Queen of the States

by Josephine Saxton

Genres: Science Fiction; Alien Contact; Time Travel

Synopsis

This book is about Magdalen, a woman who is on her own planet, out to lunch and on her own trip. She moves through time and space, from a private mental hospital to an alien spaceship where she is interrogated about human behaviour and the function of sex. Is Magdalen mad, or have the aliens really landed? She weaves her way through the fantasies of those around her - husband Clive, psychiatrist Dr. Murgatroyd, lovers, friends and friends' lovers - until, finally, she can reclaim her own existence.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 192

Sample

Magdalen Hayward drove the car along a narrow road at a steady forty-five miles an hour. The way became more difficult as she went higher, towards the moors. To her left there were some remarkable rock formations standing out against the evening sky and she decided to explore them. She enjoyed scrambling over rocks. She gained a sense of freedom from being high up in barren country, alone. It was marvellous not to have people restricting, telling her what to do or not … but she would not even think of that.

She was not quite used to this car, the change between second and third was tricky, but considering the fact that she had not driven for a year, she was doing fine. She parked in a tiny lay-by and strode upwards through the heather.

The rocks were weird. Jagged teeth of the earth, half-buried monsters; people had carved in an eye or a few scales to define the illusions. The view from the top was magnificent. There was a small lake which did not look level but like a tilted mirror catching the last rays of the sun to dazzle or signal. Magdalen wandered around, taking an especial pleasure in the spongy peat and the fresh air. A blue butterfly flew towards her as if in curiosity, greeted her and disappeared.

She sat to rest facing the setting sun, her back against a rock. Wonderful place. She would stay and watch before she drove on, there was no hurry. She did not know where she was going yet and the question was not pressing. She was not expected anywhere, she could wait until choices appeared.

She looked more like a boy than a woman in her thirties. She was slender and wiry with long mousy hair, slightly crossed front teeth and a few freckles on her face. She had grey eyes with pale brown specks which people described as ‘hazel’. She did not usually bother with make-up, and was one of those fortunate people who always look fresh and clean even on hot and dusty days. She thought she had better return to the car before dusk fell; it was possible to get stuck in bogs up here, and the path was rough.

Her jeans, white cotton shirt and sneakers felt like new clothes, though they were not.

It was wonderful to see the sun without a window between it and herself. It descended behind a distant coppice through air as clear as washed grapes. Everything was still, and after the last skylark, silent.

Magdalen rose stiffly, aware that she was not as fit as she would like. Too much time in bed was bad, and boredom slackened the muscles. She must look after herself, get herself toned up for her new life. Or her return to Clive.

Back in the car she smoked and then drove slowly down the winding road, thinking that perhaps a pub would appear which took overnight guests. But something went wrong with the car. The engine cut right out and she coasted along hearing the wind and taking more pleasure in that flying sensation than alarm at the problem. She checked the ignition, then stopped. Lights and wipers dead. A battery lead?

Under the bonnet it was too dark to see, and she did not know the design of this engine. Their own car she had been able to check in the dark once, to Clive’s irritation. She sat on a low wall, smoking, thinking which would be best: to wait for someone to pass, or to set off walking. Then she became aware of the presence.

There was nothing to see at first but there was a high buzzing hum in the air. It came from the left which was the north, moving fast as she turned to look at it, low and glowing.

Elliptical, pearly and fiery, very beautiful. She felt paralysed as she tried to put up her hands to fend it off for as it came near she could feel a prickly heat on her and her hair standing up wild.

The sound quietened and Magdalen fell to her knees with weakness, all her will had disappeared.

The sound stopped, and her consciousness waned as she was drawn upwards into the centre of the light.

Magdalen eventually realised that she was in a room without corners. Immediately she remembered her mother, who had always said of Magdalen’s favourite aunt (ten years younger ten inches taller) that she should have lived in a house without corners, it would suit the standard of her housekeeping. A lifelong battle between the two sisters, one a perfect housekeeper, tough and tiny, one a scruff, daffy and tall, had influenced Magdalen. The mother would set her square jaw and remind Magdalen of Desperate Dan. The aunt would open her mouth and let forth a glorious mad laugh, but take Magdalen seriously when she said she wanted to be a famous painter. But even she had said that babies came from heaven.

