Guardian Awakening (2 page)

Faint trails of smoke curled away from the side of the stricken craft. Orange flames crackled and danced under a broken panel forward of the engines, and the falling raindrops steamed and sizzled as they hit the hot metal.

The pilot was visible through the canopy, unmoving. The air shimmered from the heat of the fuselage. Tristan hesitated. As if sensing his reluctance, the flames suddenly leaped higher. He clenched his fists.
I have to do this now.
Taking a deep breath he jumped up on the stubby wing. The plastic of his boots started to melt on the hot metal, causing him to slip. Without thinking he put out a hand to steady himself. “Oh Shit!” The pain shot up his arm as the palm of his hand blistered.

Through gritted teeth, ignoring the pain from his hand, he felt carefully round the canopy. Panic tightened round his chest.
Oh God, how does this thing OPEN!
 

A sudden stabbing sensation in his head made him gasp, almost pitching him forward against the canopy. A whispering; strange, alien, but compelling, filled his mind. With a faint click and hiss the canopy moved up and back into a recess in the fuselage. The pilot sat slumped forward; shoulder length, fair, almost white hair, reflecting the angry red glow of the instruments.

Tristan gasped and almost fell backwards off the craft. He grabbed the pilot’s seat to steady himself, avoiding the hot metal of the fuselage.
My God!
He resisted the urge to turn and run.
Its ears!
They protruded from the pilot’s hair, sharp and pointed. He hesitated only for a moment, then he leaned forward and pulled the pilot back into the seat.
What the hell was it?
With a shrug he pushed away the questions racing through his mind, his hands shaking. He groped for the harness and found a buckle where the straps met at the creature’s waist.

His searching fingers located a lever. He held his breath, and pulled, and the harness came free. He grabbed the pilot from around the shoulders and, grunting from the effort, pulled it from its seat.

Throwing
the pilot over his shoulder, he did his best to avoid the hot metal of the craft’s hull. He jumped from the wing. His feet slipped on the damp peat, pitching forward away from the hot craft; he dropped his burden. He cursed; his clumsiness could cost both their lives. He stood, the heat from the stricken craft hot on his back. In one fluid movement he bent down, scooped up the fallen pilot and threw it over his shoulder. Holding it steady, with an arm around its legs, Tristan ran. The added weight caused his feet to sink into the soft moorland peat. Each tuft of heather threatened to trip him as he carried the unconscious form to safety. Tristan glanced back, and flames were now leaping higher, spreading along the fuselage. Loud cracks and bangs rent the night as parts of the craft succumbed to the consuming heat of the fire.

The bloody things going to blow in a minute.
The thought went round and round in his head as he struggled back up the slope. His chest heaved, his breathing laboured, his heart crashing against his ribs. He cleared the rise and plunged down the slope towards his cottage.
 

He ran as fast as his burden would allow, praying with every step that there was no hole or crevice in the uneven ground to catch his foot. With the added weight and, the speed of his headlong downhill rush, he would surely break a leg.
 

Half expecting an explosion to knock him off his feet, he paused to catch his breath, his heart crashing in his chest with the exertion. He glanced back, expecting to see the glow and flicker of leaping flames, but all was dark.
That’s strange.
He resumed his downhill rush.

His whole body shaking with effort, he finally reached the cottage. Sinking to his knees, he propped the pilot against the wall. Taking deep gulps of air he waited for his body to recover. After a few moments he stood, turned, and keeping low ran back up the slope to the crashed craft.

Expecting an explosion at any moment, Tristan dropped to his knees then slowly edged forward to peer over the rise. The craft was covered in thick steaming foam. The flames were smothered, and the fire extinguished.
 

Thank God, an emergency fire control system.
He stood, turned, and trudged back to his cottage. The pilot had not moved. Tristan opened his cottage door, and then bent and picked the creature up, as he did so his unconscious burden stirred and groaned.
 

