And the World Changes Read online

  A M Kirk

  And the World Changes

  And the World Changes

  A Novel

  by

  Alan M Kirk

  1

  There is no sound in space. There can be no roaring sound from the massive engines that thrust the gigantic craft between the stars at a speed faster than light; there is no Doppler-shifted whishing to indicate the passing of this saucer-shape in the vacuum; no sound of sigh, or wail or scream.

  Silently, therefore, the discus-shaped craft, measuring several Earth kilometres in diameter, speeds with seemingly effortless urgency towards the galaxy spiral arm. Space bends around it, at the speed of light. For those on board, minutes last as long as the decades on the planet it is aimed towards. No, no screams can be heard.

  As the rushing craft’s infinitely complex time-measuring device carries on recording its equivalent of seconds, minutes, hours… on Earth, the slow evolution of the species continues inexorably

  The southern ape - whose descendants will come to rule the world - finds rough, pudgy clumsy fingers can be bent around sticks and, with a flukish leap of nascent imagination that will alter the course of life on Earth, can use them as tools to destroy beehives to get to the sweet substance within.

  The craft’s navigation circuitry has been set, centuries ago, to follow those who have gone ahead. For this is a pursuit.

  The great ship makes no sound as it shoots through silence, through a universe whose light and reality bend around its path.

  At light speed the universe is… different. Reality’s perceived laws no longer hold sway. The solid realities of time and space become unglued, of a shifting consistency.

  And on this hurtling ship, this absolute marvel of advanced design, something far removed from solid reality is unfolding.

  Inside the ship the realities of some the crew have been altering. Some now see through eyes where no eyes should be; internal and external organs have been shifted as if in some gruesome joke; some no longer have mouths, or arms or legs, or have instead strange mis-shapen outgrowths of bone and flesh as their cells, genes, DNA have been altered and altered and recombined beyond all possible reason. Some of the crew are dead. All of the rest wish for death.

  The ship speeds on.

  It speeds towards Earth. But as yet Earth’s sun is not even a pin-prick of light in the sky visible from the great ship. Earth’s sun is millions of light years distant, warming a planet where technology still consists of crudely wielded sticks.

  2

  An hour after the sun had disappeared behind the still clearly-outlined peak of Ben Vorlich, Mark and Carrie remained in pleasurable peace on the slowly spinning metal-framed roundabout. They lay back, each on a segment separated by a rail, their heads almost meeting in the middle of the turning playground device. Above them, in a shining July sky of softly deepening blue, they saw the stars, one-by-one at first and then in quickening succession, begin to sparkle into existence.

  “The difference between stars and planets? How can you tell?” asked Carrie.

  “Oh, everybody knows that!”

  “How, then, smartypants?”

  “Stars twinkle and planets don’t – they just shine in a kind of steadily shining kind of way… and leave my pants out of this.”

  “No problem, I assure you. Nothing was further from my mind,” Carrie replied with a derisive sniff.

  “Don’t lie.”

  A companionable silence stretched effortlessly for several moments. Neither felt any particular pressure to break the peace.

  At last, however, Carrie sighed happily and said, “Aren’t holidays just totally great? Aren’t they just fine?”

  Mark agreed. “School can be such a bore. That fourth year was such a waste of time.”

  “Oh, tell me about it! Actually no – don’t tell me about it: I already know. Look, you can see all of Orion now.”

  “And the three stars in a kind of line are his pants,” said Mark.

  Carrie reached a hand over and tweaked Mark’s ear. “If you don’t stop going on about pants I’ll just have to… “

  “What?”

  “Look – a satellite!”

  “Where? Oh yeah – how can you tell it’s not a plane, though?”

  “It’s a steady light and it’s moving at a hell of a speed.”

  “Could be a UFO… “ Mark almost regretted the idea as soon as he had uttered it. “Or, then again, maybe not.”

  “No, probably not. Not any more.”

  A memory now filled their minds and seemed to cast a chill over their evening.

  “Hmmm… “ murmured Carrie after a moment, and she lifted herself up on to an elbow to look at Mark’s face. The spinning of the roundabout had almost stopped now, and there was a damp coolness in the air around the playpark that she only noticed with the change of position. “You’re still feeling freaked out about our visit to ‘UFO central’?”

  Mark turned his head to Carrie. “ ‘UFO central’ – yeah, it sure is that. The whole thing’s just weird. I don’t understand what the hell is going on with that – thing.”

  “But neither does anyone else!”

  “Five years ago a space ship, a real UFO, lands in a bloody cow-field in Central Scotland…”

  And the world changes. The path of life on earth changes…

  3

  2013.

  It stands alone among years.

  The birth of Christ; 1066; 1492; 1776; 1945: these do not compare with the absolute certainty of Monday July 1, 2013.

