Short Story: "Desert Roads and Distant Stars"

This short story has been sitting in my "completed" folder for a few months. In contrast to the Gothic/supernatural horror I tend to write, I wanted this piece to serve as a love letter to mid-century science fiction/horror like The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits. Working on it was a lot of fun, and I'm proud of how the final draft turned out. I hope you have fun with it, too. Happy Halloween!

Martin Gamble jerked awake and swerved his car just as a blinding light rushed up on him. He was quick, but not quite quick enough, and a shock jostled him as a dark green truck scraped against the side of his car.

The truck, itself covered in dents and scratches, paid him no mind as it raced in the opposite direction. Martin caught a glimpse of three pale, sunken faces staring at him from the inside and a pile of metal boxes packed into the flatbed in the back. Then the truck was gone, swallowed up by the endless night and the winding desert road.

He gave serious consideration to the idea of turning around and chasing the bastards down to demand their insurance information, or at least an apology. But he had wasted too much time on the road already. The conference was in the morning, and Santa Fe was still miles away.

He glanced at his wristwatch. Ten minutes to midnight. Sixteen hours of this, he thought. Christ. Sixteen hours since waking up in Lawrence and bidding his wife goodbye, a gesture he could barely recall now. Sixteen hours of driving through flat, colorless country interrupted by the occasional filling station and greasy meal break. Somewhere in the web of roads and highways he had made a wrong turn, and now there was no chance he would arrive at his destination on time, if at all. By the time he’d realized that he was lost, he had strayed too far from civilization to retrace his steps in a timely manner. The only thing to do, he thought, was keep driving until he found a town and could ask for directions.

Martin scoffed. That had been three hours ago.

He’d decided that he hated driving in the desert, and that he hated New Mexico in particular. It was the ugliest state in the Union, he thought, a vast expanse of nothing but sand, dust, rocks and dead grass. Nevada at least had Las Vegas, where a man could drink and gamble to his heart’s content while watching a Frank Sinatra show. What did New Mexico have? Only winding roads and a smattering of shabby rest stops.

He twisted the radio dial on his dashboard, hoping again to find coherent noise in a sea of static. But there were no stations to be found this far away from civilization, it seemed. Martin gritted his teeth. Senator McCarthy had given a speech tonight, and he’d missed it on account of this damned business trip. There wasn’t even a chance to hear what the news men had to say about it.

He switched off the radio in disgust and turned his eyes back to the dark, unchanging road.

By now, his adrenaline rush from brushing against the truck had worn off. His hands remained firm on the steering wheel, but his eyelids felt heavier with each passing second. Every time he blinked, he found it harder to open his eyes again. The asphalt swam before his eyes.

“And what are you going to do? Pull over and sleep by the roadside like some panhandler?” Martin said to himself. “The only thing for it is to drive on through.”

He crested a hill and flinched as another sudden glare of light assaulted his eyes. He saw before him a bright neon sign springing out of the desert, the words GALAXY MOTEL surrounded by twinkling stars and colorful planets. Only the second word in the NO VACANCY sign was lit up. On the ground below stood a dirty white one-story building wrapped in an L-shape around an empty parking lot.

Martin sighed. Of course the universe would go out of its way to prove him wrong. But if nothing else, he could at least stop for a minute and get directions to the nearest highway.

Flipping on his turn signal, he took his foot off the gas pedal and began to slow down.

The lobby had a sticky green carpet and wallpaper that tried to look like wood paneling. Behind the desk, a woman with glazed-over eyes leafed through a magazine. She didn’t look up when Martin entered the room, nor when he coughed to get her attention. An air conditioner hummed away somewhere in a back room, making a sound like TV static.

“Excuse me!” Martin finally said.

The woman glanced up, her uninterested expression still in place. “You’re certainly out late, mister.”

“I must get to Santa Fe by morning. How many more miles is it?”

“Santa Fe by morning?” The woman scoffed. “You’re at the other end of the state. You’d never make it in time.”

“I’ve no choice, I have a very important convention to attend,” said Martin. “Get me a map. What town is this?”

