Page 4 of An Alien for the Future

“The more people the Initiative can sponsor. I get it.” I roll my eyes, but there’s less heat in it this time. “Fine, fine. Maybe I’ll stop by one of those cultural exchange things. But I’m not promising anything.”

“ Wonderful!” There’s a new pep in his voice as he whips out gloves from hidden pockets, slips them on his hands, and begins helping me harvest the berries.

I turn away, pretending to focus on picking berries, but it’s really to hide my face. In my head, I’m asking the Lord toforgive me for this lie, but it’ll keep him off my back for a while.

I have no intention of going to any cultural exchange, no matter how brightly Xarion smiles when I feign enthusiasm. But sometimes a little white lie makes life easier, especially when you’re trying to maintain your solitude on an alien world. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I pluck a handful of zimi berries, dropping them into the basket with a soft thud.

A wave of quiet settles over us as we work, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and the chirping of unseen insects. It’s a peaceful sound, the kind that seeps into your bones and stills the constant chatter in your mind. And I’m reminded that the loneliness I felt earlier is also, in a way, a loneliness I’m protecting. It’s confusing, wanting companionship but also wanting to be left alone. But this quiet, this type of quiet, where my heart isn’t laden and worry, anxiety, and stress aren’t constant, is a silence I’m fiercely protective of.

Xarion, bless his furry little heart, wouldn’t understand. He thrives on connection, on bridging the gap between cultures. It’s his job. I, on the other hand, am perfectly content to observe from a distance.

I see what Eleanor and Catherine have. Mates. Love. But with all that goodness is the little voice that reminds me, life doesn’t play out the same for everyone. History has taught me that too many times.

So, I’ll keep telling my little white lies, offering up silent apologies to God. Out here, in this vast alien wilderness, I’ve finally found the peace I’ve been searching for. And I’m not about to give that up for some forced social gathering where I might meet some alien promising the world, no matter how good-looking he might be.

2

DONNA

The berries are so good, I spend the next three days milking oogas—which turns out to be a very, very messy affair—and baking all sorts of crap with grushi flour and zimi berries. Turns out they’re like blueberries, but ten times sweeter. A bit like a fruit that tastes like coconut milk infused with honey. It’s absolutely delectable and before long, I’ve tried every recipe I can remember and I’m completely out of berries.

My oogas, the cow-hippo-like animals that live on my farm, now eye me with suspicion whenever I exit the cottage. Today I laugh when I spot my main milker, Gertrude, bustling down to the far side of the pasture as soon as I open the door.

“I’m not milking you today, Gertie!” I adjust my headscarf as my body shakes with withheld laughter. I swear, sometimes I think these animals are more intelligent than they appear. I’m probably not milking them right. Well, I’m pretty sure I’m not. I catch just about ten percent of the milk that comes from their teats, and that’s because it’s nothing like milking cows.

I huff another laugh as more of the milkers spot me and head in Gertrude’s direction. “Hey, don’t teach them to do that, now.” I laugh. “I’m not that bad at it, am I?”

I swear one of them snorts, and that makes me chuckle. Gripping my grocery satchel, I look toward the pasture across from mine. Time to get more berries. I’m pretty sure I remember where Xarion and I found them. I just have to retrace my steps.

Five minutes later, I’m pushing my big ass through the fencing, cursing my hips again ‘cause they don’t want to bend, but then I’m straightening and continuing on.

A song hums in my throat as I push through the tall grass. Not one of Ma’s old hymns, but one of my favorites; something with a little more sass and a lot more soul. Aretha. Always Aretha and her songRespect.

I belt it out, my voice echoing across the alien plains. I’m pretty sure Aretha never imagined her music reaching a planet like Hudo III, but hey, a girl’s gotta have her anthems, no matter where she hangs her hat. The orange grass sways in time with my crooning, the pink sun beating down like a spotlight. It’s a beautiful day, the kind that makes you want to shake your ass and forget your troubles, even if those troubles involve intergalactic relocation and a distinct lack of decent cornbread.

I lose myself in the rhythm of my footsteps, the gentle sway of the alien foliage, the clean fresh air. For a few glorious moments, I’m not a displaced Earthling, not a reluctant farmer, not a woman in her fifties with more regrets than recipes. My feet pick up the pace, turning into an unchoreographed dance, and my arms reach out to embrace this new world, a surge of pure, unadulterated happiness coursing through me.

I’m just a soul set free, carried on the wings of a song.

It doesn’t take long for me to spot the silver-tipped leaves of the zimi berry bushes in the distance and I pick up the pace, song still loud on my lips because well, there’s no one out here to hear me. As I get closer to my destination, however, I notice something odd. The bushes look…different. Picked over, almost. My brows furrow as I draw closer.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I whisper, examining the nearest bush. It’s been stripped clean, not a single purple berry in sight. I move to the next one, then the next. All of them are bare.

A prickle of unease runs down my spine. Did Xarion come back and harvest them all? No, that certainly doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t do that without telling me. He hardly even wanted to get his suit dirty. Plus, these bushes look like they’ve been ravaged, not neatly picked in the way Xarion would most likely have done.

I stare at the bushes before my gaze shifts to the surrounding area. I often see some tall creatures that look like dinosaurs mated with giraffes out this way. Could it have been them?

No. I don’t see any close by. Haven’t seen any in a few days, at least.

Straightening, I’m suddenly aware of how quiet it is now that I’m no longer singing. The usual chittering of the insect-like creatures that inhabit this world is absent. Even the wind seems to have died down.

I freeze for a second, scanning my surroundings, ears straining for any sound that’s out of place. My heartbeat feels too loud in the sudden stillness.

Something’s off.

This is where, in the movies, some idiot would call out ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ Well, I haven’t survived five decades and a year by being a fool. I don’t call out. I’m not about to advertise my presence. Instead, I step back slowly, eyes darting around, keeping my breath steady. Whatever’s out here, it doesn’t need to know I am, too.

Taking another step backward, I cringe, now feeling stupid for my reckless and loud singing. Whatever it is that ravaged the bushes probably already heard me. Dammit Aretha, girl. This is not how I intended to come meet you in the afterlife.

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