First Contact: Brawl of the Worlds, #1

By Frank Tayell

If first contact took place today, how would the world react?

 

For the alien towani, Earth is a holy site where their Last Prophecy will be fulfilled. They will do anything to protect the planet. Protecting humanity is an optional extra.

 

In 1888, fleeing starvation in Ireland, Sean found work as a guide to the Whitechapel slums for the publisher of grisly penny dreadfuls. Not even the most lurid of those tales was as outlandish as his encounter with visitors from another world. When they take him back to their home-world, first contact with a human will change their society forever.

 

By 2020, there is a permanent, but secret, non-terrestrial presence on Earth. Negotiating our planet's membership in the alien federation, and concealing its existence, is the responsibility of the UN. When the pandemic begins, Earth enters lockdown, and our solar system is quarantined.

While technically not a prisoner, Serene is no more able to leave the tunnels below the alien embassy in Germany than any of her human cousins locked down above ground. Keeping busy with janitorial work, one day blurs into the next until she stumbles onto an alien smuggling ring. What begins as a hunt for a thief transporting sacred Earth artefacts off-world leads to a two-thousand-year-old mystery that threatens to bring war to the entire galaxy.

 

By the summer of 2022, Harold Goodwin needs a holiday. As camping is all his bookseller's salary can afford, he opts for a ramble through the countryside that inspired the novels he so loves. Whether by chance or prophecy, a poor choice of campsite thrusts him into the middle of an alien plot to make Earth the next proxy-battleground in a century-old war.

 

Brawl of the Worlds is a light-hearted tale of intergalactic war and planet-shaping prophecies. As booksellers rise, and empires fall, the hidden history of the galaxy will be revealed. Based on real events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Tayell
• Release date: Sep 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215494998

Frank Tayell

Frank Tayell is the author of post-apocalyptic fiction including the series Surviving the Evacuation and it’s North American spin-off, Here We Stand. "The outbreak began in New York, but they said Britain was safe. They lied. Nowhere is safe from the undead." He’s also the author of Strike a Match, a police procedural set twenty years after a nuclear war. The series chronicles the cases of the Serious Crimes Unit as they unravel a conspiracy threatening to turn their struggling democracy into a dystopia. For more information about Frank Tayell, visit http://blog.franktayell.com or http://www.facebook.com/FrankTayell

Book preview

Part 1

A Minor Alien Incursion

Oxfordshire & Surrey

August 15th & 16th 2022

Chapter 1 - Lessons from Camping

Every day was a lesson. Today’s was that you should never go camping with equipment other people gave you for free. Harold Goodwin lowered a finger into the steel mug atop the pyramidal stove. The water was still tepid. He added another fuel pellet, and returned to his book.

The stove, and fuel pellets, had been a gift from Seven-Finger Samir, an optician by day and bar-prop at night in the pub where Harold worked Sundays through Wednesdays. The tent, sleeping bag, and boots were the best of the selection dumped in response to the notice he’d pinned to the front of the bookshop he ran with his aunt. Most of the donations had gone straight into the bin. In retrospect, that’s where he should have thrown the rest of it, too.

So far, his camping holiday had been a disaster. It had started well, with perfectly cloudy weather and almost no gridlock as he hitched a ride to Oxfordshire with Two-Halves Mick, who’d taken a coaching job at Oxford F.C. Harold had even tagged along for a brief tour of the pitch where he got to shoot a few balls at the net, albeit without a goalie. Up until that point, it had been one of the top five days in the twenty-two years of his life. Up until then. After then, it had gone downhill. Literally.

About four miles from Oxford, he’d taken out his phone to photograph a drought-reduced river bracketed by fields that surely had once inspired Tolkien, Lewis, and the other Inklings. While trying to get an angle where a drooping oak blocked an electrical pylon, he’d lost his footing and slid down the embankment, into the slow-moving stream. He’d lost his phone in the mucky depths, but clambered out and dripped his way onward, not realising he’d also lost his map until the footpath ended in a barbed fence.

He could have returned to Oxford, borrowed thirty pounds from Mick, and caught the two trains and one bus the fifty miles back to Woking. But the whole reason he’d begged for the camping gear and timed his trip to coincide with when Mick was taking up his new job, and why his first-in-a-lifetime holiday only took him two counties away, was that he was as skint as a church mouse at Christmas. Besides, he’d always planned to hike back to Woking, and it was only fifty miles. All he had to do was head south, take a left at Basingstoke, and aim for the skyscrapers.

