EARTHLOOP - S1E1 - PILOT
An early draft of a big beginning.
Today’s soundtrack is LET’S DANCE, by David Bowie
1944
The thing waited in the air soundlessly, its bleak silhouette looming like a hole punched into the night sky. It called out across the desert, whispering its evil message into the warm air of the Bines’ household like a draft from a deep and forgotten catacomb. Still the humans slept. The thing called out again and again, waking Betty Bines from her sleep. As she rose the little girl caught images of star systems and corridors in her mind, flashing through like prophecy. Quietly she got out of bed and stared out of the little circular window, hoping to compress some image of the thing from the impenetrable darkness. It was out there, lonely. It needed her.
Betty Bines turned her nightlight on briefly, glancing at her crayon drawings as her young mind tried to reconcile the messages with the pictures. The thing was showing her images from her dreams, her nightmares, her fears. She was compelled to visit it. She had to visit it.
She left her pink bedroom and tiptoed downstairs. Her father had put a new latch in, but that would be no problem. Betty dragged a coffee table over from the living room and climbed onto it. She reached the chain latch and opened it. The door rattled in its frame as the wind pressed against it. Betty climbed down from the coffee table and put it back in its place. Upstairs her father stirred against the encroaching cold. Now, unhindered, Betty opened the front door.
The wheat fields undulated and whispered like an army of ghosts. The thing was louder now, angry, impatient. Betty was afraid, but her fear was overwritten by something more powerful. A mind was walking around inside her own, treading heavy over her underdeveloped brain. Children made easy targets, were easy to hypnotise, were easy to lose.
Betty walked out onto the sheltered wooden porch and turned to her right, watching the rocking chair carefully. Beyond the chair and the porch, the wheat fields rustled as if they were laughing. She stepped down into the dirt, feeling the Earth’s coolness against her feet. She felt as if the world might open and eat her, but she had to keep walking. She turned and headed into the desert, following the nagging voice behind her own that told her where to go and where to stop. The voice did not speak in a language she understood, but she knew its intentions. It had woken her up because it was time to leave. Because she did not belong on this planet anymore. Because she was not safe here.
She kept walking into the soundless desert. Where once there were snakes and insects, now there was nothing. Not even the bushes rustled out here. It was as if the desert was frozen in time. Betty looked up at the stars for a moment, waiting. The ship materialised. It was dark and massive, its triangular shape marked out only by the void it left in the stars above. Betty picked up pace, moving automatically even as she began to feel fear. She looked back and saw how small her house had gotten, how the warm glow of the night lamp was now a pinprick of yellow against an infinite darkness. The starship spoke to Betty in its strange quiet voice. She kept going until she was underneath the ship.
After several long and cold minutes, three thin beams slipped down from the ship’s corners, each radiating a column of warmth and noise that overwhelmed Betty’s senses. The human fear snapped her out of the trance now, but it was too late. The beams snapped inward as she started to run, capturing her in white light. The rocks and dust and bugs around her were swept up into the beams. Betty’s feet left the Earth. She panicked, but it was over quickly. The beams moved like a predator’s claws, throwing her helpless body into the underbelly of the starship. The aperture spiralled shut behind her, and her little body fell against a metal panel somewhere dark and warm. The air in here stank of decaying plants. The smell got into her lungs, and soon enough Betty slipped into a deep and endless sleep.
2009
Darlene took a sip from the beer and leaned back against the fountain’s edge. She was nestled in one of four benches with Quinton, watching as Krystal talked them through the events of last night’s party. Krystal was stood in the middle of the quiet street, swaying and gesturing with every word.
“So, she tried to get out of my window, right?” Krystal explained. The sun was coming up over the shops in the town centre now, matching Darlene’s orange hair and agitating the cool morning air. Quinton was wearing his signature leather jacket; Darlene was wearing her old prom dress. Together they looked ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as Krystal, who was wearing a heavy metal t-shirt and tan trench coat she had borrowed from a party guest.
“Why?” Darlene asked.