‘They don’t make diamonds as big as bricks,’ said her mother.

‘But they put poison in little bottles,’ said her aunt.

There was no dirt in this room. The air was neutral and pure. It should have been alarming, having no ceiling or floor or points of reference such as a door or lamp. There was light and warmth but nothing to see except the greyish walls.

A person could take a walk in a straight line for a hundred miles in this room; trying it out, Magdalen found that she did not fall from any surface nor feel the blood rush to her head as she traversed curves.

Wherever she was, that was the centre. So that was OK then. No point in trying to work out where she was, without points of reference. Something would happen eventually. The main question was why?

She sat down to ponder, gently scratching the material of the room. Some sort of plastic, but with a feel like animal skin, a bit like her own lips.

How big was the room? Hard to say but at a guess it was seven times her own height across its widest dimension; if she was her usual size that would make it about thirty-six feet. Too large. It seemed smaller than that. Not important.

She had come to consciousness here and could not recall the immediate preceding experience. Like waking up in hospital after an operation without the clash of bedpans and the click of nurses’ heels. A silver dish across her throat to catch the spewed blood, age seven, tonsils and adenoids.

Strange, pale children queuing like pigs at a slaughterhouse, the surgeon blowing up rubber gloves to amuse and the nasty ginger boy shouting ‘cowtits’ and Magdalen the only one not laughing, but thinking, ‘That boy’s hair is like my Granma’s chenille tablecloth!’

Then they called her name.

She sat upright expecting to wake but it didn’t happen, and again her name.

‘Magdalen.’ Kind of electronic voice, moog effect, teevee SF.

‘Hello?’

‘Do not be frightened.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Good. Beings brought here are often in a state of terror, not necessary, we reassure.’

‘Who else is here besides me?’

‘None like you. You are the first of your kind from your planet.’

‘Well it had to happen some time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That I would have a full scale hallucination of being captured by aliens. It figures.’ She put down her Spode coffee cup, stubbed out her cigarette and looked her boring dinner guest straight in the eyes. ‘Marcus darling that is just too science fiction for words!’ Magdalen didn’t take crap any more.

‘We borrowed you to bring to our planet as a specimen of the highest life form on your planet. You will be returned when we have noted everything about you, and you have nothing to fear.’ Wow!

She had scorned utterly all the flying saucer stories, having suffered a friend of Clive’s for long hours on the subject, and even read magazines devoted entirely to the study of contact with aliens. She knew Jung’s theory on flying saucers (yeah sure flying mandalas are a symbol of wholeness, big deal!) and had completely lost interest in the whole thing. Present experience rather than endless delving into theory was more important to her, she had decided, and Clive had seen her rebellion as a symptom of the times, rather than a personal need.

So if this was a delusion it did not matter; it was convincing enough to be real, therefore was real. No point in nipping her thigh to bring in some other reality, for who knew what was which?

‘How come I am the first? I have read of many people being taken off to other planets as specimens.’ As she spoke she remembered the light, the sound, the stalled car. Classic description in those idiotic mags.

‘We have never been to your planet before. There are numerous worlds apart from ours. Your planet has not seemed interesting to us before, but we must fill in all records to attempt a total picture.’

‘I see.’

‘These people, they tell you what it is like on other worlds?’

‘Oh yes. They say they are taken off to other places in a flying saucer and are interfered with on their wedding night and have their spinal fluids drained.’

‘First question. What is a flying saucer?’

‘A circular spaceship, glowing, with portholes.’

‘Not ours. Very primitive. We transmit matter direct. Next question. What are spinal fluids?’

‘Part of the material in our bone structure.’

‘Thank you. Now, the question of looking after you. We have very little knowledge of your needs. We have brought a large quantity of your air to use while we manufacture more. It will be helpful if you will describe what you need for life support and comfort. We can arrange anything within reason.’ Well, looked at from some points of view she had met, that didn’t leave much worth having!

‘How kind you are. That is nice! Well. Tell me now, can you make anything?’ (Within reason.)

‘Oh yes. Any thing. You name it, we have it.’