It had taken him a full hour to realise the compass didn’t work. He assumed it was an hour. With no phone, he didn’t know the time. His stomach had told him it was lunch, but when he checked his pack, he found his sandwiches had been drenched, his bananas had squished, and both apples had been half-eaten by a pair of very satisfied-looking beetles.

The clouds had grown heavier, making it hard to navigate by the sun, so he’d taken a guess and clearly guessed wrong. He’d been chased off the road by a dog, from a footpath by a stray sheep, and when the summer shower turned into an apocalyptic downpour, he’d pitched his tent as best he could in a field from which he hoped an angry farmer might move him on. That way, at least he’d be able to ask where he was. No such luck.

The stove sputtered. The compact fuel pellets burned with a bright yellow flame and were truly smokeless, but they were also utterly heatless. The flame did provide light, though, and a little comfort, as he read his sodden copy of The Hidden History of Oxfordshire.

If he were to blame anyone for his current predicament, he’d blame covid. But perhaps he should also blame Marjorie Telford, the author of this book. He and Aunt Jess had survived the first lockdown by planning exotic holidays. Back then, since every place they wanted to visit had shut their doors, it hadn’t mattered that they couldn’t even afford the fare to the airport. The inspiration to go camping in Oxfordshire had arrived in a returned box of leather-bound tomes they’d hired out for video-call backdrops.

Making a living from books was next to impossible at the best of times, and the pandemic certainly wasn’t those. They’d run a covid-safe book-borrowing service, which he and Aunt Jess had advertised in hand-made flyers they’d given out while working as cycling food-couriers before their bikes were stolen. They’d started a podcast, an online book club, a virtual poetry-writing circle, and they’d hired out boxes of books to people who needed an intellectual backdrop for video conferencing. They charged fifty pounds a month for thrillers, the classics, or for colour-coded spines, one hundred for leather-bound, and had charged their MP five hundred when he’d requested medical-themed non-fiction.

As the pandemic hurtled into an economic crisis, the boxes had been returned, and in one he’d found an extra book: the Oxfordshire travelogue. On a page about the infamous Lenham House was the handwritten note: a great place for free camping! Thus, the idea of his zero-budget holiday had been born.

Between the free ride north and the donated gear, he’d spent only two quid on new laces before leaving, a fact he’d proudly boasted of on an episode of their podcast. He’d racked up over a thousand listens before setting out, and so had begun his day with dreams of a budget-trip spin-off show, a blog, maybe even a book. In his twenty-two years, he’d been nowhere, and seen less. That was going to change. Dagenham, Dresden, Des Moines, there was no limit to the exotic locales he might visit. That was the dream. Well, he’d certainly woken up now.

The flame dimmed. He picked up another pellet. As he added it to the dull blaze, it didn’t take. The flames flickered around the white disc, and went out.

Figures, Harold said. He reached for the torch hung around his neck. It wouldn’t switch on. Panic rising, he fumbled for the lighter that he’d had the foresight to store in a rainproof plastic tub. He wished he’d done that with some of his food. In retrospect, perhaps he should have done that with the fuel pellets and torch. He tried relighting the stove, but it wouldn’t take. There was nothing for it but to go to sleep and hope tomorrow would at least bring some sunshine. He lifted the mug from the stove, and unzipped the tent to place the warm stove outside. In doing so, he let in a tornado. The tent billowed and then collapsed as the guy-ropes at the back came free from their pegs.

Keep calm until it’s safe to get angry; that was another of Aunt Jess’s sayings. Right now, he wouldn’t be safe until he got the tent fixed. He pulled on his hat, and stepped out into the storm. He circled the tent three times, but between the wind trying to tug his hat off, and with swirling rain coating his glasses, he was unable to see the pegs into which the flapping ropes had been affixed. He returned to the billowing entrance and hauled out his pack so he could more easily hunt for the peg-bag.

The wind howled. Harold howled back. As he turned his head up to the tormenting night sky, another screaming gust sucked the hat from his head and the partially collapsed tent from the ground. The single remaining rope went taut and the tent briefly became a kite. Even as he reached out to grab it, the rope came loose, and the tent took flight, finally snagging in the upper branches of a monstrous oak. Harold’s angry scream faded to a sodden whimper. He peered upwards, trying to spot a safe way to climb the tree. With a flash that absolutely wasn’t inspiration, lightning struck the oak. As burning scraps of plastic were extinguished by the water bucketing from the sky, Harold took the hint. He grabbed all of the scattered gear he could see, stuffed it into his ancient pack, and squelched his way across the increasingly marshy field.

