1788 by Alex Foster
They stepped over a sea of grey dirt that had been sent flying by the sky man's impact. Trees had been uprooted and thrown into the ground like spears, carcases of kangaroos with their bodies sticking out in funny positions were half covered with yellow clay. The redcoats held their muskets tightly and made sour faces.
‘Bloody hell. I ain’t ever seen nothing like this.’ A Redcoat with a scruffy orange beard that neatened up into a thin moustache around the nose said. Sweat dripped down his fat chin and onto the red uniform which bulged around the stomach. ‘Do you think the Aboriginals could have done this?’
‘I do- don’t think so, Corporal Ridel. I ain’t ever seen no Aboriginal fall out from the sky.’ Stuttered interpreter Stanly Bartholomew. He loosened his tight white collar and felt the cool air mix with his sweet soaked neck. The sun offered no protection here. It watched everyone closely with endless waves of eye-watering heat.
But Stanly Bartholomew knew it wasn’t just the sun making him sweat.
Whatever had landed made him nervous as hell. It reminded him of a dream he had the night before….
‘I remember ‘earing em Yankee Indians used strange voodoo.’ Said the other Red Coat, Private Wimberlly. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if Aboriginals ‘ere were the same.’
‘Were you in America during the war, private?’ Asked Stanly Bartholomew.
‘Nay sir.’
‘Well, I can tell you, my good man, that there was no mystical voodoo nonsense with the Indians when I was there. Whatever did this, I can tell you, is something never seen before.’
Private Wimberlly looked like he wanted to say something, but tightened his lips and stayed quiet. They continued walking in heavy silence until Stanly Bartholomew said:
‘You see that?.’
‘Where?’
‘There, look! Behind the trees!’
Behind a graveyard of dead lime-green bushes and ripped branches was a man. He stood 6ft 2 and moved with striding steps. Brown hair had been pulled back with a thin layer of grease, and his body was built with well-defined muscles that stood out like boulders.
The small party watched as his egg-yoke robes fluttered in the wind before raising their muskets.
‘Halt!’ Yelled Stanly Bartholomew ‘Who goes there?’
The man smiled a sea of whitened teeth and said:
‘Names Xzn. Good to finally see you, Stanly.’
The word Stanly hit the interpreter's ear like a sack of rocks. How does he know my name? Have we met before, no no that's not possible? I would remember such a fellow.
‘Looking a little white there, Stanly. Maybe you should ask Ridel or Wimberlly for a flask or something?’
The two red coats glanced at each other with ballooned eyes.
‘Wh-who, what, are you?’ Stuttered Stanley Bartholomew ‘And how do you know our names?.’
Xzn bit his thumb and circled around the scout team.
‘I’m really quite like you, minus the cultural differences of course.’ Said Xzn finally, breaking the looming silence.
‘I came here from a faraway place to take this land for myself, just like you, no?’
Stanly Bartholomew nodded along and said:
‘Well, I am sure we can split the land up between ourselves and your people if you come back to base-’
‘Oh I am sorry, there will be no splitting the land up with you lot. I want everything on this continent for me and myself only.’
‘Well, that's not possible. We came here first, Mr… err, Xzn. We have rightful claims to this land.’
‘If that's the logic at play here, Bartholomew, then neither you or I have rights for Australia. This land belongs to the Aboriginals. They’ve been here thousands of years before either of us.’
‘But the natives are all savages!’ Cried Bartholomew ‘They don’t deserve such land when us Britons can civilise it!’
‘What defines civilisation here, Bartholomew?’ Said Xzn ‘I come from Space, my people are centuries more advanced than you. If civilisations define who can take whose land, then I have the moral right not only to Australia but England herself!’
Stanly Bartholomew opened his mouth to protest but realising he couldn’t think of any counter-points, quickly shut it again, gritting his teeth.
A smug smile crossed Xzn’s face.
‘Well if that's everything sorted then, you Anglos can bugger off back home, aye?’
‘Bloody foreigner bastard.’ Mr Ridel muttered to himself.
‘What was that sorry, Ridel?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No you said something, what was it?’