“Oh, this ain’t really a town, mister,” said the woman. “We’ve got some houses, but they’re all up near the Army base. On this road it’s just the diner and the filling station and here.”

Martin tried to remember what Army base she must mean, but none came to mind. “Well, where is the nearest town, then?”

“Roswell’s about forty miles away.”

Martin gritted his teeth. “I see. You said there was a filling station?”

“Sure, but it doesn’t open until six.”

“And what am I supposed to do until then?” Martin snapped, slamming a hand down on the desk.

The woman, still unfazed, went back to flipping through her magazine. “Well, if you’re asking me, I’d say a few hours of sleep would do you some good. I’ll even give you a discount on the room.”

A discount? Hah! Martin hauled his suitcase out of his car and slammed the trunk lid shut. He should have just listened to his instinct and got back on the road when he had the chance. Now he was paying twenty dollars—twenty!—for the so-called courtesy of sleeping a few hours in some dark, roach-infested hovel.

He paused, looking at the line of identical white doors surrounding the parking lot. What was the room number again? He had barely listened while that old cow jabbered about “amenities” and whatnot. The number on his room key was too smudged to decipher, and he shuddered at the thought of returning to the lobby to ask for help with it.

As he hesitated, his gaze fell on a door standing ajar just a few spots down from where he’d parked. No sign hung from the doorknob, and the room number was gone. In the empty parking spot in front of it, a set of tire tracks indicated someone’s quick departure.

Well, it was a better fix than trying the room key in every damn lock. Martin walked to the door, pushed it all the way open and lumbered inside.

The carpet was brown now but still sticky, and the walls were painted a sickly shade of yellow. A bathroom door hung open on the right side of the entryway, and the sliding door to the closet stood on the left. A flip of the light switch revealed the sparse contents of the room: a rickety-looking bed, a dresser, a side table and a lamp with a flickering bulb. One drawer of the dresser had been left open, and the bed sheets were somewhat ruffled. But other than that, the room didn’t appear to have been touched.

It would suffice for a few miserable hours, thought Martin.

He walked to the closet and slid open the door, intending to put his belongings away, and then paused.

Sitting on the floor of the closet was a large, rectangular metal case. It looked about the size of some old-fashioned steamer trunk, a good deal larger than the suitcase he was holding at that moment. Much deeper, too: even lying flat, it probably stood two feet high. A handle stuck out from each side, and eight latches held the lid shut. The metal surface—chrome, by the look of it—had taken a few dents, but remained clean enough for Martin to see his reflection in. No tag or stamp anywhere to indicate an owner.

All this Martin took note of as he stood and stared at the case for several seconds. At last he came to the logical conclusion: whatever it is, it’s in my way.

He reached out to grab one of the handles, and his fingers brushed against the lid.

The sensation came without warning: an iciness piercing into his flesh and leaving it numb. Martin jerked back from the case, pressing his suddenly cold hand against the warmth of his body.

“What the hell?” He looked at his hand. The cold was slow to abate, and it left behind a tingling in his fingers. He flexed them a few times, making sure they were unharmed. Then he looked back at the case. Now what? He’d be a fool to risk touching the metal with his bare hands again.

Somehow, through the exhausted haze of his mind, a memory from that morning came to him: his wife saying “I packed your driving gloves, Martin dear. You never know when they’ll come in handy.”

After a few minutes of pawing through his suitcase, he pulled out the gloves in question. Alice finally made herself useful for once, he thought with bemusement.

Approaching the case again, he touched a hand to the surface of the lid. There was still a sudden burst of cold, but the protection from the leather made it tolerable. Martin ran his hands across the case. It was cold to the touch all over, like it sat in a refrigerator rather than an empty closet.

Tugging on the handles, he found the case to be almost immobile. Whatever it contained must have been just as heavy as it was cold. With some effort, however, he managed to drag it across the carpet and position it next to the bed. He wouldn’t risk lifting it off the floor—the bed looked fragile enough already, and a weight like this would probably collapse it outright. Martin locked the door of the room behind him, then went back to examine his find.