The hedge led to a lane, and that took him to a road, down which he trudged, promising to never, ever go camping again. Ahead, a dim light grew out of the mist. Please be a pub. Or a bus shelter. Even a house in whose porch he could lurk until dawn. He wiped a finger across his glasses, peering ahead in hope. In keeping with the ever-giving disaster that was this decade, the light illuminated an old red phone box, now re-purposed as a community library. There was, of course, no phone. A little further, by an overgrown track, was a faded sign. By the flickering flame of his lighter he read: Private Property. Keep Out. A smaller, newer, sign read: Lenham House, Re-opening Soon.

You’re kidding, he said. But the sign didn’t lie. I was five minutes from where I was supposed to be going?

The universe replied with a mocking crackle of thunder.

Since the gate was open, the rain was getting heavier, and the phone box didn’t have room to shelter him and the books, he headed down the track. The part of the driveway that wasn’t covered in long grass was mostly potholes. Not wanting to twist an ankle, he kept his eyes down until lightning speared so close as to be nearly blinding.

As the after-image faded, and by the light of a now-burning pine tree, he saw the house. His book had little to say about the mansion because most of the pages dwelled on the scandalous past of the Earls of Lenham, where each heir had been worse than their ancestor. The internet had told him that, since the 1950s, the mansion had been a ruin favoured by the makers of the grimmer kind of zombie movies, music videos, and party political propaganda. From what he could see, it was the ideal setting for a horror story, perhaps one beginning with a rain-soaked camper seeking shelter.

The front door was at the top of worn and graffiti-splattered steps, and beneath the shelter of steel and plank scaffolding. By hunching inside the stone-arch doorway, he was sheltered from the worst of the banshee storm. He dropped his bag, and began to relax.

Aunt Jess had said the point of going away was to collect a story, and he’d certainly done that. Now he just had to get home, but that was a challenge for the morning. A chill was spreading upwards from his toes. It couldn’t be that late. He could spend the night on the porch, or he could break in. He weighed his options. If the house was alarmed, the police might arrive. He did not want to spend another night in a police cell. On the other hand, he really, really didn’t want to be struck by lightning. The graffiti and party-litter hinted this was a popular place to escape boredom when the weather was better. With so many frequent visitors, there probably wasn’t an alarm. Would he risk it? Should he? Braced to run in case an alarm did ring, he reached for the giant door handle. Before he laid finger to metal, the door swung open. A light shone in his face. An arm reached out and pulled him inside.

Chapter 2 - Harold’s First Contact

As Harold staggered inside, the glaring light moved back and up, illuminating a hallway with a ceiling tall enough for a lighthouse, and a stairwell wide enough to launch a ship. Harold focused on the arm that had pulled him inside, but his gaze quickly shifted to the other arm, which ended in a hand holding a pistol. He assumed it was a pistol based on how it was pointed at his head, but there was a barrel below the handle as well as above.

Who are you? the arms’ owner asked. The words were in English with the hint of an Irish lilt, while her tone was decidedly puzzled.

Slowly, Harold tore his gaze from the gun, settling on the word stencilled across the head-to-toe black and blue tactical gear: police. He must have read it aloud.

You’re police? the cop asked.

What? No, sorry, Harold said. I’m a camper.

This isn’t a campsite, she said. Why are you here?

I’m lost, he said. I’m just looking for somewhere to hide from the storm.

The gun lowered an inch, and he took in the cop. She was almost as tall as his five-ten, though some of that was due to her armoured boots. What he could see of her skin was a warmer shade of black than the militaristic body-armour, but that warmth didn’t extend to her deeply suspicious glare. Her paramilitary armour looked to be made of small interlocking black pentagons with a blue surround, and with extra padding at elbow, knee, shin, forearm, and shoulder, and with an equally armoured chest plate. Black and blue were traditional colours for a peeler, but it didn’t usually extend to their hair. Every other row of her ruler-straight braids was dyed blue. Theoretically, she might belong to some hastily reassigned undercover unit, but the face beneath the thick-framed, and blue, glasses belonged to someone no older than him.

What’s your name? she asked.

Harold. What’s yours?

Serene, she said. Where are you from?

Woking, he said. You?

I know it sounds like I’m just being polite, she said, but I’m asking for your personal details so we can check you are who you say you are. I need your full name and date of birth.

Oh. Harold Goodwin, 1st of September, 2000.

She stepped back again. Did you get that? she said, though not to him.