Xzn brushed past Wimberlly’s and Bartholomew with confident strides and head straightened like a pin. He stopped right in front of Ridel, who seemed to be hidden by both Xzns size and width, and lent over.
‘What. Did. You. Say.’
‘Let’s just take a step back from here, okay’ Pleaded Bartholomew, but to no avail.
‘I said bloody foreigner bastard.’ Snarled Ridel. His body was shivering, but he held a strong face with yellow teeth gritted and eyebrows grinning. ‘This ain’t your land. This is White man's land, English land. You can bugger off back to whatever hell hole you come from.’
‘What a racist little prick you are. Why is it that redheads are always the short-fused ones?’
‘Go to hell!’
‘Ridel, shut up-’ But Ridel waved Bartholomew’s orders away.
‘I’m going to count to five’ Xzn said in a voice that ought to have struck a few of Ridels nerves. ‘and if you don’t apologise before then, I will not be held accountable for what I do next. 5’
‘Ridel, apologise now, damn it!’
‘4’
‘You know what’ Ridel screamed, pointing an accusing, angry finger at Xzn ‘you're probably a bloody French spy! Sent down to spy on us!!’ But Xzn didn’t react.
‘3’
‘Why don’t you say something you smug bastard!’
‘2’
‘Bloody hell!’ Muttered Wimberly.
‘1’
‘Come on make you move you son of a bitc-’
‘0’
Corporal Ridel never finished his sentence. An explosion of light erupted from where his arms and legs were once, and poof: he was gone. His red uniform fell to the ground alongside Wimberllys and Bartholomew's jaws.
‘Wha-what happened?’ Bartholomew gasped. ‘What the hell did you do.’
‘I made him disappear.’ Xzn said as if nothing happened at all. ‘And if you don’t want the same to happen to you guys, go back to base and tell your leader Captain Phillip that you Brits should get the hell out of Australia.’
‘Bu-but they won’t believe us.’ Bartholomew felt the words leave his mouth without any consciousness. Xzn smiled the smuggish grin from before, and said in a soft, but haunting voice:
‘Well, I’ll give you something to prove I exist.’
Xzn pulled out a round disk from his yellow robes and shoved it into Bartholomew's hands. The little device was made out of some kind of plastic-feeling metal, and Bartholomew realised how terrified he had been when he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking the disk in terror.
‘The machine will prove my existence, even if you can’t.’ Xzn said. ‘Now, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!’
Bartholomew felt his legs take charge and bolted through the ruined grub.
General Bandt stood 5 ft 6 and had the face of a cheap Napoleon.
What he lacked in size was made up with a dominating posture that all army men seemed to acquire through years of military training.
Governor Phillips stood on the other side of the tent, and Stanly Bartholomew with Private Wimberlly was slouched over, their faces cherry red from running and eyes bulging in terror.
General Bandt eyed both of them with slant brown eyes and said:
‘Mr Bartholomew and Corporal Wimberlly, I have never heard so much bullshit from two men ever in my life. A man falling from the sky that knew both your names and snapped Private Ridel out of existence? Why, you two should write fiction instead of serving the king!’
‘But General Bandt, if I may protest-’ Cried Bartholomew, but Bandt waved him away.
‘Ah, I don’t want to hear a word. Governor Phillips, what do you think we should do with these two imbeciles?’
Governor Phillips was a long-chinned man who bore a great black hat that hid small strands of waning white hair. He lent with one hand on a small wooden stool and his face was clearly deep in thought.
‘Well, can you prove any of this?’ Governor Phillip finally said.
‘Yes, yes we can!’ Stanly Bartholomew dug into his pocket fanatically, and pulled out the iron disk like a fisherman throwing back the rod after a great catch.
Both Bandt’s and Phillips’s eyes rose in curiosity.
‘And what is this-’
‘I don’t know. The man gave it to me. I think he said something that it will prove his existence-’
General Bandt snatched the little device from Stanly Bartholomew and drifted back across the tent. His eyes were as glued to the little iron disk as his fingers, which greedily traced over the metal casting with cautious movements.
‘General Bandt what the hell are you doing-’ Cried Governor Phillips
‘It could be some kind of bomb, Sir! I want you all to stand back-’
But before anyone could consider Bandt's advice, the iron disk leapt from the General's hand and began hovering.
