go while she struggled against his grip. “Leggo of me or I'll have to report you," she cursed and yanked to get her arm out of his grip. With a soft, ripping sound of polyester, her shirt tore from the neck and down, sending buttons flying. Hank and Wills stopped struggling in an instant. Right above her right breast, a moving mouth opened and closed with her every breath, a two-inch lifeless tongue hung out between the fleshy lips and pink teeth, dangling aimlessly like a dead slug.

“Oh…my…GOD!" gasped Hank.

“We're ALL affected by the radiation," said Dr. Wills, angrily covering up her breast with the torn rags that were once her shirt. “You're no exception, Mr. Drummond." She took a vial of sleeping tablets from a cabinet and gave him a small handful. “Get some rest," she said, "and DON'T call me in the morning."

- - -

The next morning, Hank woke up nauseous, confused and covered in sweat. At first, he had trouble standing and held on to the kitchen table to avoid falling flat on his face. Either I'm sick from exposure, or those tablets have given me the mother of hangovers. Wearing only boxers, he stumbled out the door on legs, wobbly as those of a newborn calf that strained to carry his weight. Dr. Whatshername is probably going to flip after yesterday, but I need to see a medic, thought Hank and walked towards the work area. He stopped at a fork in the hallway; left or right to the medical unit? His gut feeling told him to follow a familiar looking left branch. He'd been in this part of the building before and had a vague feeling he was heading in the right direction. Two maintenance crew members passed him, briefly glancing him over before turning their attention to a leaky pipe and mumbling something in a foreign language that sounded like Polish. Company policy was to speak English only, but he didn't feel like bringing it up while he was only wearing boxers himself; or was he? When he looked down, he was stark naked, the boxers had dropped off at some point along the hall. Still, the maintenance crew didn't seem to mind; they probably saw naked patients walking around the medical unit all day, anyway. Hank opened the door at the end of the hall and found himself, not in the medical unit as expected, but in his own office. I knew the hall felt familiar, thought Hank. He walked to his cubicle and picked up a short wooden stick from his desk. It had a sharp point in one end, while the other was blunt. Maybe someone had left a kind of primitive weapon, but what was it doing on his desk? A wave of clarity swept over him; it's a pencil, dummy. What did you think? He chuckled to himself and wrote his name on the top sheet of paper: Kla'ar. A human female in the cubicle behind Kla'ar kept staring at him. She was darker than the other humans in the office and her scalp was covered in thick curly strands that were as dark as her hide. She moved here from a place called Brooklyn, where she has a husband and two daughters. How do I even know this? Wondered Kla'ar. He projected a “Good morning," at the woman, and felt oddly embarrassed because he'd forgotten her name. The woman had an orifice on the lower half of her face. Now and then it opened, releasing a short burst of sound; she didn't seem to be wounded, so it wasn't a hurting sound. A primitive acoustic way of communicating, like the way jumping Borrachs made communicating noises by rubbing their legs together. Kla'ar drew a long breath through both nostrils. He was hungry, but there wasn't enough foodstuff in the air to sustain him in this place. “This one must leave," he projected at the humans, but they were incapable of mind-speak and only stared at him, before returning to their activities which involved making scratches into thin white leaves with their wooden sticks.“

On his way out of the building, he met a short human female on her way in. Her face seemed familiar, like something out of a distant memory, or maybe a dream. She wore a black name-tag on her white shirt that read Dr. Willis. How amusing, thought Kla'ar. I can read human writing, but when he blinked the words had dissolved into intelligible glyphs that made meaning to humans only. It must have been a trick of the sun, thought Kla'ar; even her name felt alien in his mind, now. Her face made a strange movement and horizontal ridges appeared in the skin of her forehead. Her face orifice made noises and she touched his chest with both hands. “I don't have the time for this, little one," he projected but knew she was incapable of understanding him, so he gently shooed her aside and left by the front door. The human followed three steps behind him, pointing at him with a flat device that made a clicking noise. He remembered how humans used this device to share memories with each other. He turned and waved at the human. She waved back and the device continued clicking. “Now you have memories to share with your kind," he projected at her, but it was no use. Communicating with humans was like talking to a bulbeast; they were harmless but not very bright, and neither had evolved the skill of long-distance communication. Ah well! He breathed the warm air, snacking on the drifting spores and airborne lichen and enjoying the eta radiation that warmed his hide. It's going to be a beautiful day, he decided and began the long walk back to his people in the plains.

- - -

THE END

- - -