  Gilbert McIntyre, a dairy farmer struggling to make a living in the middle of Scotland’s Central Belt, disappointed that the much-advertised Mayan prophecies had come to nothing and the world as he knew it continued stubbornly to exist (much against his wishes), glanced away from the early morning rerun of The Dukes of Hazzard and crossed to peer out of his kitchen window this July morning to see a goddamit-as-real-as-I’m-standing-here genuine flying saucer get larger and larger and goddam larger as it descended to land in his poorly drained lower pasture, obscuring his view of the nearby Ochil Hills and the unobtrusive grey slate angled rooftops of the little town of Dollar. His was one of the first eye contacts to confirm what radar installations all over Europe were clamouring: something big was coming down, man! Just appeared on the screens out of nowhere! Get the General, tell the Prime Minister, alert the goddam Pentagon!

  What humanity had been waiting for had finally happened. You could almost sense the world turning over, like someone long asleep about to wake up with a snort and a cry of “What the hell’s going on?”

  Strangely enough, the first thing that flashed through Gilbert McIntyre’s mind was not how this could be an unexpected fulfilment of the Mayan prophecies, nor how this could be the Second Coming of Christ (another event he’d often wished vehemently for in his luckless lifetime of disappointment); no, the first thing that flashed through Gilbert McIntyre’s was a large euro sign. He was going to be rich.

  Goddam rich!

  This space ship even now extending three mighty metallic legs to meet its discus-shaped shadow in his poorly drained pasture was going to make him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. He hugged himself in delight and watched as the cows in his field ambled nonchalantly out of the way of the massive ship’s landing gear.

  4

  And so began a mystery.

  The people of the Earth looked and listened to the media for answers. The journalists posed their questions to elected representatives. The politicians rephrased the questions for the military advisors; and the Armed Forces pointed virtually everything in their arsenals at the grid reference on the map now known as “McIntyre’s Field”, a few miles south-west of Dollar, not far from Alloa, Falkirk a
nd Stirling, in Scotland’s Central Belt.

  Experts of every kind descended on the Alloa area. For a while everything ground to a halt as the entire range of emotions coursed through the people of the planet. The main feeling seemed to be euphoria, and suddenly experts appeared on everyone’s television and radio saying similar things:

  “At last it’s clear: we are not alone.”

  “Not alone in the universe. Yes, and that’s kind of reassuring, don’t you think?”

  “I couldn’t agree more, but where does this stupendous event leave, you know, God?”

  “And may I point out we don’t yet know who these aliens are or where they come from or what their intentions are?”

  “That’s beside the point. What I want to know is, where does this leave Mankind?”

  Most of those terribly important things that had bothered people all of their lives (keeping a roof over the head, fixing the roof over the head, putting food on the table, losing the weight the food put on, becoming richer, or more attractive, or fitter, or somehow better) – the preoccupations of people for much of human history in fact, now stopped being so important.

  The world’s great religions, faced with incontrovertible evidence that mankind could not now be the Lord of Creation after all, as here we were apparently faced with a tangible physical not an invisible metaphysical superior, braced themselves for a massive falling off amongst the faithful – and in this, at least, they were not disappointed. For the world’s religions had no real answer to this – neither Bible nor Koran offered any guidance for such an eventuality and so, after six months or so, religious commentators reported on a marked, world-wide diminution in religious fervour.

  But for all the questions posed, not a single one found answers from any source, religious or otherwise. Military, scientific and political leaders were alike in their ignorance. And like a teacher waiting silently, arms calmly folded, for an unruly class to settle down and stop making noise, the presumably alien space ship simply sat in McIntyre’s Field while the media and military turned cartwheels round about it. No sliding doors; no Klaatu, no “Earthmen! We come in peace!”; no bumbling ETs looking about for a phone; no synthesiser music or incomprehensible signals – no communication of any sort.

  Silence.

  Finally the furore died down, as it had to. A fever pitch of excitement cannot be maintained indefinitely. People began to simply accept the presence of the strange silent craft as a fact, and resumed their generally humdrum lives, albeit oddly conscious of the fact that everything was now different, absolutely different. The bills still had to be paid, there were still TV to watch that did not mention the alien ship, there were still parties to go to and friends to meet.

  Were they watching us? Were they studying us, learning our ways and our languages? Were they testing our atmosphere for hazards before making contact? Were they the first of many? Was anybody alive on board? Were they a threat?

  All these questions began to recede after a while as people realised that the texture of our lives cannot indefinitely be avoided..

  Twelve months passed and no communication of any kind came from the vast, brooding ship.

  Then, a year after landing, the Allied Military Command Centre at Stirling Castle received the famous first signal, in English, from the ship. The Commander-in-Chief, General Talbot, released it to the world’s media. The effect of the message rippling across the world was not so much like a trembling earthquake causing the needle on the seismograph to oscillate off the chart, but more like someone battering the seismograph itself to bits with a five-kilo sledgehammer:

  “We are the Soros. We have come from the other side of the galaxy.”

  5

  Now, five years after the landing, the Soros craft – or, at least, sections of it – had been opened up to the public. It came to be referred to as the “Soros Museum”. But the mystery continued, for no one had ever seen what a Soros actually looked like. Photos of them in space suits had been published, but that was all. For fear of contamination, it was said, they could not be photographed in their natural states. They were, moreover, a naturally timid and retiring species. But they seemed to understand PR.