‘How convenient. But I must know something. How do you manage to speak English so fluently? Almost colloquial.’

‘What is English?’

‘Our language. You are speaking to me in one of many earth languages and yet you know nothing of our culture.’

‘The means of communication is simple. You are connected to our meaning transmitter in your room. Whatever we wish to communicate is translated in terms you understand readily. We find it interesting that your planet has more than one language, we thought one sample would be typical.’

‘Not in many respects, but basically all humans are alike.’ Magdalen was thinking that they had more or less told her that everything was coming from her own head, a suspicion she had been nurturing for some time. She simply heard ‘them’ speaking in English because meaning could automatically be translated into any set of symbols. What kind of device could do that? They must be very advanced. In science fiction novels, most other races were more advanced than our own even if they seemed only to be blobs of jelly. Did they mean her to tell them that for supper she needed protein, minerals and so on, or could they produce freshly grilled river trout with almonds? If they were very advanced it would not be a problem. With not a great deal of hope, she decided to try them out.

‘Can I tell you what I would like for supper please? And I really need a bathroom and a bit of furniture, even cheap hotels have a clean bed.’

‘Certainly. Just describe very clearly what you wish us to reproduce for you and from that and your clear vibrations we shall be able to rearrange things. But we must warn you that we can only reproduce things which already exist in the universe, we cannot create totally new things, that is a different department and not for the individual need.’

‘All right then. I think it would be a good idea if this was more like a bed-sitting room with a small bathroom with – but do you mean describe in detail? It would take a lot of time.’

‘Please. What is time?’

‘I don’t know really. A measurement of the days, things going by. How can you not know what time is? Everything is subject to time.’

‘We shall store these ideas and consider them. But you may be reassured that your needs will be met. If you have a clear image we can make it.’ It would be like playing at magic. She had wanted to do this all her life. Just close your eyes and wish and it would appear. Real! There was still something in her which wanted to believe that magic of that kind was possible. When she had been in hospital to have her tonsils removed she had tried and tried to make wish magic. She had been given a book of The Adventures of Rupert Bear which she had found enchanting. He had worn little check trousers and a scarf and been very lovable. She had wished for him to come alive and walk off the page so she could snuggle down in the lonely hospital bed, cuddling him tight, talking with him. She had wished and wished until she had gone into a blackness but she had still fallen short of the requirements; Rupert remained on the page.

Now, she wished for a comfortable bed in a room with ordinary walls and floor, filling in details of Indian patterned wallpaper and a blue carpet, drawers and cupboards with clothes which suited and fitted her, cigarettes and an ashtray on a table with a chair, a flowering cactus and a door. Dare she open her eyes to check?

‘Can I add or change anything after I have wished it?’

‘Of course. But this process is not to be treated as a game. Our intention is to keep you comfortable and in normal good health during your stay with us. We have no intention of recreating an entire world for you!’ They were very perceptive. She had been rather tempted to wish for something amazing like a huge mansion full of wonderful furnishings, a swimming pool, a garden and … But of course, that was merely immature fantasy. Long ago she had wished to own a Greek island and entertain her friends upon it in great luxury, and who does not have such dreams?

She opened her eyes. It was a shock. Everything was exactly as she had requested but the carpet and wallpaper looked terrible together. She walked around the place, testing. Water in the taps, everything quite real and in working order. She approached the bed to test its softness, and there, sitting up and smiling, holding out his stubby arms, was Rupert Bear with his little dot eyes full of life.

She fainted.

She opened her flecked grey eyes knowing how they appeared because she had looked down upon them glimpsing their emptiness. They came to life.

She lay there thinking that she went in and out of states of consciousness as often as other people went through doors. This was not what she had intended for today … or yesterday? Time here was meaningless, she did not sense it passing. She had intended to drive away on an adventure, feeling her freedom, testing herself out instead of existing in the judgement of others, who said she was unfit to manage her own life. She sat up, and the room had no corners. Everything had gone. Oh dear, a delusion.

‘What happened?’ she called, not expecting a reply.

‘We apologise sincerely for what happened. We had no way of knowing that the making of an environment would harm you. Please say if you know what will assist your rapid recovery.’

‘Well, I could do with a gla. . .