Everyone in the tent stepped back with their eyes glued to the metal disk which was now whizzing across the tent.
‘Governor Phillips?’ The disk said in a cold metallic voice that sent shivers down Stanly’s spine.
‘Ye-yes?’
‘Goodbye.’
Then poof! Governor Phillips was gone. No flash, no explosion, just one minute he stood there shuddering- and next the first governor of Australia ceased to exist.
The disk made a sudden movement and flew directly up into the sky, ripping through the tent and disappearing above the clouds. Stanly, Wimberly and Bandt stood there shivering, their mouths opening like a caught fish gasping for water.
‘Mr Batholomew’ Whispered Bandt.
‘Ye-yes’
‘Tell me everything you said about that man again.’
‘But General Bandt! I protest!’
‘I don’t give a damn!’
Stanly Bartholomew chased General Bandt as he marched around hurling orders at soldiers occupied with giggling women and moonshine. For General Bandt, the shock and awe of the Iron Disk had dissolved. Now, it was replaced by waves of anger and humiliation.
‘You don’t know what I saw! You don’t know how strong that man is-’
‘No, No I don’t.’ General Bandt swirled around and met Bartholomew with angry red eyes. ‘But I know a single man can’t take on the entire might of the British empire.’
‘But the casualties, General, they will be horrific-’
‘Maybe. Maybe we may lose 30 or 40% of everyone here. But if we don’t fight this mystic man of yours, Mr Bartholomew, the convicts will rise up in hopes this man will rescue them and they shall not take kindly to us. We have to destroy him before they destroy us.’
Bartholomew tried arguing, tried to produce a single sentence in defence: but the words were stuck in his throat. A little bit of him deep down, underneath a gut worth of fear and terror, understood that politics also came into this.
If that man doesn’t destroy us Bartholomew thought, then the convicts will.
General Bandt sensing victory, straightened his back and aligned his crimson jacket. He gave a small smirk and said:
‘Well, if you have nothing to say, Bartholomew, I have a war to win.’
And off General Bandt went, ready to raise an army against a man from space.
The wet choir of feet stepping against puddles filled the evening camp. Tent flaps were thrown open and people peered out to watch an endless stream of redcoats march through their winding dirt streets. Guns rested on their broad shoulders, and in the evenings when dark colours dominated the landscape, they looked like spikes from a great long velvet centipede.
‘I ‘eard ‘em Chinese are behind all es.’ Said a young woman in a tight corset leaning against Bartholomew's tent.
‘Ey sent some spiritual boxer to kick us Brits outta botany bay and take ‘iss land for ‘emselves.’
‘My dear lady that is some profound bullfoolery.’ Responded Bartholomew looking up and down the military column. ‘You shouldn’t be spreading rumours like that.’
‘ ‘Ell would you know betta?’ Snapped the women. ‘I got iss information from a soldier, a strapping young bloke who saw tha’ Chinese with es own eyes!’
‘Was this soldier's name by any chance Wimberllys?’
‘Yes! Yes! ‘Ats em! ‘E was one of me customers and said all ‘dat after we ‘ere done with, well errr…. some private business.’
Bartholomew shook his head and before he was able to respond, there was a flash of light from the column. An army hat flew into the air and there was a loud splooge as a musket hit the wet dirt. The trail of soldiers stopped and turned around to where, only a second ago, was their comrade which now had become a pile of clothes.
‘What happened?’ Bartholomew heard a soldier yelp.
‘It was Johnes, he disappeared!’
‘But how?’
‘I dunno- I dunno.’
Then poof, another soldier, this one much closer to Bartholomew, exploded into steel light and disappeared.
‘Let’s get outta here!’ yelled a soldier, and the redcoats broke off from their ranks and began fleeing like startled dogs. Scared faces hidden under tricorn hats became brilliant silver silhouettes and disappeared into the night sky. Bartholomew could hear General Bandt, somewhere up ahead screaming orders- but his voice was suddenly cut off.
‘Wot's ‘appining, wot's ‘appining?’ yelped the girl before Bartholomew was flashed by a sea of silver light.
On the ground was a corset sinking slowly into a dirt puddle.
