The Deserter

The seven fingers of First Commodore Myx Voltar’s right hand shivered over the flashing command console. Thoughts of his three hundred and twenty-seven cycles of legendary military service and unwavering loyalty churned behind his large, black, almond-shaped eyes and inside his elongated head, wholly evaporating as five words blinked on the screen.

COMMENCE PLANETARY CLEANSING: LUMIAN HOMEWORLD

A species whose crime was refusing military alliance with the Kelvari Empire, the Lumians were philosophers and poets, and they now faced eradication by Myx and his grand spaceship fleet.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” Myx said. “This isn’t right. This is their home.”

“Commodore.” The flagship’s Battle Marshal, Drav Zilios, stood at attention behind Myx. A few other officers stood at nearby stations while a buzzing security drone circulated around the bridge. “We will arrive at the designated bombardment coordinates momentarily.”

Myx stared at the holographic display showing the Lumian home world and its blue oceans, swirling clouds, and golden landmasses rich with life.

“Commodore, for the glory of Kelvar, the fleet awaits your orders.”

“Glory?”

Drav remained statuesque, shifting only his unblinking almond eyes toward Myx. “Sir, the High Command expects our full report on the Lumian cleanse promptly upon concluding the mission.”

Whispering, Myx said, “Mission?”

“Yes, sire.”

Instead of issuing attack orders, Myx turned to a communications panel. His sinewy arm shook much like his hands as he struggled to transmit an abort code. Noticing this bizarre and unauthorized move, Drav lunged toward the console but collapsed as Myx’s stun-rod connected to the Battle Marshal’s long, thin neck.

“Remain at your stations!” Myx ordered, pointing his stun-rod at the other officers and the security drone. He backed toward the hatch of an evacuation pod. “Inform High Command, there will be no cleanse of the Lumian home world,” Myx said, stern. “At least not today, and never at my hands.”

As additional security drones dropped from ceiling vents, Myx crawled into the evacuation pod and jettisoned it from the dock. The small craft shot into space, its navigation system automatically locking onto the nearest wormhole.

A blast grazed the pod’s hull. Warning lights flashed. Myx’s instincts and training took over. He accelerated, banking and spinning the pod to avoid energy bolts fired from the fleet’s flagship.

He awoke later, cold metal pressing against his face as awareness returned. Uncertain of his fate, Myx recalled little of his escape beyond racing toward the wormhole. He forced aching limbs to move and widened his large eyes. Sitting up, he bumped his head. Around him, electronics sizzled and the air smelled sour. Red emergency lighting bathed the cramped space, but illuminated it enough for Myx to realize he sat amidst the evacuation pod’s crashed remains.

Through a cracked viewport, he saw a nighttime desert landscape under unfamiliar stars. Crawling to the battered navigation panel, Myx noted a readout indicating the pod landed on a planet orbiting a minor star with a large but primitive humanoid population.

Dawn revealed a harsh landscape while scanning equipment detected radio signals from a settlement fifteen kilometers east that past intelligence records labeled as a “human” settlement in “North America.”

His priority remained disguise since Myx’s seven-fingered hands, pale skin, and almond-shaped pupils would trigger immediate detection among the natives. The pod’s survival kit contained a holographic collar, scanning eyeglasses, and voice modulator designed for imperial spies infiltrating resistant cultures. He attached the collar and it immediately scanned his body, measuring dimensions and correlating to intelligence data about humans. A shell of light encapsulated his alien form and externally displayed a dynamic holographic human form dressed in a coat, wide-brimmed hat, t-shirt, trousers, and cowboy boots. An identification card in the coat pocket bore a resemblance to Myx’s holographic appearance, including his angular, expressionless face. The name on the card read, “Michael Xavier.”

As night fell, Myx entered the town and spotted a small building with bright neon signs. Confident in his undercover scheme, he entered, but only after staring at the front door wondering why it remained closed in his presence. It finally opened when someone exited. Myx made his way inside to a barstool.

As the diner’s smell of grease and burnt carbon compounds assaulted his alien senses, a waitress approached and asked, “Coffee, mister?”

“That would be optimal for my continued functionality.” He adjusted the large round scanning eyeglasses sitting on his holographic nose.

The waitress chuckled. “You not from around here, are you?” She poured him a cup of coffee.

Myx swiveled on the barstool and reflexively grabbed the countertop to stabilize his balance.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” the waitress said. “Well, welcome to Roswell, New Mexico.”

A folded newspaper on the counter caught Myx’s attention. “I require one information document for data acquisition purposes,” he said, pointing.

“Oh, the paper.” The server slid the newspaper toward Myx. He opened it with his holographic hands and flipped through the pages. The eyeglasses, integrated with the collar and voice modulator, translated and catalogued the content, including information about a weather anomaly, agricultural concerns, and a missing child.

The missing child caught Myx’s attention. The article described how Lily Matthews, age 8, remained missing after four days. As Myx read the details and the map, he furrowed his holographic brow.

“The search parameters appear inefficient based on topographical analysis,” he said, responding to internalized tactical training gained as an imperial officer.

“Huh?” the waitress said.

