I have a friend named Kate who is an absolutely fabulous actor in New York City. She's done quite a bit of Shakespeare, among many other fine shows (I won't mention Charlie Brown). I have another friend, Rebecca, who is a topnotch stage manager, one of the best in the biz. She has worked on a number of big shows including one of which she's not too terribly fond: Saturday Night Fever. Whenever I'm in NYC, I visit with these wonderful folks, and we always have a grand old time sipping cheap wine, sampling fine cheese, and discussing art, literature, film, and theater. Somehow out of these slightly tipsy debates, Flyby Aliens arose. Art and creativity are the aliens within us. Beautiful, frustrating, enlightening, difficult, joyous, painful...I like the idea that the entire artistic process is a B.E.M (bug-eyed-monster), sometimes helping us along, other times leaving us stranded and desperate. We're all strangers in a strange land when it comes to creativity, struggling to understand, never giving up or giving in, champions till the end. Rah! I guess that was the metaphor I was playing with underneath the surface of "Flyby Aliens," our sense of struggle to create something divine with the unique and inadequate voices in our own overwrought personal universes. But to be honest, that's stretching things a bit. It's just a story, after all. And if you enjoy reading "Flyby Aliens" half as much as I enjoyed writing it, my efforts were worthwhile. Writer Nick DiChario's short stories are published widely in magazines and anthologies. His short story, "Sarajevo," is a finalist for this year's Hugo Award. You can read more about Nick at: www.mysteryhouse.com FLYBY ALIENS by Nick DiChario "Let's talk," Sally said to Max. "Do we have to talk right now?" It was late. Max was in the middle of revisions for Act III of Flyby Aliens, the pages strewn across his side of the bed. Sally sat on the mattress in her terrycloth bathrobe. Her dark gray hair settled damply against the pale sienna color of her skin. She tucked up her knees, and Max could smell the sea-spray bath oil lingering on her skin. "I think it's time you wrapped up that play, Max. You've been obsessing over it for five years." "Four years. I started writing it the day I retired. I thought you liked the play." "I do. I love it. But three years rewriting -- " "Two. I just can't stick the climax. Why does Melinda have to leave Eddy? No matter how many times I rewrite the final scene, it just doesn't sound honest." "Maybe you should turn on the TV and rest your brain for a night." Max tugged on his pajama bottoms and repositioned the lumbar pillow to the small of his back. He couldn't sit still for too long. Sometimes his sciatic nerve made him see stars, even if his play didn't. "If I turn on the TV, you won't fall asleep, and tomorrow you'll blame me for the dark circles under your eyes." Sally kicked off her slippers. "How long have we been married?" "Twenty-five years." "What if I told you it was over -- the marriage. I'm leaving. What would you say?" "I'd tell you not to be so melodramatic. Melodrama kills." Max looked for the page where the alien ships came down and hovered over New York City. In his play, the aliens never actually landed on Earth. Sally had proposed that change early on, in his third or fourth draft. Max knew she was right as soon as he'd heard it. More than just a clever twist, an alien visitation where the aliens never reveal themselves, where they just fly by, teasing us, leaving us frustrated and confused, was a metaphor for Man's own frustrated journeys through time and space and, well, life. He reached for his coffee cup on the nightstand, but the cup was empty. Sally patted her hair with a dry towel and leaned back against her pillows. "What if I told you that talking or not talking wouldn't make a difference. I'm leaving. The talking is for your sake, not mine." Max tried to figure if Sally was serious or just projecting. She was not normally prone to theatrical displays of emotion, but she was fond of daytime TV. She might be operating under some crazy gab-show pop psychology theory: 'Today on Get A Life, Why Your Perfectly Good Twenty-Five-Year Marriage is Bad for You!' Max decided to laugh it off. "Come on. We've got a great relationship. We talk. We share. We like the same radio station. We vote for the same lousy politicians. We even go to the grocery store together. Not bad after twenty-five years of marriage." He didn't mention their lack of children or lack of sex; they'd tried hard at one and had quit trying altogether at the other. But you couldn't live a long time with a person and not suffer a setback or two. Struggles brought people closer together, Max had always believed. "Besides," he added, "what would I do without your help on my play?" "Maxy, you need to finish the play. What are you going to do, fiddle with it forever?" Max shrugged. Why not? If he never officially finished it, the play could never officially be rejected. Sally found the remote, clicked on the television, and turned up the sound. Max thought about moving to the kitchen to continue his tireless efforts, but an Asian anchorwoman appeared on-screen and said: "We don't know where the aliens have come from or why they're here. We haven't been able to open any lines of communication but -- one moment -- we're going to give you four live views now, and you'll see the alien ships over Paris -- are we ready? -- yes -- there they are now -- Paris, France; Lubbock, Texas; Sydney, Australia; and Port Elizabeth, South Africa." The alien ships looked like monstrous accidental experiments in pottery, all different shapes, sizes, and colors. There were hundreds of them, possibly thousands in the skies around the globe, more appearing every few minutes. The anchorwoman said that none of the ships had made any "aggressive overtures" toward strategic land targets or United Nations reconnaissance aircraft. Her lips twitched, and there was a slight tremor in her voice. "My God," Max mumbled. "I think she's