There was, to his surprise, no lock on the case aside from the latches holding the lid closed. Opening the case was only a matter of going down the row and flipping the latches one by one. With each snap, Martin felt the knot of anticipation in chest grow tighter.

The final latch came undone, and the lid popped open just an inch or so. Martin lifted it further.

His jaw dropped. “My God.”

Packed inside the case were stacks of hundred-dollar bills, laid out in neat rows and columns. Martin picked up one stack, ripped out a single bill and held it up to the light. Surely these must be counterfeit, he thought. Nobody travels with real money stashed away like this.

And yet there was no telltale sign or flaw on the bill. It looked all too convincing.

Martin looked back at the case, and this time, he saw the inside of the lid. “Jesus!” he said, dropping the stack of bills.

Strapped to the interior of the case lid were three pistols, lined up and ready to be grabbed. The handles looked worn, but the barrels gleamed under the hotel room lights. A bulging zippered pouch sat below them, no doubt filled with the necessary bullets.

Trying to quell the trembling in his hands, Martin reached out and took one of the pistols.

He wouldn’t have needed to look at the gun to know exactly what he was holding; he knew the feel of it like the wrinkles of his skin. Colt M1911, standard issue. He’d carried one himself back in his Army days, during the war. When he checked the magazine, he found it loaded.

The receptionist’s words returned to him. An Army base near here, just up the road—no doubt that was where the mystery owner of the case had come from, and where he’d gotten these guns. But that wouldn’t explain the stacks of money. Would it?

Martin took out another stack of bills and ran his hand along its surface. His breath caught in his throat as he felt the raised printing. He tested another stack, and then another. Raised printing each time.

They’re all real, he thought. Every last one.

How deep did the stacks go? Was the whole case stuffed with thousands of dollars? Surely the mystery owner would not notice a stack or two being gone, if he ever returned at all.

Martin plunged his hand into the case, trying to feel his way to the bottom. But he only pushed through two or three layers of bills before his fingers touched something else. Something cold and smooth and hard, like a sheet of glass.He withdrew his hand and pushed the layers of money aside, trying to get a better glimpse of what lay beneath.

As he did so, the light in the dingy hotel room began to change. The warm yellow bulbs flickering in the ceiling lights and the bedside lamp began to take on a cooler, more clinical glow. A green so faint it was almost white. No, Martin realized, it was not coming from the lights themselves. It was something else that was growing brighter, drowning the other lights out.

It was the thing at the bottom of the case.

Packed beneath the protective layers of money was a metal tray covered by a frosted glass lid. The glass obscured the contents of the tray, but not the glow that they emitted. Pale dots of pulsing light, lined up one by one in multiple rows. Martin reached out a hand to touch it, but then withdrew: the icy cold radiated from the surface of the glass, too strong even to handle with the leather gloves.

Staggering away, Martin sat down on the bed. Possibilities and fantasies raced through his mind. Obviously the money and the guns were a decoy, meant to hide the presence of this real cargo. But in that case, why use real money? Perhaps money was no object for the mystery owner. Or perhaps he wanted it to be found and examined. He intended for someone to find the hidden tray and attempt to open it, whereupon it would…well, it would do something terrible, of course. It must be some sort of new, untested weapon.

Martin shuddered and moved closer to the head of the bed, away from the case.

Then there was the question of the Army base. He’d thought at first that this thing could have come from there, but that seemed a foolish assumption now. The owner must be intending to deliver it to the base, and not as a gesture of friendship. Martin knew all too well what American bombs and grenades looked like. Nothing this queer and sinister could have been designed by an American, that was for certain.

The answer came to him in an instant. It must be the work of the Soviets—wasn’t the country crawling with their spies, like that couple who had just been executed? The Kremlin must have sent a pack of enemy agents to attack the Army base with this new technology, an act of vengeance and a terrible warning in one fell swoop. But they had slipped up, as those foolish people always did, and they had left a stash of weapons here by accident.

Martin leapt up and began to pace back and forth. He cursed the awful hotel room for having no telephone, though he didn’t have the slightest idea who to call. Perhaps he should leave right away instead, try to seek out the police or go to the Army base himself. And then what?