He looked around the massive hallway for her colleagues, but there was no one else here, unless they were hidden behind the piles of broken masonry and cement-flecked lengths of twisted steel.

Why are you here? Serene asked.

It’s my first holiday since the pandemic, Harold said. My first holiday ever, actually. Camping was all I could afford. But I lost my phone and map in a river, and got myself lost soon after. I pitched my tent in a field nearby, and it got sucked up by the storm, lodged in a tree, and then struck by lightning.

No way! she said. Seriously?

Yeah, I guess it was something else, Harold said.

She held up a hand. I’m not talking to you, she said. "No, I mean I’m not talking to him, Tempi. Are you serious about who he is? Okay. Send me the file. No way. Okay. I’ve got this. Keep watch. No, obviously he’s not involved. Out. Her gaze flickered between Harold and the middle distance. It says you live above a bookshop called The Very Hungry Bookworm."

Where does it say that? he asked.

Your file, she said. Smart glasses, she added, tapping her glasses’ frames.

"Oh. Um… yeah, no. I live behind the bookshop. It’s a one-storey."

Right. And what was your name at birth?

What?

I need to confirm you are who you say you are, she said.

They said that file was sealed. Did you just open it? Don’t you need to ask a judge or something?

These are exigent circumstances, she said. What name did your parents give you?

I don’t call them parents, he said. They called me Wandering Moon, but that’s not my name anymore. Why are you here?

She holstered her gun. That’s complicated and mostly classified. But the short version of the part I can tell you is that a gang of thieves think treasure was buried beneath this house long ago. We got a tip-off they might come looking for it tonight.

What kind of treasure? Harold asked.

The Library of Alexandria, she said. The myth goes that Julius Caesar burned down the library in frustration because the treasure had already been moved. His invasion of Britain was mostly to hunt for it.

That doesn’t make sense, Harold said. "The library, the proper library, was stolen one borrowed scroll at a time over centuries. It fell into disrepair long before Caesar, and he came to Britain before he set Alexandria ablaze."

How do you know that? she asked, her suspicion returning.

I live in a bookshop, he said. It’d be weird if I hadn’t read the books.

I suppose so, she said. Anyway, this gang are chasing a myth. No, she added, her eyes flicking to the middle distance. I’m just talking with him. Nah, he’s harmless. Well, mostly harmless. No, it’s a joke. Seriously, Tempi, you need to read more.

Sorry, you’ve lost me, Harold said.

"I’m talking to Tempest. They’re my sibling. No, now I’m obviously talking to Harold. Hang on, this is getting too confusing. I’m not used to talking to people who aren’t plugged in. Just a moment, Harold." She turned away, continuing her radioed conversation with her sibling.

Harold again took in her uniform. He’d caught the pronouns. Why shouldn’t there be non-binary cops? Why not have siblings in the same tactical unit? Perhaps she wasn’t as young as he first thought. Clearly she had access to his sealed police record, so maybe she was part of some undercover unit. The twin-barrelled gun could be some new form of Taser. Yes, all of that was plausible. But smart glasses and better tactical armour than the SAS? No, she wasn’t a cop. MI5 was a possibility, but if so why not say, and why not come up with a better lie than thieves hunting for the Library of Alexandria?

Sorry about that, Serene said, turning back to him. Would you like some tea?

I think I’d like to leave, he said.

Weren’t you trying to get out of the storm? she asked.

Yeah, true.

Grand, it’s settled, she said. I’ve a flask in there. As she pointed, the light moved so that it shone on one of the hallway’s shattered doorways. Harold reflexively looked up and saw the lights were coming from one of a trio of small blue and black drones, none bigger than his fist.

As she walked towards the door, the drones, and their light, moved with her, turning the rubble-filled hall into a cavern of sinister shadows. He could leave, and be struck by lightning. Or he could have a cup of tea.

The door led into a chamber that might once have been a dining room, or perhaps just a drawing room, though it was big enough to stage a life-size Last Supper. The fireplace was as broad as a bed and filled with enough cobwebs to weave a duvet. The eight windows, each wider than extended-arms’ width, were boarded closed. One of the deep shadows at the other end of the room was probably another door. What was missing was any sign of treasure, surveillance gear, or other cops.

What kind of gang comes hunting for the Library of Alexandria? he asked. What do they think they’ll find, because the library was just scrolls, and they’ll surely have rotted away?

But the stories of the library link to the legends of Arthur and the Grail, to the Templars, the Cathars, and the Masons, and all that fun stuff, she said. It’s a tale of infinite wealth, ultimate knowledge, and the deepest secrets of the universe itself.