serious." He snatched the remote and changed the station to see if anyone else was covering the story. CNN. MSNBC. National NewsNet. All the major networks and their local affiliates were talking about it. Sally curled up under the bedcovers. "I'm serious, too." "I don't think this is the best time to discuss splitting up. Look at those aliens out there, I mean, Sal, they're in our atmosphere, right over our heads. This could be the end of the world as we know it. The end of mankind. What if we only have a few hours to live?" "Now who's being melodramatic? The end of mankind. Sheesh." Max rummaged through the crumpled pages of his play and pulled out Act I, Scene II, the scene where alien ships first appeared over New York City. "Sal, don't you think it's weird that my play is about this exact thing? I've got an alien visitation, an entire fleet that just cruises in from outer space and nobody knows anything about them. They don't try to communicate with us, and we can't contact them, just like what's happening now." Max felt Sally turn away from him in bed, leaving his question unanswered. He set aside the play, clicked off his light, and moved his body to fit neatly beside hers. After twenty-five years of marriage, he didn't think that either of them could live without the other, and he didn't really believe that Sally wanted to try. Whatever was troubling her, they'd work it out. But he couldn't help wondering about the aliens and his play. Max had been a schoolteacher and head of the drama club at George Madison High for thirty years. When he'd finally retired, all he wanted to do was write his own play, something unique, poignant, fresh, inventive, new. Sally had helped him get started. They'd bounced ideas around. They'd plotted and shot dialogue back and forth. Max didn't know if he completely bought into Harold Bloom's theory -- great scholar and critic Bloom was -- that nary an original thought had been penned since Shakespeare had written centuries ago. But there was certainly no excuse for Broadway productions like Saturday Night Fever, no matter how bad things got. Max had been a science fiction fan all his life and yet he hadn't thought, at first, to write that kind of play. It was Sally who'd pushed him in that direction, and now the aliens were here, right in front of his nose, and Max felt cheated. What did the aliens want? What did they look like? What intergalactic message of peace, love, or mass destruction did they carry? Max didn't want to know the answers to any of those questions. He wanted to write his own Act III. Maybe Sally was right. Maybe he should have finished the play two years ago. He turned off the TV and went to sleep. # The next day Max got up before Sally and made the coffee. They had retired to a condo in West Palm Beach, Florida, Singer Island, within walking distance of the sandy beach and the gambling cruise ships, where all winter long the weather was sunny and eighty plus degrees. To Max, who had grown up in frigid Minnesota, his life had become a permanent vacation. The condo was small -- one bedroom, one bath, a cozy living room, and a miniature kitchen -- but it was home. He went outside to get the newspaper. The breeze carried the smell of salt water from the Atlantic Ocean, and the early sun looked almost rose-colored in the clouds. A crowd of people stood on the beach in their bathing suits and flip-flops, gazing up at the sky, shading their eyes with sunglasses and umbrellas. Arnie, Max's neighbor, was out walking his little yellow mutt named Chester. "Hi, Arnie," Max said. "We got an alien ship over Singer Island?" Arnie was a skinny little Texan who had given up his Stetson for a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap, the one he'd bought at the Jupiter ballpark during spring training. He was sporting his bright white Reeboks, a hotdog-red suntan, and a tank top both long and short enough to make you wonder whether he was wearing anything underneath it. Chester trotted along at his ankles, snuffling at the grass. "Just rumors," Arnie said. "The news didn't say nothin' 'bout it, but you know how people are around here. I think Babs Crenshaw started all the fuss. She's got nothin' better to do than gossip all day long now that Oscar's dead and buried. Hey, how's that play a yers lookin'? All this news 'bout them aliens must be pretty good grist for the mill." "You might say that. I'm still having trouble with the final scene. How's the mutt?" Max always asked after Chester. Chester lifted his leg and christened a coconut tree. Arnie grinned. "Same tree, same pee." Max went inside and skimmed the newspaper; it was chock full of stories about the alien ships. To his relief, no one knew what the aliens wanted, why they'd come to Earth, or where they'd come from. Oddly enough, there was no widespread panic. No riots or demonstrations or terrorism or civil disobedience or religious mania. The public had seen too many blockbuster SF flicks with phenomenal special effects, Max decided. Now that the real McCoys had arrived, it just seemed like yesterday's news. Business as usual around the globe, with two notable exceptions. Number one -- the obvious -- there were thousands of alien ships overhead. And number two -- the unexpected -- there was a dramatic increase in missing persons reports. "Sal, you're not going to believe this." Sally had just come out of the bedroom. "People are disappearing all over the planet. Just like Act II, Scene V. Remember? Mr. Henderson strolls out his back door, Tanya walks into the tanning booth, Alex goes down to his workshop in the basement, and no one ever sees them again. The government thinks the aliens have kidnapped them. Remember?" "Of course I remember, Max." Sally lazily filled her coffee mug and sat at the kitchen table. Max clicked on the television to get the latest report. Some famous people had disappeared as well -- a few big league football and baseball players, some actors and directors, and a politician or two. The Asian anchorwoman looked as