For a moment, he saw the rest of his life stretching out before him. Martin Gamble, American hero. The man who had singlehandedly discovered and foiled a terrible Soviet plot. All the money he’d found would make him wealthy. He could quit his damned insurance job, buy a proper house in a proper neighborhood, Alice would no longer be afraid to look him in the eye—

Thud! Thud! Thud! A sudden knocking at the door, the frantic smashing of a fist against metal.

Martin froze. “Go away!” he blurted out, acting on instinct. His eye fell on the pistol lying on the bed, and he snatched it up.

Thud thud thud! The knocking came again. This time a voice spoke up. “Hello? Can you hear me?” It was a young man’s voice, high-pitched and trembling.

“I said go away!” Martin snapped. “Don’t you know what time it is?”

“I don’t mean to bother you, sir,” the voice continued. “Won’t you open the door, please? It’s important.”

Martin’s gaze darted back to the metal case. In the dreadful silence, he thought he could feel his own heart beating out of control.

He took a breath, and his fingers tightened around the handle of the gun.

“Wait,” he said, loud enough for the figure outside to hear. Returning to the case, he snapped the lid shut and began dragging it back across the room. An eternity seemed to pass before he had finally stowed the case back inside the closet and closed the door. Holding the pistol behind his back, he approached the door of the hotel room. “Now who are you, and what do you want?”

“I just left the hotel a few minutes ago,” the voice answered. “And I think I forgot something in this room. Can I check, please?”

“You’ve got the wrong room. Look somewhere else.”

“No!” the voice said. “I mean, I know it was Room 13. I remember.”

Glancing at the map on the inside of the door, Martin saw that this was indeed Room 13. He gritted his teeth and looked through the peephole. Though he couldn’t see much through the grime on the glass, he could make out a pale face with a worried expression.

He made sure the chain lock was in place. Then, holding his pistol in one hand, he opened the door.

Standing outside was a slight, unkempt boy who didn’t look a day over seventeen. He wore old blue jeans, scuffed and muddy sneakers and a ragged white t-shirt. His brown hair had seemingly been slicked back at one point, but now it was tangled and sticking up in all directions. He was probably one of those greasers, Martin thought, and an especially pathetic one at that.

The boy gulped and dropped his gaze to the asphalt when the door opened. His shaking hands went into his pockets. “I’m real sorry, sir,” he mumbled.

“What was it you forgot?”

“Just a suitcase.”

Martin looked past the boy, into the darkness of the parking lot behind him. On the other side of the lot, a single vehicle idled near the exit, its front facing the door of his room. Underneath the mud and scratches, he recognized the familiar dark green paint.

He realized he had no choice. If he refused to let the kid inside, then the other agents would be along to knock the door down. He would have to stall for time.

“Have a look if you want,” he said to the boy, stepping to one side. “But make it quick. And then I want you gone.”

A look of relief crossed the boy’s face, and he mumbled something that sounded like “Thank you.” He stepped over the threshold, trying not to look Martin in the eye. If he noticed that Martin was still holding his right hand behind his back, he didn’t say a word.

“You said you forgot a suitcase?” Martin asked, keeping his eyes locked on the intruder. He reached behind him and locked the door as quietly as he could.

“Yes, sir.” The boy stood in the center of the room and looked around.

“How careless.”

“I…I was in a hurry.”

“You’re traveling alone, then? At your age?” Martin stepped closer to the boy.

“Yes, sir,” he said, in the unsteady tone of someone who knew he was a poor liar. He didn’t look at Martin, but instead knelt on the floor to peer under the bed. Or at least pretend to do so.

Martin hovered close to the wall, maneuvering himself so that he stood just behind the boy. It might be necessary to rush up on him, after all. He wondered how well a pillow from the bed would muffle the sound of a gunshot, and if the window on the other side of the room was easy enough to open for an escape route.

I wouldn’t have dared think such things just an hour ago. Well, an hour ago there wasn’t a case of money involved—or the matter of national security, of course.

“Where are you from?” Martin asked the boy. Part of him reasoned it was a good idea to keep up appearances and distract the boy from his task. Another part of him wanted the pleasure of catching the spy in another lie.

