“What…?!” Rutger says.
Gotthard remains silent, head moving right to left as he follows the dashing sight across the firmament. Ximena feels his curiosity echo inside her, harmonizing with his sense of awe at the marvels of nature.
“A shooting star?” Rutger asks.
“Shooting stars don’t pulse,” Gotthard says.
The light stops its darting movement, and stays hanging in the air, perfectly still, flashing slow pulses of white light.
“Whoa!” Gotthard says, as Ximena feels his mind instantly reassessing the evidence. “Definitely not a shooting star! That thing stopping its movement like that is impossible. Infinite deceleration requires infinite power. Or that thing is massless…”
“It’s getting bigger,” Rutger says, a pinch of nervousness in his voice. “It’s getting closer.”
The talking of the surrounding people becomes louder as they realize the same. Forty-eight heads turned towards the light, as its brightness slowly dissolves into shape. It is something flat and curved, descending slowly towards them, in eerie silence, lights flashing in orderly patterns around its perfectly spherical perimeter.
Ximena laughs at the sight of the thing descending from the sky. Mark gives her an amused glance and chuckles as well.
“It’s a flying saucer!” Gotthard says, wide-eyed. “An honest-to-Goah flying saucer.” He smiles and shakes his head with wonder. “Goah’s Mercy, what a cliché.”
“Aliens?” Rutger says, a pinch of anxiety in his voice.
“Think so.” Gotthard keeps his eyes locked on the object as it descends vertically on an empty spot not far away from the group. “And my karma is on little green men, if you want to bet. Either the old sci-fi magazines were spot on, or these mensas have a developed sense of humor—and know us very well.”
Complete silence envelops the group as everybody stares at the saucer, floating perfectly still a few yards over the ground. Four poles emerge from the perimeter of the floating saucer and extend uniformly until they touch the ground.
“They’re here,” Gotthard says. He is not afraid, Ximena notes. Not the same way as Rutger or others appear to be. Gotthard is fascinated, filled to the brim with curiosity. No force on Earth would move him away from this place now.
A door—rectangular shape and all—slides open on the side of the saucer facing them. There are only shadows beyond.
Gotthard takes a step forward, eyes not daring to blink. “Show yourself,” he mutters.
A thin ramp slides slowly out of the bottom of the door until it touches the ground. All eyes return to the door. There is a hint of movement behind it, in the shadows.
“Show yourself!” His lips curve in a faint smile.
An elongated white humanoid shape walks out the door onto the ramp, moving slowly and intentionally. A mare, who stays there for a few moments, regarding the humans below in silence with those uncanny white eyes. And being regarded in return.
“Not little,” Gotthard whispers at Rutger. “Not green. But otherwise, it doesn’t disappoint.”
“Greetings, earthlings.” The mare communicates without moving her black mouth, her voice reverberates, feminine and elegant, directly inside Gotthard’s mind. “I am an alien from outer space, and I come in peace.”
“In peace,” Rutger says, daring a smile. Other people around them murmur words of relief.
“You may call me Rew,” the mare says, raising an arm and awkwardly extending the three finger-appendages in distinct angles. “Live long and prosper.”
Rutger frowns. “Isn’t that what the Klingons say on the Tuesday evening radio show?”
“The Vulcans,” Gotthard says, eyes locked on the mare. “Hush now.”
“We are the marai,” the alien continues. “We did settle near your world over ten thousand years ago. Since then, we have been with you, every night, here,” Rew points an extremity at her own head, “in your dreams.”
“Dreams…?” Rutger turns to Gotthard. “Did it say dreams?”
“Shh, listen.”
“You never knew—how could you, with your primitive senses?—but we have been visiting your dreams for millennia. It is through dreams that we influence your destiny. We did guide you through the chokes of your history. We did plant the notion of farming in your ancestor’s minds, of domestication of lesser beings. Of writing, when you were ready. You thrived. You took Earth. And then you lost it.”
Rew floats down along the ramp in silence, reaches the ground, and keeps moving towards the group of attentive youths. Another mare exits the flying saucer’s opening and floats down with Rew’s same awkward gait. And then another mare comes out, indistinguishable from the others. And another. Until a row of mares—eleven in total—walk in a line and form a row behind Rew, who has stopped just a few yards away from the group.
“We did fail you,” Rew says, and bows her head deeply for a long moment. “A terrible failure with dreadful consequences for your race.” She stands tall and moves her gaze across the group. Gotthard shudders as his eyes meet the alien’s. “We could not stop you from unbalancing your world. We did miscalculate the intensity of your predations, and Earth’s capacity to resist them. A grave miscalculation that triggered the most hideous suffering on your race. And on ours. We did fail you.” Rew bows again.
Rutger turns to Gotthard as if to say something, but desists at the intensity of Gotthard’s expression. He is absorbing every word uttered by the alien as if they were Goah’s awsself.
“We did hope that humankind would recuperate in time,” Rew continues, “as it has done countless times before. But, alas, your recovery remains fragile. Your lifespans are too short, insufficient to maintain a resilient civilization, insufficient to escape the extinction sink it is falling into. Humankind cannot regain control over its own destiny as a species. And so, after millennia of subtle guidance, we marai are forced to reveal ourselves,” Rew extends her extremities in a very human gesture, “and take direct ownership over your fate.”
“Are you invaders?” a stocky man in his early twenties asks. A farmer, obviously, in view of those brown pants beneath the short working tunic. Ximena feels Gotthard’s innate aversion to the lowborn. He speaks matter-of-factly, without fear. Out of place.
Rew