Tristan hurried through the door, but in the hall he hesitated for a moment. Not knowing the extent of the pilot’s injuries, he decided that the couch was not the best option. He carried the pilot upstairs, and laid it on his bed.

Right. Now, to see what you are!

With trembling hands he fumbled with the light switch, and blinking in the sudden brightness he took a step back. For a moment, primitive instinct took over like a giant hand gripping his chest, twisting and squeezing. He took a shuddering breath to quell the unreasoned urge to turn and run. What the hell had he rescued? The creature’s skin was fair, almost translucent, with a faint, mauve tinge. The eyebrows were very thin and fine, almost nonexistent, a thin slightly turned up nose, high cheekbones and long pointed ears completed an ethereal, elf-like appearance.

“There’s and alien in my bedroom. THERE’S AN ALIEN IN MY BLOODY BEDROOM!” He swallowed. The wind rattled the bedroom window, causing the raindrops to sound like a myriad tiny tapping fingers against the glass.
For God’s sake Tristan, pull yourself together!
Red blood had trickled from the side of the alien’s mouth and nose, an angry purple bruise spread across its forehead where it probably hit something during the crash. The creature was breathing without any difficulty, chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. Tristan looked at the creature’s body, realisation sinking into whirling thoughts. The one piece jumpsuit it was wearing did not hide the curves.
It’s female
!

He ran a trembling hand through his hair as he slumped down on his bedside chair. He gazed at the alien on his bed. In the silence he became aware of a tingling, whispering in his thoughts not under his control. He ignored it like the dull ache in his temple that had been a constant companion since the failed naval experiment. He returned his attention to the unconscious creature on his bed. The insignia and colour of the jumpsuit gave it a military appearance, confirming Tristan’s impression of the crashed craft. A gun of some sort strapped to her thigh caught his attention.
 

“Better get rid of that quickly.”
 

The sound of his own voice made him jump. He glanced at his burnt hands then back at the creature lying on his bed. “Aliens, and I’m talking to myself. I must be going mad!”
 

He stood and walked over to the bed, bent down and carefully removed the weapon while trying not to touch anything that might be a trigger. The weapon was pistol-shaped, with a thick, lethal looking barrel. He turned it over in his hands, the metal, polished and worn showing signs of use. He locked the thing in his safe at the bottom of his wardrobe. At least when she regained consciousness, if she did regain consciousness, she couldn’t shoot him with it.

He returned to the bed and looked down on the creature.
What now?
 

He loosened the collar of her suit to help her breathe. He fumbled for a moment with the fastening then pulled. The neck fastening came apart with a ripping sound like Velcro. A pulse on her neck looked strong and even. The skin was soft and warm to the touch, just like human skin. He glanced at her hands, four fingers, and a thumb; except for the faint mauve tinge, quite human looking. The body shape was in proportion and human-like too.
 

He carefully ran his hands down her limbs, checking for any obvious wounds or breaks. A small pocket on her hip, opposite to where the weapon had been strapped, contained a small flat box the size of a mobile phone. It looked harmless enough so he put it back. He checked the creature’s boots; they had a side fastening similar to the Velcro on her suit’s collar. He pulled and the fastening came away with the same ripping sound. He removed her boots. Her feet, like her hands, were small and slim, each ending with five human looking toes.
 

Well that’s surprising; an alien that could, at a pinch, pass herself off as human. What were the chances of that?
Tristan shook his head and stepped back. Satisfied that there were no other obvious injuries, Tristan pulled the covers over her and turned out the light. He started downstairs and then thought better of it, and he returned to the bedroom, closed and locked the door. He had no idea what she would do if she came round and found herself in a strange place. She was probably military, so could be dangerous. He went back down the stairs and sat down.
 

He tried to order his thoughts. Was she really alien? Had he jumped to conclusions because of her strange appearance and the unknown configuration of the craft? No, he was certain she had not originated from any country on earth. Might she be the prelude to an invasion? Maybe a whole troop of aliens would burst in at any moment brandishing those lethal looking pistols. Perhaps she was lost and alone just needing help? Oh well, she was here now so what should he do next?
 

