Year's Best SF 17

“She and I have been … affected. We’re not aliens. One of you is my … my grandfather. Zaid Fakhr Mohammed Uday al-Rammah.” Before the woman could translate for the others, Ahmed repeated himself in Arabic, listing his name, his grandmother’s name, and his village. There was a soft gasp from near the back and the crowd slowly parted, allowing a tall wizened man to come forth. He was about eighty and wore blue garments whose armpits were dirty with sweat, and a deep blue turban.

There was a long pause as the two stared at each other.

“Why do you look like a punching bag?” Ahmed’s grandfather asked in Arabic. He motioned to me. “Is this girl your wife? Have you two been quarreling?” A few people chuckled.

“Uh …” Ahmed said. “We’re …”

“Come here,” his grandfather said.

Ahmed slowly stepped up to him and the old man looked him up and down. “You don’t look like my son.”

Ahmed scoffed. “The last time you saw him he was about four years old.”

I held my breath. Then I let it out with relief as the old man smiled and laughed softly. “You are really my grandson?”

Ahmed brought a picture from his pocket. “This is you, Grandma, and my father just before they left for Earth.”

His grandfather stared at it for a very long time.

“That … monster will let us out now?” someone impatiently asked behind them.

Ahmed’s grandfather was crying. “I haven’t seen this photo in … such a long time. It’s why I came back.”

“There’s one more of us,” an African woman said in Igbo, pushing to the front. She wore jeans and a dirty purple sweater. Ahmed looked back at me and I stepped forward. The woman hesitated, glancing at and looking away from my eyes and said, “He’s being held captive in the cockpit, I think.” She pointed behind her. “It’s through the conference room.”

“Arinze,” I said.

She nodded.

“Troublesome sellout,” Ahmed’s grandpa mumbled. “Nigerians.” He spoke the name of my people like he was spitting dirt from his mouth. I frowned.

The women who’d spoken Igbo sucked her teeth loudly and deliberately. “Keep talking and see wahala, old man.”

Even when they lived and were born on Mars, people were still people.

Ahmed’s and my eyes met for a half second. Then he looked away. “I’ll go,” I said.

“I’ll go with you,” the Igbo woman said.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “I know what’s going on. Just … wait for him outside.” This time, I was the one who didn’t want to meet her eyes. I switched to English. She spoke Igbo with an English accent, so I suspected she’d understand, as would more of the others. “You all need to get off. There isn’t time. This shuttle is going to take off soon.”

“What!” a man said. “Impossible! There can’t be any fuel left. …”

People started translating for each other, and there were more exclamations of surprise.

“Who cares,” a woman said. “Show us out of here! I can’t stand being on a shuttle any longer!”

Everyone began pushing forward again. As they crammed past me, I told Ahmed, “Go with them. They need someone who knows … Earth.”

“Okay. But hurry out,” he said, taking and squeezing my hand. His other was holding the hand of his grandfather.

“I’ll be all right.”

I watched them all file down the corridor. Then I walked into the conference room to attend the strangest meeting of my life.

The conference room was spacious with a high ceiling and windows the size of the walls (which were currently covered with the ship’s protective white metal exterior). Near the back were shelves of books and three exercise bicycles. This large room was probably normally beautiful. But at the moment it was filthy and stinky. There were plastic tubs brimming with urine and feces and sacks of garbage. Had they been allowed to leave the room for anything? How long had they been trapped in there? I hurried to the door on the other side.

It easily opened and led into another passageway that was even narrower than the other one. It went on and on. I passed sealed doorways on my left and right. I frowned realizing something. Maybe the creature was allowing the doors to open. Maybe it had opened the door to the outside so that Ahmed and I could come in and rescue the people. I had so many answers, yet I had even more questions.

Finally, I reached a small round door. It felt like metal but it looked like wood. Nervous, I took a deep breath, tugging at one of my long braids. Suddenly the door slid open and I was standing before a tall very dark-skinned Nigerian man. Behind him was a round sunshine-filled room. The cockpit window must have been recently opened, for I hadn’t seen this on the outside. Every inch of wall was packed with virtual sensors, small and large screens, and soft buttons.

In the middle of it all, manipulating the ship’s virtual controls, was the … thing. It looked like something out of the deep ocean. Wet, red, bloblike, formless. I imagined that it would have fit perfectly into the glasslike thing that had attacked Ahmed and me outside.