“Because he thought mum and dad were here obviously. And I told him it wasn’t a good idea, but he got out and rolled and went right into the food on the front. That’s why your cake was splattered.” Krystal was trying hard to suppress her laughter. Darlene had been understandably upset about her birthday cake becoming fused to some guy’s denim jacket and had only now found out precisely why it happened. She took another sip from the warm beer, grimaced, then passed it to Quinton.
“You owe me a cake,” Darlene said.
Krystal stopped listening. She turned to the right and smiled slightly. A deep voice followed the click-clack of formal shoes on tarmac. Quinton tucked his hip flask away as a precautionary measure; Darlene hid the beer can down her side.
“Hey mister Morales,” Krystal smiled.
“Hello, what are you doing out at this time?”
Lax Morales sounded concerned and authoritative. He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat and checked his tie, which hung like a trail of blood from his white shirt.
“We had a party,” Krystal said, spinning on one foot.
“It was my eighteenth,” Darlene added.
“Oh, very good. Well, carry on. Don’t mind me,” Lax said. He passed between Krystal and Darlene now, moving to another side of the fountain and turning to face it, stopping and staring at the ancient bronze plaque.
“You okay mister Morales?” Krystal yelled after him.
“Fine,” he lied. Something was definitely, imperceptibly wrong. Darlene, now confident she could get away with drinking despite still being three years too young, took a quick swig of the warm beer. Quinton offered her something from his hip flask and she declined. He was decent in the early hours, when no crowds were about for him to perform for. It was like she was dating two people in one body.
Krystal shuffled out of sight to follow Lax Morales. The four benches around the fountain were each bracketed by tall, dense shrubs which sprung from concrete planters. Darlene leaned back and saw the glistening water gathering around the fountain. Across the water she could see Lax Morales stood solemnly, and Krystal approaching. The birds in nearby trees had started chirping, last night’s alcohol was starting to wear off, and Darlene sensed the world was just waking up.
Lax shuffled in place, his right hand clasped over his chest. Krystal approached him. Quinton made a stupid face and Darlene pushed him away, maintaining her focus.
“You alright mister Morales?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Heartburn. Go be with your friends.”
“You seem sad.”
“I have been here a long time, and I am tired.”
“Is this because of your job?”
“No.”
“You can get it back,” Krystal said.
“I don’t want it.” Lax was stern but polite. He didn’t look at her.
“Well… Okay,” Krystal said. She swayed in place and stumbled.
“Am I annoying you?” she asked.
“Only slightly,” Lax admitted. “Don’t worry about it. Go, finish your party.”
“Okay,” Krystal conceded. She stumbled again, pivoted and span around on one foot, then returned to Darlene and Quinton.
“He’s being weird,” Krystal whispered, loudly and drunkenly. Darlene looked across the fountain again, at the strange man who had become the talk of the town. He looked nothing like he did on TV. He was shorter and stockier, as if the weight of the real world had pressed down upon him.
“What’s he doing?” Darlene asked. Something about the man’s presence made her uneasy, especially at this early hour. Everyone else was asleep.
“He’s readin’ the plaque” Krystal explained.
Across from the trio, Lax Morales rested his right hand on the large bronze plaque.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF BETTY ELIZABETH BINES
1938 – 1944
MAY WE MEET AGAIN IN THE HEAVENS
What becomes of what remains
When pictures yellow in their frames
And memories broken, rearrange
Into shapes unknown and feelings strange
These quiet nights give us time to cry
To pray for your spirit, carried on up high
And I hope in time, that when I die
We shall meet again, above the sky
His hand traced the outer edge of the plaque, moving to the top right corner and stopping at one of the screws that held it in place. His thumb rested there for a moment. He looked over the brow of the bench conspiratorially, waiting for the teenagers and Krystal to leave. He read the poem a few more times to himself, remembering something privately, sighing.
“I have been here so long,” he said. He pulled his hand back from the plaque and reached for a pendant within his shirt. He pulled it into view from behind his crimson tie. It was a small lump of amber with an insect inside, its image warped by the angled faces of its prison.