By now the boy had crawled halfway under the bed. Upon hearing the question, he withdrew back into view and sat up. “Nowhere, really,” he said after a moment, before adding “A bunch of places.”

“Oh, you must have been born someplace. Where are your people from?”

The boy looked up at Martin for the first time, and Martin found himself taken aback. There was a weight behind those eyes, and a deep sadness that clashed with the soft youthfulness of their owner’s face. In that moment, the boy looked immeasurably ancient and worn-down.

“My folks once told me we come from a place real far away,” he said. “But I’ve never seen it. I’d like to, though.” He rose back to his feet and started for the window.

Martin tried to shake himself out of his brief shock. What had he been expecting, really? Of course the boy wasn’t going to slip up on a simple question like that. The Soviets put their spies through years of training, so naturally he would look much tougher than—

“And what about you, Mr. Gamble? Where are you from?”

Martin froze. “How the hell did you know my name?”

The boy recoiled, turning back to him with wide, frightened eyes. “That’s your name on the suitcase, isn’t it? I-I saw it when I walked in.”

Martin looked at his suitcase lying on the bed. The monogrammed side was facing up, with GAMBLE printed near the lower right corner in small white letters. The kid had damn good eyes if he was telling the truth, but he could have noticed it all the same.

“I’m from Kansas,” Martin said, leaning back against the wall. “Lived there all my life.”

“Do you like it there?”

“It’s fine.” I’ve never hated any place more, except this very room.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Martin tensed up again. His fingers tightened around the handle of the gun. “What’ve you got to be sorry for?”

A hint of uneasiness and guilt flickered across the boy’s face, as though he realized he’d said something he shouldn’t have. “Oh, I just think the place someone lives ought to be more than fine. You’ve got to live there, after all.” He finished his walk to the window and looked behind each of the curtains. “I could have sworn I left that case here.”

“And I could have sworn I told you to make it quick,” Martin snapped.

The boy’s smile faded. “Yes, sir.”

He walked back across the room, and for a moment, Martin thought he was finally headed for the door. But he stopped, peering first into the bathroom and then at the closet door. He hesitated longer upon the latter. Martin’s stomach churned inside of him, and he felt beads of sweat running down his brow.

Then, in what seemed like slow motion, the boy began reaching for the door handle.

“Wait!” Martin blurted out. His throat felt as dry as sandpaper, and the word emerged from his mouth as a harsh, desperate croak that made him wince.

The young man stopped but did not turn around. “What?”

“I-I mean, you don’t need to look in there,” Martin continued. “I already did. It was empty before I put my luggage away.” He realized his fatal error the moment it left his lips.

The boy seemed to realize it too. “But your suitcase is sitting on the—”

“A man can have more than one piece of luggage, can’t he?” Martin said. “And look, haven’t you pried into my business long enough? Get out of here, or else I’ll fetch someone to make you go.”

The boy said nothing, but slowly withdrew his hand from the door. As he turned away from it, he glanced over his shoulder and locked eyes with Martin. There was that weight behind his gaze again, now mixed with sharp, steely concentration. He didn’t blink. He just stared, like a predator tracking prey, and Martin realized he could not look away.

A prickling, pins-and-needles sensation began to travel up his legs, holding them in place like they were suddenly cemented to the floor. Then the same feeling began to invade his arms and his torso, making it harder to breathe. A pinprick of pain began to blossom in the center of his brain, growing and spreading through his head inch by inch. He opened his mouth to scream, but he could not make a sound. For a moment he had the terrible feeling that he was not alone within the confines of his own skull: something was in there with him, pursuing him, shuffling around in the cavernous hallways of his mind.

The young man’s gaze snapped away, and the sensations vanished.

Martin sank back against the wall, trying to steady himself. He blinked repeatedly as the image of the room swam and blurred before his eyes. His right hand, the one still holding the pistol, dropped from behind his back and hung limp at his side.

The young man took no notice of the gun. He just kept looking at Martin. His expression had changed now: he wore a look of hesitance and dread, as if he foresaw some terrible crime that he knew he must commit. “I need to use your bathroom,” he said. “Then I’ll be gone.”

