The Last Day of the War, with Parrots
by James Alan Gardner
It was a sprawl-shot, and this time I was sprawling hips-down on top of a bunker, just behind a hole where something had disintegrated a corner of the roof.
When the cameras turned in my direction, I was supposed to lift on my forearms, with my shoulders high enough that every lens got an ample view down my cleavage. I wore a deep scoop-neck blouse, of course, ripped and ragged and thinner than gauze. I wondered if I should make up business cards — Lyra Dene, singer: backup and boobs. But tape wasn’t rolling at the moment, and I’d scrunched up rump-high, because if I stayed in the rehearsed cheesecake pose, the navel battery-pack for my microphone dug sharply into my stomach.
The cameras were scattered all over the battlefield, some on the ground, some hovering on chunky anti-grav platforms. Each had its ready light glowing green, but the operator who ran them all was sitting in a lawn chair beside the control console, reading a book. His hand rested on the fog machine beside the console; occasionally, he had to sweep away threads of mist that dribbled from the machine’s nozzle and trickled across his reading screen.
In front of the console loomed the remains of a giant subterranean battle-tank. The most visible part was its drill-like snout, jutting up at a 45-degree angle and reaching five or six stories above the ground. The tank must have been ambushed just as it surfaced. Enemy lasers had drilled a dozen clean-edged holes in its hull, and something had blasted its caterpillar treads off their sprockets, splaying them over the ground like black lasagna noodles.
Three people stood at the base of the drill-snout: Helena Howe, director of the video we were supposed to be shooting; our songwriter, Roland Simard; and Alex Kilgoorlie, probably the only one you care about.
Soon after I got hired as Alex’s backup vocalist, I read an article claiming that 63 percent of all human households had downloaded his debut album, Ghost of the Tattered Heart. One review said: “His songs are compelling dreams... or nightmares.” I don’t mind admitting I’d dreamed about him myself. The dreams centered on a gaunt, disquieting man walking moodily over a bleak landscape... and like on the Ghost album cover, he wore a loose white shirt that billowed in the wind.
In my dreams, the front of Alex’s shirt hung open to the waist; but it was still buttoned to the throat that day around the battle-tank. While Helena and Roland stood irritably over him, Alex crouched, making kissing sounds with his lips and holding out a cracker in his hand.
“People are waiting, Alex dear,” Helena said. I could hear her voice through the tiny receiver tucked into my ear and hidden by my hair. All of us wore such earphones; when she gave an order, she wanted everyone’s undivided attention.
“Just another sec,” Alex whispered. A concealed mike amplified his whisper clearly. He made more kissing sounds.
In front of him was an animal about the size of a mouse, part of the local wildlife. I could see the beast was brightly colored, a splash of green and crimson stripes against the drab dirt background; but it was too far away for me to make out much else. It inched toward the cracker Alex held out, its head wobbling back and forth slightly. I guessed it was sniffing, trying to make up its mind about the food and the human that held it. The animal seemed just about to nibble when a voice yelled, “Don’t!”
Every head jerked up, including the little beastie’s. Scrambling over the partly buried tank came Jerith, our archeologist and resident expert on the planet of Caproche. He’d lived on these abandoned battlefields for years, alone except for his robots, excavating dozens of sites as he tried to determine who had fought here and why.
I flattened down on the bunker roof. In the two days our group had been on Caproche, Jerith had already passed his quota for peeks down my blouse. I didn’t fuss about it — he seemed harmless, just a guy who hadn’t seen a woman in a long, long time — but I refused to give him the ogling opportunities provided by a sprawl-shot.
“What’s wrong?” Helena asked. “Is the animal dangerous?” She put a hand on Alex’s arm and tried to pull him away from the creature.
“No, no, they’re harmless,” Jerith said, scooping up the little beast with a sweep of his hand. He cradled it against his chest and began stroking it the way you’d pet a hamster. “I call them parrots.”
“It doesn’t look like a parrot,” our songwriter Roland said. “More like a lizard.”
“It’s brightly colored like a parrot,” Jerith answered. “Anyway, the point is, everyone should leave them alone.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt it,” Alex said in a wounded tone.
“You never know,” Jerith told him. “Earth food can be poisonous to aliens. The tiniest nibble might kill this little guy.”
“Polly doesn’t want a cracker,” Roland smirked to Alex.
“And even if Polly does, we have work to do,” Helena said briskly, “Come along, Alex. Recording time.”
“Can I pet the parrot for a sec?” Alex asked, reaching out his fingers. Jerith shied away and Helena grabbed Alex’s arm with both hands.
“We’re going to work now,” she said, “and I mean right now. Jerith, take that animal away. Roland, get off the set. Alex, I want the Singer, and no more putting it off. You aren’t fooling anyone with these delaying tactics; I want the Singer now.”
She turned her back on him and marched to the control console. The console operator quickly shut off his book and tried to look busy. Helena glared but said nothing.
Back in front of the tank, Jerith turned to walk away, still caressing the parrot. Roland patted Alex on the back, said, “Break a leg,” and sauntered toward the control console too.
Alone, Alex stood dejectedly for a moment, his eyes moving aimlessly around the battlefield. I smiled when he looked in my direction, but I don’t think he saw. He sighed an amplified sigh that echoed through the surrounding ruins: a litter of shattered war-machines that stretched as far as the eye could see. Then he reached up and undid the top button of his shirt.
He stood straighter.
Another button. His hands took on some flourish, like the hands of a concert keyboardist.
“Cue the fog,” Helena’s voice whispered in my earphone. The nozzle of the fog machine gushed a cataract of mist, flowing along the ground and pooling at Alex’s feet.
Another shirt button. He shook out his ringleted brown hair and flicked it off his shoulders.
“Cue the wind,” whispered Helena, and massive fans on anti-grav platforms began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster until they were silent blurs. The anti-grav platforms banked slightly to resist the force of the wind. Alex’s hair caught the breeze and grew wild.
The final button. His head lifted. His cheeks were gaunt, his eyes feral and glittering. A dangerous face: a striking, compelling danger.
“Cue cameras,” whispered Helena.
Time for work, I said to myself. But I found I was already in my pose, sprawled and primed; roused without thinking when Alex became the Singer. Sure, I’d rehearsed this scene till it all came naturally, but there was no feeling of rehearsal — just pure reaction to the Singer’s presence. I was panting, budding with prickles of sweat.
“Cue music,” came a far-off whisper.
The ground rumbled with a heavy bass riff. Wind washed across me, whipping my hair against my shoulders; I screamed into the gale, and no rehearsal had taught me to scream with such fear and desire.
Then silence. The eye of the storm. And the Singer stepped forward through swirls of mist to whisper, You have entered my heart, milady; Now I shall enter your mind... He swiveled sharply and pointed his finger directly at me.