“And so have you,” he continued. “Perhaps we’re not so different. Trapped as we are.”
He held the amber gently and rubbed it with his thumb. He fed his tie through the necklace so that the pendant could remain on the outside and turned the amber so the insect within was facing the brass plaque. His attention returned to the top right screw. He pulled a thin screwdriver from his suit pocket and connected it to the screw. He stopped. Darlene was looking over at him again, but at this angle could only see his face and neck. He stepped back and read the plaque yet again, remembering everything which had brought him here.
“One last adventure,” he said quietly, holding the amber pendant. The insect inside twitched. Lax adjusted his wide-brimmed hat downward, obscuring his face.
“But not quite yet.”
Silently, once he was sure the teenagers were not watching, Lax Morales resumed his work.
1950
A starship burned in the desert beyond the Bines’ farm. Something with six legs scrambled away from gunfire, galloping madly into the darkness, hoping to find a hiding place among the boulders and hills. But someone else had seen it. Now, as the creature scraped along a darkened highway, a light blue pickup truck blazed into view. Tyres screeched. The creature concentrated, shifting the colour of its eyes from a streetlamp yellow to a deep blue. It could see a weapon shaking in someone’s hand, sense the fear radiating from the pickup truck, hear a hurried conversation.
“Please,” the creature shouted in perfect English. It held two red arms at the sky, edging closer on crablike legs, scraping one limply across the tarmac. It had been shot. Nobody replied. The creature sensed deliberation from the vehicle, hoped the result would be positive. The gun was pulled in from the truck’s window. A human head bowed out, obscured by the intensity of the headlamps.
“What’s your name?” the human asked. The creature was taken aback by the question.
“My name is Lahkx. Please. They’re going to kill me!”
The air grew tense.
“My name is Lahkx. Please. They’re going to kill me!” the creature in the headlights shouted.
“I knew it! The one and only Lax Morales!” the human yelled. “Come on, we’ll take you somewhere safe!” the human shouted from the window. Its head retracted back into the vehicle. Again, it talked with an unknown companion, muttering something incomprehensible. Lahkx took a tentative step toward the pickup truck, struggling with his damaged leg. After a few seconds the truck door swung open. Lahkx flinched, and a human of average height stepped out, silhouetted by the headlamps, extending a nervous hand to the alien.
END
There will be even more Earthloop stuff and behind-the-scenes bits over on my Patreon soon, which is a monthly subscription service, making it slightly more accessible than Substack as you can dip in and out whenever. It also works out cheaper if you did decide to stick around for a year - and with Patreon, I can facilitate the automatic sending of physical items to patrons.
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Stickers with aliens on them.
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It’s supposed to, yes. I see it as a secondary engine to keep the writing machine going. I currently make less than £1 per day through book sales. But it’s more than £0. You might be surprised to hear that this puts me in a pretty high up bracket in the publishing world, but it does. I am one of the richest authors in the Sci-Fi scene, and yet if it were not for my mum (who is reading this email, hence this inclusion) I would probably be on the street. Hi mum.
I need a regular income to keep writing, and my soul needs that income to be writing-related so I know my writing is worth something. When I read the recent reviews for Who Built The Humans? I realised finally that what I was doing was valuable. I now know of about seven people who have told me they are saving up money for my birthday (09/08/2023) because I have told them privately what I am releasing on that day.
It’s big, and I’ll spoil it first over on the Patreon.
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This can be either a sign or a statue, depending on your tier.
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I planned this shift for a while. I tried out different posts here (the one about a time travelling tardigrade was the most popular, alongside Mycelial) and looked at what worked and what didn’t. Right now, I have 123 drafts in my Substack dashboard.
No, I’m not joking.
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I thought a lot.
And I had some big ideas.
Back in 2020.
Yes, I’ve been working on this in the background for a while.
The conclusion.
The Patreon is cool and if you want more Earthloop, you should check it out.