And in our shop we put all those books in the entertainment section, because that’s all they are, Harold said. None of them are real.

Exactly, she said, stopping by a paint-splattered paste-table on which was a hardened equipment case. It’s all just a myth. That doesn’t stop people believing it. A couple of years ago, just as the pandemic was bubbling up, I stumbled onto a smuggling ring. After a lot of investigation, we got a tip that one of the buyers was going to look for the library, and that led us here, tonight, because this is where they think they’ll find it. Help yourself if you’re hungry. She opened the case, revealing enough flavoured oat-milk, roasted walnuts, and crinkle-crisps to stock a shop.

His stomach over-ruled his brain, and all thoughts of myths and legends were forgotten as he hungrily tore open a packet of crisps. Before he managed his second chomp, the drones went dark, plunging the room into darkness.

Get down! Serene said, pulling him low. The crisps scattered about the floor, cracking and chipping like shrapnel.

What’s happening? Harold asked.

Shh. Contact, Serene whispered, and possibly to him. "Hostiles. Very hostile. Get into the fireplace."

He would have, if he’d had any idea where it was. With the room so dark, he couldn’t see himself, let alone her.

From outside came a muffled explosion. Harold hunched lower while dust rained on his head and a column of fleeing spiders scampered across his hand. He was about to follow their lead when the boards covering the windows were shredded to splinters. Jagged slivers lanced across the room, impaling the slower spiders and scratching a checkerboard across his cheek. Three spotlights, one from each hovering drone, illuminated the fractured window. Two dimmer lights shone back. That pair of lights, a shoulder-width apart, rose and then fell as a figure flew through the window, landing sure-footed atop the broken window boards: seven feet tall, wearing close-fitting red and grey body-armour and a full-face helmet, with a light on each shoulders and what had to be a gun in his hand.

Biker, Harold thought, his brain searching for a rational explanation, a member of a biker gang.

The drone-lights increased in intensity, shining beams brighter than the sun into the intruder’s face. Instinctively the possible-biker shook his head, raising his empty hand to his visor, giving Serene time to fire.

Her pistol might look like a cross between a Taser and a water pistol, but it launched a dart from each barrel, both of which lodged in the maybe-biker’s armour. A tracery of electricity arced between the prongs, causing the biker to drop to one knee before jump-flying back through the broken window.

Oh, no, I had it set for human, Serene said, as she flipped open the back of the gun’s barrel, removing a small cartridge. She replaced it with a longer one that jutted backwards nearly as far as her wrist. Tempi, they’re sooval! Tempi! Can you hear me?

What’s that mean? Harold asked. Who are they?

Serene grabbed his arm, pulled him up, and pushed him around. Follow the sister. Go upstairs!

Whose sister?

The drone! she said as one of the three small robots flew through the doorway, now shining a light behind as well as ahead.

What kind of biker gang is this? Harold asked as he stumbled across the debris littering the hall.

Upstairs! Serene said. It wasn’t an answer to his question, and might have been an instruction to whoever was controlling the drones, as one changed aim, now illuminating the rubble-strewn staircase.

An explosion reverberated outside. The entire house shook. Harold fell forwards, face first onto the stairs. Another blast shook the house, though this one came from somewhere inside the building. He stumbled up the stairs, using his hands as much as his feet to navigate the dusty rubble. At the top, there was only one doorway on the landing, and it was boarded closed.

Tempest, speak to me! Serene yelled, just as she reached the landing at the top of the stairs. Finally! she said, visibly relaxing That’s one enemy definitely down. Get down and wait, she added, crouching low. Harold! I’m talking to you, get down!

The guy you stunned, he was dressed in biker gear, Harold said, his brain buzzing with bewilderment. Or was he a skydiver? They wear protective suits, don’t they?

Sure. Let’s say they’re skydivers, she said.

The front doors exploded inward. The drones spun, shining their bright lights on a maybe-skydiver who jumped into the house. This one must have been expecting the spotlights and fired at the drones. They easily dodged, but the bullets ripped holes in the ceiling, bringing down a shower of plaster and brick.

Stay! Serene hissed. She stood up, and was knocked off her feet as a long bullet ripped a hole through the balcony’s floor.

I’m fine, she murmured as Harold ran to help her out of the way. Stay clear of the fumes! It’s acid.