“Of course,” Martin heard himself say. It was as if he had lost control of his own mouth. Before he could regain it, the young man darted into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

The force keeping Martin pinned in place lifted away. He sprinted towards the window, only to stumble and drop to his knees, panting. The gun slipped from his hands and tumbled to the floor.

Something warm and wet trickled down his right cheek. He touched his fingers to his tear duct, and when he pulled them away, he saw them smeared with streaks of red.

It took a minute or two for the pounding of his heartbeat to die down. He gulped several times, choking back the bile that threatened to rise up through his throat. As soon as he felt he could move again, he crawled towards the gun, picked it up with shaking hands and checked again to make sure the chamber was loaded.

No sound came from within the bathroom. The boy—no, not a boy, I don’t know what the hell he is but he isn’t an ordinary boy—must be lying in wait, determining his next move and what his enemy might be planning.

When he opens that door, Martin thought, I need to shoot him. Clean through the head, as quick as I can. Then I’ll take what bills I can carry from the trunk and leave out the window, go get help.

But escape would be impossible with those other two…individuals lurking outside. And even if he did manage to get away, they would just take the case and be gone before he could return. Nobody would believe his story.

Not unless they found him standing over three corpses, holding a gun missing three bullets.

I had no choice, officer. These men showed up unannounced at my door, intending to rob me and murder me. I acted only in self-defense. Furthermore, I heard them speaking Russian to each other. I have reason to believe that they were spies, trained in certain powers of suggestion. Why, I wouldn’t have survived without this pistol!

But it would still be murder, wouldn’t it?

Of course not. I’d have to be killing an innocent American for that to be murder. They’re neither of those things.

He checked the gun one more time. Six bullets in the chamber, more than enough to do the job. Clean through the head, just like in the war.

Behind him, Martin thought he heard the squeak of cheap wood and metal hinges, the rattle of a doorknob turning. Staggering to his feet, he turned around, raised the gun and—

Light!

He saw nothing but light. The same light from inside the case, a green so pale its hue was almost invisible. A light that poured into the room, blotting out every shape and color in its path. A light so cold and clear that it burned. Martin felt tears trickling down his eyes as he strained to keep them open. His vision blurred, as if the unflinching glare might turn his retinas to ash. He dropped the gun and fell to his knees with his hands over his face, his mouth opening in a silent cry of pain.

I’m sorry, said a voice that struck his brain like a lightning bolt. I didn’t want this to happen.

He peered out from the gaps between his fingers. The light had begun to fade, and out of its glow, a shape was coming into view. A human-but-not-quite sort of shape—something thin and tall with impossibly long arms, wispy fingers, a bulbous head, gray skin and large, milky white eyes.

Do you see me now? the creature asked, and it spoke with the voice of the young man.

Martin didn’t even try to make a sound. He could only tremble and nod his head in terror.

I don’t want to hurt you, said the creature, holding up both its hands. Its fingers appeared to bend and flicker like candles in wind. All I’m going to do is take the case and leave. Please, just stay where you are until I’m gone.

Martin ran his hands across the carpet, and his fingers closed around the handle of the pistol once more. “Like hell I will,” he snarled through gritted teeth as he raised his arm and squeezed the trigger.

The blast echoed through the tiny room. The shot went long, ricocheting off the wall and embedding itself somewhere near the ceiling. The creature screamed as it dodged the bullet, and it shrank back towards the far corner of the room, hugging its own body as it sank against the wall.

The path to the door was clear, and Martin almost made a run for it. But a second later the door slammed open, and suddenly there was another blinding green light and another unnatural shape storming into the room.

Zae! it shouted. What happened? This voice was harsh and guttural, nothing at all like the pleading tones of its companion.

H-He’s going to kill me! the other one shouted from its corner.

Martin scrambled to his feet. He tried to hold the gun steady as he aimed it at the new intruder. “Stay back! Stay back or I’ll shoot!”

The monster glowered at him, then frowned in recognition at the sight of the weapon. Raising one elongated hand, it waved its fingers and made a rough shoving motion towards Martin.