if she hadn't slept a wink. "It's impossible at this point to determine just how many people are missing. No one seems to know if the aliens are responsible for the disappearances, although there seems no other reasonable explanation. Efforts to establish contact with the alien ships have been unsuccessful. One moment -- I think we're ready to go to Phil. All right, our correspondent Phillip Van Buren is standing by at the United Nations building in New York City -- What? He's gone? What do you mean he's gone? He was just -- " Max muted the sound. "Can you believe this?" Sally shrugged and sipped her coffee. Max marched into the kitchen. "I don't get it. Why don't you care about what's going on with the aliens? Do you want to leave me that badly? Is our marriage that horrible? I mean, this is historic stuff for mankind, and we're living through it together -- us -- the two of us -- and all you can do is shrug and...and...what? Think about throwing away twenty-five years of a perfectly good marriage?" Sally placed her hand gently on Max's forearm. Her fingers felt cold. She smiled sadly. She looked tired this morning, more tired than he had ever seen her. "I'm sorry. I should have left already." "Oh, forget it." Max went to the sink and dumped the last of his coffee down the drain. "Can you at least tell me what's knocking around inside your head that makes you think you're going to be so much happier without me? Is it another man? Is that it?" The thought hadn't crossed Max's mind until that moment. Wouldn't he have known? Wouldn't he have recognized the signs of an affair? Maybe not. It had been so long since they had made love. "Happy? Do you think this makes me happy? Are you crazy? Maxy, I want you to think about Act III, Scene II. Do you remember what the young girl, Melinda, says to her boyfriend, Eddy, just before she leaves him?" "Do I remember? Of course I remember. It's the climax of the play, my best scene, except that I can't finish it off. It's been driving me crazy for two years." "Three," Sally reminded him. "Whatever. Melinda and Eddy have just made love for the first time. They're thinking that maybe, just maybe there might be no tomorrow because of the aliens. The entire planet could very well be on the brink of annihilation." Sally's eyes brightened, and Max caught a flash of the woman he'd fallen in love with so many years ago, the woman who had inspired him and encouraged his creativity. He realized that he would never fall out of love with her, no matter what happened between them, because Sally had opened a window to her soul and let him look inside, and that had made him a better human being, a better man, the best man he could be. "Yes," Sally said, "it's a wonderful scene. Melinda says, 'I'm sorry, Eddy. I have to go. You're on your own now and we'll never see each other again,' and Eddy says -- " Max lurched forward dramatically. "I know what Eddy says. Eddy says, 'What are you talking about? We love each other. Not even death could tear us apart.' But that's where I always get stuck, Sal. That's as far as I can go. I don't know why she's leaving him. It's got something to do with the aliens, obviously, but -- " "I think I know what Melinda wants to say, Max. She wants to say, 'Eddy, I know this is going to be hard for you to understand, but the aliens have always been here on Earth. They've grown up with humans for centuries, gone to work and school and war and PTA meetings with humans, lived and loved and suffered and died with humans. But they've always known that someday their ships would return for them, someday they would have to leave, regardless of how much it hurt.' That's what Melinda wants to say, Max. That's what she wants to say." "But why does she have to go?" Max demanded. "Because it was just a flyby, Maxy. Please, try and understand. We never meant to be cruel. We've learned so much from you. Now we need to go home -- all of us -- and study what we've learned, try to make sense of it. When we come back, we'll understand you better, and we'll be able to help you understand us. When we come back, we'll come back to stay. But that won't be for a very long time. I'm sorry. I'm going to miss you so much. I hope someday you'll forgive me." That's when Max realized what he should have known all along about Sally, about Flyby Aliens. He just stood there, couldn't say a single thing, as she came over to him, kissed him lightly on the lips, and walked into their bedroom. # A few months later, Max went outside to get the newspaper. A hot wind blew in off the Atlantic, bending the palm trees. The morning sun was painfully bright. Arnie was out walking his little yellow mutt named Chester. "Hi, Arnie." "Howdy, Max." He tugged on Chester's leash. "How's that play a yers lookin'? Figure out what to do with them aliens yet?" "To be honest, I've given up on Flyby Aliens. It's just not the same without Sally." Arnie shifted uncomfortably. Sally was one of the few West Palm Beachers in their community to disappear, and Max could tell Arnie still didn't know what to say about it. The final count on missing persons after the aliens had departed was in the millions. The aliens had stayed only a little longer than a day. Thirty hours and forty-seven minutes to be exact. Just about everyone on the planet knew someone who had disappeared, or someone who knew someone, or someone who knew someone who was in a twelve-step program to cope with missing loved ones. Arnie pulled off his Cardinals cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. His tank top hung down like a housedress, just shy of his skinny red knees. A real character, that Arnie. "Hey, Arnie," Max said. "Been meaning to ask you something. Do you wear anything under those shirts?" Arnie grinned. "That's what Babs Crenshaw wants to know." Max smiled, thinking of Sally. She would want him to go on. Yes, Sally would want that very much. He was on his own now. He smiled back at Max, gave him a wave, and then headed into the condo, where it was time to get busy again.