by James C. Clar
The planet had been catalogued Arcadia-5. Mission Center declared it to have a breathable atmosphere, liquid water and chlorophyl. “No biosignatures beyond flora,” the director quipped just before the mission launched, “it’s a garden waiting for a gardener.”
When the Caravel finally set down on the surface, Captain Lara Cinelli felt the tremor through the hull like a long-held breath exhaled.
“Welcome to our new home,” she announced to the crew as they stepped on blue grass that rang faintly underfoot. It sounded, more than a few reported, like crystal being tapped with a fingernail. The sky was pale gold and a fragrant breeze moved through the nearby trees in slow, almost deliberate waves.
“Captain,” Dr. Ionescu spoke from the ship over their comm link, “I’m picking up a structured sound … something with language-like complexity.”
From the tree line ahead of the landing party, figures emerged. They were tall with skin like polished obsidian veined with light. Their large eyes reflected the crew like mirrors. One raised a vaguely humanoid hand, its palm open.
Cinelli swallowed hard. “We were told …”
“I know,” Ionescu replied. “They were wrong, or we were lied to.”
First contact protocols were initiated in a flurry of excitement and fear. The beings, who called themselves the Azul, communicated via a series of tonal chords and gestures. There was something almost telepathic about it and, quickly, a basic understanding developed between the two species. The Azul welcomed the colonists with curiosity edged with caution. Within hours, the data streams back to Mission Center pulsed with the news.
Five days later, the coughing began. It started with one Azul child, a shudder through its luminous veins. Shortly thereafter, dozens were ill. Captain Cinelli watched as the Azul elders, what remained of them, gathered around the dying, light fading beneath their stone-like skin.
“We brought it with us,” she gestured, “We didn’t know.”
One Azul reached out and touched Cinelli’s hand, “Would it have mattered?”
“It’s a simple rhinovirus variant,” Dr. Ionescu reported, eyes hollow from lack of sleep. “Harmless to us, of course, but to them … The one simple infection we didn’t consider. They have no immunity. Their biology has no analogue.”
The captain stared at the medical readouts. “Can we stop it?”
The ship’s doctor shook his head in resignation and walked away.
It took only a month before the Azul were gone. The blue grass dulled and, already, their cities were being overgrown with forests and vegetation.
Back on Earth, the official narrative was authoritative: “Complete compatibility between the expeditionary team and local fauna. Initial scans confirmed, no sign of sentient life.”
Captain Cinelli argued but to no avail.
“You’re asking me to participate in a hideous lie,” she said during one time-lapsed debriefing session.
“We can’t halt expansion every time we encounter an unforeseen outcome … no matter how regrettable,” the director replied calmly.
"’Regrettable’? We erased a people.”
“Captain, as you are well aware, the work of colonization comes with risks. Besides, we’ll learn from this tragic mistake.”
Human settlers eventually arrived on Arcadia-5. They built cities where the Azul once sang to the wind. Their children ran through the fields.
Lara Cinelli lived out the remainder of her life on the planet. She seldom slept. When she did, she dreamt of dead and dying civilizations. At night, she walked out beyond the lights of the city. When the wind was just right, the grass rang again like crystal. Sometimes she heard voices, beckoning. One night, she followed. Next day, a search party found only her footprints.
James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher. Most recently his work has appeared in Flash Digest, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Magazine, Spank the Carp, Flash Phantoms, 365-Tomorrows, Antipodean-SF, The Yard Crime Blog, Freedom Fiction Journal and, of course, Sudden Flash Magazine.
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