In the same moment, Martin felt a rib-shattering jolt against his chest, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him flying backwards. An unseen force ripped the pistol from his hands, but it did not fall—it remained suspended in midair, rotating in a slow and gentle motion.

The monster with the harsh voice reached and plucked the pistol from where it hung. Its eyes narrowed as it examined the weapon. Where did you learn to use one of these? it asked, looking back up at Martin. Answer me!

He’s an Army man, Kep, said the other creature—Zae, was it?— it stood up from the ground. Or at least he was once.

Were they demons? Angels? Spacemen?

Kep’s head snapped around. Then why didn’t you kill him?

He didn’t come from the base! He doesn’t know about the lab. Or us. He’s just…frightened.

Earth people are always frightened. That’s what makes them dangerous. Kep held up the pistol. Is this his? Or did he find the case?

He found the case. Zae’s head dropped, and it started hugging its own torso again. It’s in the closet.

Kep’s white eyes flared with a menacing glimmer. Did you check to see if he touched the eggs?

I looked in his mind. He saw them, but he doesn’t—

Enough of that! I’ll see to the case. Kep made a dismissive gesture towards Zae, who instantly fell silent.

Losing interest in Martin, the two beings then turned their attention to the closet.

Martin watched as the door opened of its own accord with a wave from Kep’s hand. Each being took hold of one handle on the case, and together they hoisted it into the air as if it weighed no more than a feather. They carried it back across the room, set it down next to the bed, undid the locks and opened the lid.

Kep pulled out the stacks of bills in fistfuls and threw them off to the side. A few of them landed near Martin, who tried to reach for them but was stopped by Zae’s eyes meeting his own. The being shook its head, and Martin slumped back to the floor. If I play dead, perhaps they’ll ignore me.

At last the faint green light he had seen in the bottom of the case reappeared, casting shadows across the room and illuminating the two beings’ faces. Kep reached inside and lifted out the frosted glass lid, which made the light grow brighter. Then it held out one hand over the open case and flexed its fingers, as if grabbing at the air.

A single object levitated out of the case—a small, transparent orb with an exterior resembling pale green glass. A glowing light from within illuminated the angular, crystalline structure of the material, but something else lay inside too—a tiny creature, curled up in a fetal position.

Martin sat up, the money briefly forgotten as he stared in wonder.

A look of relief crossed Kep’s face. They’re undamaged. No thanks to you, Zae. It lowered its hand, causing the orb to sink back out of view.

It’s a good thing you didn’t touch them, Zae said to Martin. They have such delicate membranes. Even we can’t hold them directly. A human like you could crush them in one hand without trying. You wouldn’t even feel them die.

“You…you called them eggs, didn’t you?” Martin asked, dread creeping into his voice.

They are our siblings. They are hope for the future, life itself.

Martin shuddered as horrifying fantasies flowed through his mind. Thousands of those little green balls scattered across the world, growing and hatching under innocent people’s feet. “You’ll never conquer our planet,” he said, sounding much less confident than he’d hoped.

Is that what your leaders have told you? Kep said, looking up at him with disdain. That we want to steal your planet’s life away from you? You can keep this horrible little rock. It snapped the suitcase shut. All your kind ever do is talk of domination. Conquering your own brethren, conquering other species, being conquered yourselves—you can’t even comprehend the thought of intelligent life wanting nothing to do with you. I will not let my siblings live as prisoners in your laboratories, being tormented and dissected by your scientists. They deserve to grow up somewhere safe. Some place where they can look up at the sky and see the stars from which their elders came. For a moment, the alien’s face softened as it spoke. Then its cold expression returned as it stalked towards Martin and hauled him to his feet. As for you…we leave no witnesses.

Martin gasped as the alien wrapped its hands around his neck. Before he could react, it started squeezing.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. Its grip was like an iron vise crushing his throat, trying to wring out every last bit of air. His hands scrambled in vain to pull at the tightening fingers. With his trembling lips he mouthed the word Please.