  Arrangements were quickly made and staff hired so that the public, tourists, school parties could be encouraged to visit the Museum and see the marvellous a-v displays on offer there: wonderful exhibits of holograms of other solar systems, planets and stars dying and being born. It promised no fantastic rides, but as a sightseer draw, it easily out-gunned Disney. There were real, live aliens – aliens! – in that flying saucer!

  Mark and Carrie had visited it for the first time two weeks before the end of term. The experience had not been a happy one for Mark.

  The roundabout stopped spinning.

  Carrie noticed that small clouds of midges had now emerged to perform their bizarrely repetitive evening ritual aerobatics.

  A moment’s silence followed.

  Carrie stretched herself over the metal rail that separated them and kissed Mark passionately on the lips. When the kiss ended, Carrie’s tone had a trace of anxiety in it as she asked, “Mark, are you all right? Lately you’ve seemed … I don’t know … kind of strange.”

  “I know what you mean.” Mark ran his left hand through his hair.

  She looked at him closely. She freely admitted to herself she liked what she thought of as his “nice” face. She did not think of it as handsome but it was attractive in an imperfect, well-meaning kind of way. His eyes were a warm brown and shone with humour. His dark hair was always tousled – because he ran his fingers through it all the time – and his smooth skin shone with the vigour of youth. It was just a “nice” face. Alicia Wotherspoon in the year above had fancied Mark for ages, Carrie knew – Alicia was her neighbour and occasional confidante, but for some reason that Carrie herself could hardly explain, despite the fact that Alicia was absolutely and indisputably more attractive that Carrie, it had been Carrie that Mark had – awkwardly at first - showed an interest in. Mark had never had a girl-friend before, not really. Kissing and fumbling after the occasional school dance or birthday bash at the local youth club didn’t really qualify as “having girl-friends”. And while Carrie had been out with boys before they had never sustained her interest for any length of time. They had been geeky to the nth degree, or too Neanderthal in their impulses.

  She noticed again the large brown birthmark showing above his t-shirt. “I mean,” she added ironically, “you’ve always been strange, but now you’re stranger. Seriously… I mean… “ She looked down as if finding something of sudden curiosity in the structure of the roundabout . “ …if you don’t – if you don’t want to go out with me, I’ll understand…”

  “Good grief, it’s nothing like that, Carrie!” Mark, genuinely horrified at the suggestion, looped a hand behind her neck, gently pulled her close and dispelled the notion with a return kiss.

  A wide smile lit Carrie’s face and she looked down to hide the pleasing rush of reassurance she had just felt.

  “You know I don’t like anyone as much as you, Carrie,” said Mark. “ No…” he continued reflectively, “ I just keep thinking about our visit to the Soros Museum!“

  Damn! she thought, why don’t you tell me that you love me? What is it with boys? Aloud, she said, her smooth brow wrinkling slightly with a concerned frown, “I figured that was it. You really came over weird that day. Can you… can you still do what you said – actually hear the Soros talking? It sounds incredible.”

  “It was incredible. But no. I can’t, not any more. It was only in the Museum that I could do that. And even then it was only for a moment and it wasn’t very clear either. Maybe I imagined the whole thing.”

  “Yeah, maybe you imagined the whole thing. But that would make you a complete fruitcake and I don’t think you are a complete fruitcake. You’re maybe the bottom half of a fruitcake…”

  “But you know how I get hunches about stuff? Well, they’ve been getting different, sligh
tly stronger it seems. Like you know how McAllister tried that experiment in physics last week? I could kind of “see” what was going to happen before it did. Actually see it.”

  “You should have told him. He’s still going around with that blue stuff on his face.”

  “Well, I figured he’s the teacher, he ought to know.”

  “Slight mistake there, my friend,” said Carrie, laughing lightly. “Teachers, like parents, don’t know everything. Only we like to think they do. “

  “Anyway, to be honest, I’ve not been feeling too good. Sorry if I’m rotten company.”

  “No, no, that’s all right. My parents – you remember them, don’t you? Gin and Bitter? - are having some friends round tonight – so that’ll mean lots of wine and crackers – and so, you see, I’ve nothing better to do than hang about with you, like some depraved youth.” She kissed him again, then remarked, “Not much to choose between crackers.”

  “You’re too cheeky for your own good.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  Mark kissed her again.

  At last Carrie sat up and put a hand around Mark’s wrist to feel a pulse. “You zay you are not feeling vell, zo… tell me your simpsons, young man,” she said.

  “My simpsons?”

  “Ya, your simpsons, if you pleess, or I will keel you veet my

  German akzent.” She punched him on the shoulder.

  “Well, I… I don’t know. There’s like a tightness at the back of my throat. It’s sore.”

  “ Eet sound like a cold in zee ed. I haf ze cure, but I must look – ow you say – clos-errr.”

  “Now you’re French.”

  “I am a doctor of many talents, you know, young man! Shut up, please!” She drew close and kissed his neck lightly. “Dass is besser, ya?”

  “Ah, ya!”

  She kissed his throat. “Und dass grows besser all ze time, no?”

  “Well… I think there might be something wrong here, too, “