That's when Bartholomew’s legs gave loose and he ran.
Screams filled the evening night as soldiers and civilians alike bolted down the winding streets like headless chickens on acid. Bartholomew watched as a young woman swerved around the street corner, and collided into a redcoat before exploding. The redcoat fanatically brushed off her dress like it was something disgusting and jumped up.
‘Wimberlly is that you?’ Bartholomew yelled over the screams.
‘Oh hell, Bartholomew!’ The soldier ran over and Bartholomew could see his red uniform had become a shade darker from soot and dirt.
‘What the hell is happening?!’
‘The same thing that happened to Ridel and Captain Phillip!’ Said Bartholomew.
‘That man… Zhen, Zxn, Xzn? Whatever…. He musta attacked us, oh bloody hell…’
From in front of them, towards the bay, was a terrific explosion: a musket blast from an angry demon roaring through the night. It was followed by a large hellish howl and the sound of a stampede rocking the Earth.
‘That came from the convict barracks’ whispered Wimberlly in a way that matched his terrified white skin. ‘Must be em convicts staging an uprising. Oh hell, they're gonna kill us after all we put 'em through.’
And sure enough, a horde of men swerved around the corner. Their red torches illuminated creased faces with vicious scars and bandages covering missing eyes. Every third man held a musket, but Bartholomew saw that most of them swung around crude clubs and rusty sabres.
One of them, a leader perhaps standing in front of his gang, saw Wimberllys uniform and howled:
‘ ‘eres a lobsta tail and ‘is crony! Let’s go get ‘im, boys!’
Then poof! Like a series of Chinese firecrackers, the front row of rioters exploded into silver light and vanished. The second row dropped their weapons and bolted back towards the barracks, yelling and pushing each other.
Bartholomew felt Wimberlly’s hand grab his shirt.
‘ ‘Is way, we gotta get outta here!’
And off they went, through burning embers and knocked over tents into the dark night.
They stood on a black hill and watched as everything from Botany bay to the frontier tents burned in a sea of red fire. Flames roared like furnaces, and the dark night lost its stars from a wave of rising smoke.
Neither of them said much. They only looked at the village they had left behind. Flames danced on top of black tents and crumbling wooden shacks.
Although no one said it, there was a shared feeling of helpless doom: that everything they worked hard to build since January had been destroyed by something greater than any of them.
‘Maybe this is how ants feel when a human boot destroys their colony.’ Bartholomew felt himself saying. ‘That all that building and collecting food was all for nothing, you know what I mean.’
An explosion roared from where the colony had kept their gunpowder far north behind an ocean of collapsing huts.
‘They will send someone to rescue us.’ Said Wimberlly. ‘They will send the army. That… thing can’t stop all of us.’
‘You know, that's precisely what General Bandt told me before he rallied you lot to attack.’ Said Bartholomew and they went silent again. Distant tin roofs popped and crackled like bacon underneath a giant fire. The wind had sent smoke running toward the sea, and the ocean became ultimately hideous, a haunted expense of smoky bog.
‘Well sorry about that lads.’ A voice said behind Bartholomew, and they both jumped up.
It was him. Xzn. Standing tall and proud grinning as Bartholomew’s own faces melted away into pure terror.
‘But I'll be dead honest with you lot, this was fun.’
‘Please don’t hurt us, please don’t-’ Bartholomew felt his legs break away and run down the hill. He stopped only when he collided into something big and built like boulders which had sent him flying on his arse.
It was another Xzn, smiling at him.
‘Where do you think you're running to?’ He said.
‘I don’t know.’ Bartholomew's head swirled around and he saw the original Xzn, dragging a pale white Wimberlly down the hill. ‘But this one didn’t move. A bit of fatass. Maybe he was my Great-Grandpa or something way back when.’
Bartholomew gave an eyebrow of confusion. ‘Wha-What do you mean Great Grandpa?’
‘Confused?’ Said the other Xzn. ‘Well imagine this: humanity survived for millions upon millions of years. Countless millennia of evolution, sometimes naturally, sometimes unnaturally, has led us to become god-like creatures- more powerful than any other sentient being in the universe.’