Kep stared at him with hatred burning in its eyes. You can’t beg mercy from a being who has never been shown mercy. It lifted Martin off the floor by his neck, letting his feet dangle and kick in the air. The scientists at the Army base learned that. You will, too.

Wait! There was Zae, tugging at Kep’s arms. You don’t have to do this!

What’s one more dead Earth man?

I’m telling you, I have a better idea.

Kep made an incomprehensible hissing noise under its breath, but then released its grip on Martin’s neck. Martin fell, and his legs gave out beneath him the moment he hit the floor.

And what do you suggest we do? Kep said, turning to Zae.

I want you to let me wipe him.

You? You’ve never done a successful wipe.

I’ve been practicing. I just need some time to concentrate.

Why should I let you try?

If the Army men follow us and find him here, he won’t be any use to them.

His corpse won’t be of any use to them, either.

If they find his corpse, they’ll know we were here.

Why are you so intent on keeping him alive? You said he tried to kill you.

Zae crossed its arms. I…I think it would be a poor strategic decision. We should do our best not to leave evidence behind. Don’t you agree?

For several seconds, the two aliens glared at each other. A silent battle of wills seemed to be playing out between them, Martin thought. One that had begun long before this incident.

Looking up at them from the floor, he felt like a child bearing witness to a scene beyond its understanding. And he felt the urge to cling to the fantasy of spies and secret weapons and untold riches—the fantasy where he controlled his own fate.

At last, Kep made another strange hissing sound and appeared to relent. Make it quick. If he dies, we leave him here. If he remembers anything at all, the blame falls on you.

I understand. Thank you. Zae began to cross the room towards Martin.

Martin flinched as he felt the frigid touch of the alien’s hand beneath his chin, lifting up his head and forcing him to meet its silvery-white gaze.

I am sorry, Zae said, kneeling before him. Of all the Earth men I’ve met, I have never found one so full of misery as you. It pains me that I cannot relieve that misery. But this is something I can do for you. It placed both its hands on Martin’s temples. When you wake up, we will be gone, because we were never here. Goodbye, Mr. Gamble.

Once again Martin felt the blossoming pain inside his skull, the sensation of unwelcome hands shuffling through his brain. It grew much faster than before, building to a terrible crescendo. Blood seeped from his tear ducts as he attempted to struggle and cry out. Please don’t, he thought. Please don’t please don’t PLEASE DON’T

Martin Gamble awoke with a heaviness in his limbs and a ferocious thundering in his head. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring at a large water stain in the middle of an ugly, speckled, off-white ceiling.

Where am I?

Realizing that he lay on a bed, he sat up and looked around. He was in some kind of cheap motel room, and a disorderly one at that. The closet doors had been flung wide open, and each drawer in the shabby dresser had been pulled out. The door of the room itself stood open as well, letting in the chilly night air.

Shivering, Martin looked down at himself and saw he was still wearing a suit and shoes. That part was odd, too—he didn’t remember being tired enough to fall asleep in such a state.

What did he remember, anyway?

He tried to rack his brain for answers, but all that emerged were scraps of information. He remembered driving towards Santa Fe for some reason, only to get lost in the desert, finding this awful little motel…and then what?

On the beside table was a clock, and it said 3:30 in the morning. When had he gotten here? How long had he been asleep?

Martin groaned—his brain felt like Swiss cheese. The blank spots were a disquieting sort of absence, the sensation of reaching for something as it moved far out of your grasp.

Standing up, Martin staggered across the room to the open door and stumbled out into the night.

There was nobody else outside. The only car in the small parking lot was his own. No light came from the main office building, or even the tall neon sign by the side of the road. The only sound was the soft rushing of the desert wind.

Why he felt the need to look up at that moment, he couldn’t say. But when he did look up, his eyes grew wide. The night sky, unimpeded by the absent dawn or the glare of city lights, sparkled with thousands of distant stars. The dull black shroud revealed itself to be a tapestry of deep blues and violets, embroidered with constellations and a swirling, cloudy galaxy.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, an unexplainable feeling arose. It began as confusion, grew into a nameless longing and collapsed into a yawning black hole of despair.

Martin didn’t realize he was weeping until he touched his face and felt his tears.