He could not take ‘her’ to a doctor or hospital. They would immediately report it to the authorities, and there was no telling what they would do. They would dissect the creature in all probability. Anyway, as she was an alien, doctors probably would not be able to help. A vet perhaps? He smiled to himself.
Be serious!

Reporting the incident was out of the question, as was taking her anywhere there were people. They would panic; most would not have the same open mind as he had. He glanced at the model starship on the windowsill he had built as a child. He firmly believed there were many other beings in the vast universe. He believed the people who thought humans were the only ones suffered from unforgivable arrogance.
 

He had bitter firsthand experience of the authorities and the medical profession! He rubbed the scar on the side of his forehead.

The only option was to keep her secret and care for her as best he could, providing she was not too badly injured and would recover. At first light he must cover the crashed ship. An old tarpaulin he had found in the woodshed would be ideal. He could camouflage it further with brush and bracken.

As Tristan sat quietly in the silence, he noticed again the whispering in his head. He strained to listen, to make sense of the faint voice and the occasional blurred images, but they were just out of reach. The tension and adrenaline had drained from his body, and now his hands, arms and shoulders ached. The palm of his burnt hand throbbed. He fumbled for his pain killers, swallowed two with a toss of his head, stretched and sighed. Everything can wait until the morning. He eventually fell asleep and dreamed strange dreams of alien planets and battles between vast black ships among the stars.

Chapter Two: Aesia

At first light, Tristan awoke. The quiet whispering in his mind invading his thoughts like the gentle touch of butterflies wings. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, realisation returned, and a chill shivered down his spine, entering his stomach in a twisted knot. A crashed ship in his back yard and an alien in his bed upstairs. He had to get the ship covered quickly. If anything got reported to the authorities they would be all over his secluded patch of England like ants.

He quickly washed his face in the kitchen sink to remove the remainder of sleep from his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he decided to check on the alien first. Tension like a knotted fist twisted in his stomach. He reached the bottom of the stairs and hesitated. The creature was slim and small but still…
Why am I being such a wimp!
 

He swallowed, took another breath and climbed the stairs. On reaching the landing he paused, listening. He heard nothing except for the normal sounds of the moor, the faint bark of a fox, a skylark in the distance. With a trembling hand he unlocked the bedroom door and cracked it open. His body tense, not knowing what to expect, he peaked into the room. She lay in the same position he had left her.

He swung the door wide and stepped into the room. Female surely, it fitted her body shape and features.
But, aliens could be a tricky lot, as most sci-fi blockbusters would confirm.
He smiled at his own humour, releasing some of the tension knotting his stomach. He moved to the bed, ready to leap back if she made any sudden movement, but she didn’t stir. The jumbled incoherent whispering in his head became stronger the closer he got.
 

The slight bleeding from her nose and the side of her mouth had stopped. He remembered the first aid training he had been given years back when he first joined the Navy.
Damn, I should have put her in the recovery position instead of on her back. Oh well,
she seems to be breathing regularly.
He considered washing away the dried blood on her face.
What if she should wake while I was touching her?
He shuddered at the probable consequences
if that happened.
Best to leave her as she lay
. With nothing to be gained watching the unconscious creature, Tristan turned and walked out of the room, locking the bedroom door behind him.

Now, he needed
to cover the crashed craft to hide it from prying eyes. He walked down the stairs, out of the front door, only pausing in the hall to put on a coat and boots. The old tarpaulin he had found in the woodshed out the back would be ideal. He pushed open the woodshed door, the rusty hinges creaking. The tarpaulin, folded over the saw bench, was an original canvas one, part green, part brown with age, it had been there when he brought the cottage. He picked it up with a grunt.
Damn this bloody thing is heavy!
The dust and musty smell of age made him cough.

Tristan stepped outside and took a gulp of fresh morning air. The coughing fit passed.