‘Eventually, we conquered the stars.’ The original Xzn added, ‘Not just one or two, but every universe and race out there. Evolution has allowed us to fly faster than light through space and only have to snap our fingers to send a planet burning down. All of space under man's rule.’
‘Then why attack us?’ Bartholomew stuttered ‘Why take our land if you're so mighty and we’re so weak.’
The two Xzns gave each other smirky grins and looked down at Bartholomew.
‘Did you really think we attacked you for some puny land when we had the entirety of space for ourselves?’ Said the other Xzn. ‘No. We did it for Karma. When you extinguish every evil in the universe and create a universe without anything to fight, it becomes extremely boring. You just sit home in your little utopia and wait till you die.’
‘So we go back in time and attack those with a superiority complex. Sometimes aliens, sometimes humans. We humans love karma. Seeing those who think they are better than everyone else being destroyed by something generations ahead of themselves is awesome to see.’
‘And even better’ Said the original Xzn. ‘Going back in time, we know how certain people would react in certain situations simply by reading history. We knew Ridel would get hot-tempered when we acted more superior to the British, we knew that Bandt would attack after he perceived us as a threat- and we exploited these faults to scare you.’
Bartholomew stood up shaking so violently that the mud on his clothes flicked off in little droplets. An overwhelming gut-wrenching feeling that he was standing in front of a God among men washed over him.
‘I-if you kill me or Wimberlly, you may kill yourselves’ Bartholomew stuttered. ‘We may be related and since I haven’t had any children yet, you could be killing your own ancestors.’
‘Thankfully though we already thought of that.’ Said the other Xzn looking behind his shoulder. An iron disk came flying out of the smoke. It reflected brilliant silver light from the full moon above and hovered just over the black hill.
‘You may have seen this little robot. It was designed so that we could kill our ancestors without any consequences.’
‘And so we can meet ourselves from different timelines without anything changing’ Said the original Xzn. ‘Which is why there's two of us. Pretty awesome huh, I used to wipe that Xzns ass when he was a kid.’
But Bartholomew didn’t laugh at the joke. His one reason for living had been stamped out, and now the feeling of being not in control tightened his stomach and clogged his throat in fear.
‘Wh-what are you gonna do with us?’
Both Xzns gave an evil grin that sent an extra wave of ice-cold shivers down Bartholomew's spine.
‘Send you back home.’
And before Bartholomew could scream he exploded into silver light and disappeared.
Bartholomew woke up drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Sunlight penetrated the thin tent fabric and illuminated oak floorboards and crudely made furniture. Bird chirping drowned out the choir of human voices shuffling around outside.
‘Mista’ Bartholomew, Mista’ Bartholomew!’ yelled a strong voice.
‘Yes, yes come in’ said Bartholomew, and entered a redcoat.
‘Govna’ Phillips wanna talk to ya’
‘What about?’
‘I dunno. Probably about something to do with the man falling from the sky.’
‘Huh?’
‘Oh you probably ‘avent ‘eard this yet, but a man fell from the sky this morning. Phillips probably wants you to go investigate the crash site and make first contact.’
The words sky and man briefly reminded Bartholomew of a dream he had before. Something to do with a powerful god-like creature destroying humanity, although the details had well and truly faded away into darkness.
Bartholomew shock the dream away.
‘Alright, alright, tell him I’m on my way….’
‘Private Wimberlly, sir.’
‘Right, Wimberlly. Give me a bit of privacy while I get changed’
The private nodded and withdrew himself through the faded curtains. Bartholomew got up, arched his back to crack a couple of stiff bones and began getting dressed.
‘A man falling from the sky’ thought Bartholomew pulling over an undershirt. ‘Now, why on earth does that sound familiar?’
“The reason I didn't give this short story a chance is because it didn't feel strong enough. I liked the pace and everything, but there was this feeling that something- maybe the characters or the storyline, wasn't strong. I don't know. Eventually, after being unable to find what's wrong I left in the dust and worked on something else.”
Alex Foster is an Australian writer of mixed descent currently living in Melbourne. He studies journalism at Deakin university, and has over 19 Million views on a Q n A website where he writes about history and Australia (https://www.quora.com/profile/Alex-Foster-137/answers)