“Your search parties pursue incorrect vectors.” Myx pointed at the map. “The thermal patterns in western arroyos create micro-climate pockets where a juvenile human would instinctively seek cooler environments for survival.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I will locate the missing juvenile using superior tracking methodologies,” Myx declared.

“You’re going to find Lily when the sheriff’s got twenty men out there who can’t find a trace?”

“Their methodology remains fundamentally flawed based on observable patterns. The child needs to return home.”

Myx walked from the diner and found a wide arroyo northwest of the town. Thermal sensors in his eyeglasses detected pockets of cool air. He followed these, as if following the footsteps of a missing child. Three kilometers from the main road, he found Lily wedged in a crevice, dehydrated and frightened.

“You appear malfunctioning,” Myx said. “I possess water and can remove you from this location for repairs and return you to your home.”

The child stared at him as tears made channels through dust on her face.

“You talk funny like a robot from the movies,” Lily said with cautious curiosity.

“This observation has been noted by multiple individuals during my time in this settlement,” Myx replied while extending water with his holographic hand perfectly aligned with his actual seven-fingered appendage. “Please hydrate while I examine your limb damage.”

She snatched the container and drank. Myx noted severe abrasions and a minor fracture of the left ankle.

Myx applied a healing compound. “This will minimize discomfort while repairs commence to your skeleton.”

“It feels better already, like magic. Are you a doctor with special medicine?”

“I am Michael Xavier, traveling vacuum device salesperson with additional qualifications in mechanical repairs except during designated Tuesdays.” The voice modulator rendered the claim with absolute seriousness.

Lily giggled. “I am designated as Lily according to naming procedures,” she said, mimicking Myx’s speech patterns.

“Your designation has been acknowledged,” Myx replied while lifting her up. “I will return you now to your biological guardians.”

The search party intercepted them near town. Later, watching Lily reunite with her parents, Hank, the owner of an auto shop, chatted with Myx and invited him to help him with some repairs.

Next day, after watching Myx repair and reassemble an engine in a third of the normal time, Hank said, “Mike, you’re either the best mechanic I've ever hired or some kind of space alien in disguise.”

Myx froze as his true form’s muscles tensed beneath the projected shell. “Your statement appears to be an attempt at humor using extreme comparison as a rhetorical device,” Myx said, adding a brief mechanical chuckle.

“Yeah, sure. What you said.” Still curious, Hank asked, “Where did you say you were from again?”

“My origins trace to a small principality whose designation would not be recognized by the general populace,” Myx explained. “In a state not far from here.”

“Uh-huh. Well, Mike, whatever they taught you clearly works. That Chevy’s been giving me fits for weeks.”

During the next several days, Myx counted one hundred and seventeen humans that had greeted him, and four—Hank, Lily, her mother Ruth, and Clara—might qualify as friends according to human social parameters.

“You’re coming to the Independence Day picnic, right Michael?” Clara, the waitress, leaned across the diner’s counter.

“Negative response is required as I have selling of vacuum parts scheduled during that time period,” Myx said.

“On the Fourth of July everything’s closed,” Clara explained. “All your customers will be at the picnic.”

“Based on historical records, this celebration appears to commemorate your rebellion against governing authorities,” Myx noted with mechanical precision.

“Well, sure, if you mean independence from England,” Clara said, chuckling. “It’s also about fireworks and potato salad and having fun together.”

“The event functions as ritualized celebration of defiance against established order,” Myx said. “In the furtherance of human rights.”

Clara’s hand touched his, passing through the holographic shell, connecting with his actual scaled skin beneath, and although the projector instantly simulated contact with human flesh, Myx flinched.

“Sorry for startling you.” She withdrew her hand and smiled. “We’d all like it if you came to the celebration. Nobody really knows much about you but they all like you, Michael.”

“Maintaining appropriate distance ensures operational security.” Myx said. “What I mean is that I generally prefer privacy.”

“People need other people, Michael, even the weird ones,” Clara said. “And I don’t just mean you. This town’s full of ‘em. So, see you there?”

And they did. Two days later, in the town’s plaza and adjacent park, Myx joined hundreds of humans for food, fun, games, and pie; the latter he enjoyed the most. Sitting on a bench under a shade tree, Myx rested and watched the crowd reveling in their holiday traditions. He even began to think of Roswell as more than just a hiding place.

“May we join you?” Ruth asked, walking near Myx with Lily. “Our dogs are tired.”

Myx looked around. “The canines you mention do not appear present.”

Lily and Ruth laughed. “It means our feet,” Lily said, giggling. “Our feet are tired.”

“Understood,” Myx said. “Yes, sit please. Rest your tired dogs.”

“There you go, you’re getting it,” Ruth said. “Oh, by the way, Michael, did you hear about the other salesman who came through town yesterday?”

“Tried to sell us a vacuum,” Lily said. “He talks strange like you too.”

Ruth waved at some passing friends. “Don’t recall his name, but he did claim to know you and that he was from your company’s main office.”

Not even the voice modulator could hide the fear in Myx’s words. “I require immediate evacuation and…and…” Myx stood so quickly that his hologram briefly lagged behind his actual form.

