Year's Best SF 17

returned. “What is it?” he asked, hovering several feet above my head.

I laughed, rubbing my neck. I was beginning to feel a little better. “It’s an alien.” Then I sat down hard on the sand.

In a matter of minutes, I’d gone from fighting off a racist windseeker armed with a rock to fighting off a Martian alien. As I sat there contemplating this, I stared at the door.

“You know why it didn’t kill me?” I asked, rubbing my temples and shutting my eyes. Ahmed sat beside me, anxiously looking at where the alien had sunk.

“Why?” he muttered. He hacked loudly and spit to the side. He was done crying.

“Because I’m Nigerian,” I said.

“What?” Ahmed said, frowning at me. “How would it know that? Why would it care?”

“It was held captive, and the only person to treat it with any respect before it managed to escape was a man named Arinze Tunde, a Nigerian.”

“How do you …” His eyes widened. “You read an alien?”

“It read me more,” I said.

“That cursed thing could read genetics or something?”

“Guess so,” I said. “That’s what the vibrating was. You felt it, right?”

“Yeah, like being touched by sound.”

I got up and waited a moment to make sure I was steady. Ahmed got up, too. For a moment, I felt dizzy, then everything stabilized. As I dusted off my dress, I said, “And you know why it wanted to kill you?”

Ahmed shrugged.

“Your grandpa was the one who captured it.”

He stared at me blankly as I quickly walked to the ship. I turned to him. “Come on!” I said. “The passengers are locked in some room. We need to get everyone off right now. The alien is going to make the shuttle take off again.”

“My grandfather?” Ahmed said as I ran inside. “Alien? Didn’t it just sink into the sand? There’s another one?”

The soft humming was continuous and the lights flickered as we walked down the narrow corridor single file. The padded walls added to the narrowness. Everything was spotless, no dust or dirt in any corners. And everything smelled like face powder.

“I don’t like this,” Ahmed said, moving faster. “Not at all.”

I smiled. Windseekers hate tight places. “Inhale, exhale,” I said, staying close behind him. “We’ll find the passengers and then get out. Relax.”

As he loudly inhaled and exhaled as he walked, I took a moment to look behind us. So far we’d moved in a straight line and I could still see the sun shining in from the open door. I felt a little better. If it was a trap, the door probably would have shut. Eventually, the corridor did break off in three different directions. We took the one in the middle and came to a large metal door with a sign on it that said CONFERENCE ROOM B. Ahmed was about to touch the blue button beside the door. I grabbed his hand.

“What?” he said, accidently looking into my eyes. He quickly looked away, squeezing his face as if I’d stuck a pin in his arm.

“Don’t start that again,” I snapped.

“It’s your damn eyes!”

I rolled my eyes. “Let’s knock first.”

“Fine,” he said, gritting his teeth. He knocked three times. The sound was absorbed by the hallway’s padding. We stood there, listening hard.

I sighed, “Maybe, we could …”

“Arinze?” a woman called from behind the door.

Ahmed grabbed my arm, and I stepped closer to him.

“Please!” a man shouted in English, banging on the door. I couldn’t place his accent. “Open up. Just …”

“Is that English? What are they saying?” Ahmed asked me in Arabic. “I can’t understand.”

“They want us to open the door,” I said. I stepped up to the door. “We’re … we’re not him!” I responded in English. I turned to Ahmed and switched back to Arabic. “I told them we’re not Arinze.”

“Let’s open it,” he said.

“Okay.”

He was about to and then stopped. He turned to me, looking guilty. “You should step back.”

I understood. My eyes. Who knew what they’d think? And I didn’t want anyone looking into them.

“Okay,” I said, stepping behind him. “Makes sense.”

He touched the blue button and there we were facing about thirty sweaty dirty people all crammed at the door. Hot air wafted out. It reeked of sweat, urine, feces, and rotten fruit. Ahmed and I coughed.

Ahmed stood up straight. “We’re here to—”

“Take her down!” a man shouted in English. There was a mad rush as they all tried to lunge for me through the narrow corridor. I stumbled back as Ahmed jumped in front of me, using his body to block the way. Five men tried to shove him aside but he somehow managed to remain lodged.

“Stop it!” he shouted in Arabic.

“We can handle her!” someone said in Igbo. “Just get out of the way!”

“We’re getting off this damn shuttle!” another said in English.

“Stop!” Ahmed screamed in Arabic, pushing them back with all his might. “She’s not—she’s human!”

No one listened or maybe they didn’t understand. Everyone started shouting at the same time. Sweat gleamed on Ahmed’s face as he fought to keep himself in the passageway. I ran back several feet but I wasn’t about to leave Ahmed.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a blast of wind flew through the passageway. It knocked me off my feet and I slid several feet back. Then everything went silent. I slowly sat up. Everyone in the passageway had been blown back into the conference room. They murmured as they sat up, rubbing their heads, arms, confused.

Only Ahmed remained, hovering, his seven long thick braids undulating as the windseeker breeze circulated his body. The passengers stared at him. I smiled broadly, though once again, I was shaking all over.

“She, we are not …” Ahmed switched to French as he landed on his feet. “We are not whatever you’ve been dealing with! Does anyone understand me? We’re here to get you out!”

“How do we know that?” some woman asked in French from behind everyone. Good, I thought. Someone understood.

“Speak in French,” I said. “I can speak that, too.”

Ahmed looked at me. I winked. I can speak six languages, Arabic, Hausa, French, Igbo, Yoruba, and English. My father liked to call me the daughter of Legba—the Yoruba deity of language, communication, and the crossroads—because I picked up languages so easily.

“Why else would we unlock the door?” Ahmed snapped. The woman translated for those who couldn’t understand.

Silence.

“Stupid,” I muttered, stepping closer to Ahmed.

“This is Fisayo and I’m Ahmed,” he said. “We’re … Do you know what’s happened on Earth since you left?”

More confused murmuring. The general consensus was that they knew something bad had happened but they weren’t sure what.

“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.