“Michael, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ruth said, worried.

Myx turned left, turned right, and froze. “My dogs also tire so I must go rest,” he said. Stepping away from the bench, confused, Myx added, “There is an engine requiring repair.” He walked away, heading toward Hank’s garage.

Hiding behind a Ford in the auto shop until well after nightfall, Myx heard footsteps approaching and a modulated voice.

“The Kelvari Empire requires your immediate surrender,” Drav began, strolling toward Myx, whose holographic shell had dissolved. His voice modulator had also switched off.

“Too long without a charge,” Myx said.

Drav still appeared in his holographic attire, except the plasma pistol he aimed at Myx was very real. “Your cooperation is expected.”

“I’m choosing freedom,” Myx declared in Kelvarian. “What will you choose?”

Drav switched off his voice modulator and holographic collar. “To follow my orders. To complete my mission by bringing you to justice.”

“And what of the Lumians, Drav?”

“What Lumians? They are no more.”

Myx dropped his large head.

“Did you think your pathetic defiance would save them?” Drav asked. “You’re an embarrassment. I should just execute you right here.”

“Who will bring you to justice for murdering the Lumians?”

“Eh,” Drav said, shrugging. “We exterminated mere vermin.”

In an instant, long-restrained rage exploded within Myx. He lunged at Drav, grabbing his neck and pushing the pistol away. The two Kelvarians wrestled each other across the garage and out onto the sidewalk. Overhead, the first of the night’s fireworks exploded, startling Drav. Myx saw an opportunity to grab the pistol, but Drav recovered, pulling it back. Two plasma bolts erupted from the gun’s barrel, striking the side of Hank’s garage.

“You’re weak,” Drav said.

Myx swung a long, lanky arm and struck Drav’s face with a seven-fingered fist.

“And you’re disarmed,” Myx said, freeing the plasma pistol from Drav’s control.

Confusion flickered across Drav’s face, inspiring Myx to kick his opponent in the chest, launching Drav into the gutter where he landed face down. Myx stood. He pointed the pistol. As more fireworks erupted overhead, a police cruiser pulled up, lights flashing. It screeched to a halt and a very confused officer stepped out.

“You there, drop the gun!” he shouted.

Myx complied. He fumbled to reactivate his voice modulator but the device remained dead.

Ruth and Lily jumped out of the police car, and halted.

“Mommy, where’s Michael?” Lily asked.

In Kelvarian, Myx began to explain. He pointed at Drav, the pistol, the sky, and stepped toward Ruth and Lily. They backed away, fearful. The police officer moved between them.

“That’s far enough, stranger,” the cop said, pointing his revolver at Myx.

In the gutter, Drav stirred, moaning.

Myx knelt on the sidewalk, summoning as much of his first-hand knowledge of these earthlings who had become his friends. Without the voice modulator, he doubted he’d learned enough to communicate without it. He gazed at Lily, recalling his first encounter with her. In the distance the town’s community band played a stirring march as the pyrotechnics reached a crescendo.

“I…,” Myx began in English.

In unison, Ruth and Lily’s eyes widened. The cop lowered his pistol.

“I…I am…,” Myx continued.

Lily stepped forward and knelt next to Myx.

“I am designated as Michael,” he said, “according to…naming procedures.”

Lily giggled. “So, you’re not a robot?”

Encouraged, Myx said, “No. I am Michael Xavier…traveling vacuum device…salesperson.”

“With additional qualifications in mechanical repairs except during designated Tuesdays,” Ruth added, having heard this phrase repeated by Myx many times.

“Does this mean the stories are true?” the cop asked. “The flying saucer crash. Space aliens. The military asking all kinds of questions.” He pulled the day’s newspaper from the front seat of the police cruiser and held it up. The headline read, “Crashed Flying Saucer Rumored on Ranch in Roswell Region.”

Drav struggled, rolling onto his side. He snorted, wheezed, and activated his collar and voice modulator. “You primitives stand in my way. You shall release this traitor.” He pointed at Myx. “He is a deserter from the Kelvari Empire, the greatest civilization in the galaxy.” He spotted the plasma pistol lying nearby and watched, defeated, as Hank picked it up.

“Thought I’d join y’all,” Hank said. “Some of them military types showed up. Seemed like trouble might be brewing.”

Ruth wrapped an arm around Myx and helped him to stand. “We can’t just let the government take him. They’ll imprison him, do lord knows what to him.”

Taking the plasma pistol from Hank, the cop said, “He did help us find Lily and all. This town owes him.”

“I have an idea,” Hank said.

After a few moments, they turned Hank’s idea into action. Hiding inside the auto repair shop, Myx and his human friends watched the police officer load a handcuffed Drav into the car and drive away, heading to the Roswell Army Air Field, which had become a beehive of activity in the last few days.

Inside the garage, Lily held Myx’s hand and counted his fingers aloud. “…five, six, seven. See, that’s how we count.”

And for the first time in nearly three hundred and twenty-seven cycles, Myx smiled and laughed. He had sought escape and discovered more than a hiding place. He had found a home.