Avoiding the smoking hole in the floor, Harold crawled towards the balcony, thus presenting the target the attacker had been waiting for. As the enemy’s gun shifted position, another tactical-clad cop ran through the drawing room door, carrying a two-metre-long poleaxe held like a jousting lance. The blade was in the wrong position to do any damage, but the force of the impact knocked the skydiver backwards.

Stop showing off and shoot it, Tempi! Serene yelled.

Instead, Tempest twirled the axe, swinging it around so the butt slammed into the skydiver’s legs. As the intruder fell, Tempest spun the axe, grabbing it two-handed before hacking the blade onto the skydiver’s head. The helmet split, bone crunched, brain squelched, and the attacker went still.

Lost my gun, Tempest said, holding up the poleaxe, the blade of which now dripped with blood. But I got the leader.

I can see that, Serene said, apparently unfazed by the scene of horrific murder below.

How many more? Tempest asked.

One left, according to the sisters, Serene said.

I’ll take the back, you watch here, Tempest said. They picked up the corpse’s long-arm, and with that in one hand, and the bloody axe still in the other, they dashed over the rubble, and disappeared through a door behind the stairs.

The leader always carries a ceremonial war axe, Serene said. It’s cultural.

From which culture? Harold managed, the words coming out in a weak whisper.

Don’t worry, Serene said, backup’s coming.

Harold looked down at the corpse. You’re not cops. They’re not skydivers.

It’s a long story, she said. In fact, it’s the longest in the world.

So start with— he began, and again was cut off before he could finish. The door at the end of the landing exploded outward. Again, splinters sliced his cheeks. A brass doorknob hit his face, sending his glasses spinning from his head.

Blinking, half-blind, he peered at the dust. In the doorway stood another of the probably-not-skydivers. Slowly, the figure began walking towards him, a long, stick-like weapon in each hand.

Move! Serene called, so Harold did.

Fuelled with fear, confusion, and rage, he ran. Since he was facing forwards, he ran straight at the attacker. Another explosion rocked the building. Half-blind, Harold’s tackling dive became a push. The attacker stumbled and staggered backwards onto the still-fuming edge of the acid-damaged floor. The floor collapsed. The intruder fell, landing with a sharp pop and wet crunch on the heaped rubble below.

Well, that’ll do it, Serene said. Here.

She held out his glasses. One arm had snapped, so he balanced them on his nose. Reluctantly, yet unable to stop himself, Harold inched forward, leaning over to peer down. Their attacker was motionless, impaled on a metre-long rod of reinforced steel.

Chapter 3 - The Sooval and the Library of Alexandria

Who are you? Who’s he? What’s going on? Harold asked, still looking over the railing at the corpse impaled below.

They’re sooval, Serene said.

You say that as if it means something.

This is one of those show-don’t-tell situations, she said, and headed for the stairs. "This really is about a myth surrounding the Library of Alexandria, and it did begin with us hunting for smugglers at the beginning of the pandemic. We were expecting sapiens or drones, not mercenaries. Are you coming?" she added, pausing three steps down.

He didn’t see an escape, so followed her down the stairs and over to the pile of rubble now drenched red with the blood of the impaled corpse.

It’s not a skydiver, or a biker, or a human, she said. She reached forward and released a clasp on either side of the corpse’s helmet. After a short hiss of escaping air, she pulled the helmet free.

The face beneath belonged to a lizard. The skin was a patchwork of scales: yellow around the eyes, blending to green at the flattened snout. The eyes were black, the ears were non-existent, but there were creased flaps at the side of the head.

It’s a sooval, Serene said. And it’s an it, not a he, she, or they until it goes through its mating cycle which is… well, not important. It’s an alien, she added.

An alien. Aliens are real? Harold said, stubbornly reluctant to accept the blood-drenched evidence in front of his eyes.

Very real, Serene said.

"Aliens are actually real," Harold said. His brain searched for an alternate explanation. A hoax? A prank? No, this creature, alien or not, was very, very dead. Are you an alien? he asked.

No. I’m sapiens, just like you.

Then you’re like one of the Men in Black, or an X-Files agent, or something?

That’s probably the simplest thing to assume right now.

And this… this…

Sooval, she said.

Right. This sooval is from a species of killer aliens?

No, it’s just a mercenary. There are no species of killers or farmers or super-logical scientists. Aliens are just like us. They have art and music and war and criminals. Some are nice. Some are throat-slitting monsters. This is one of the latter. You can tell from the markings on the spacesuit. It’s from one of the stables.

Like with horses?

That’s the trouble with translations, she said. Sometimes words are chosen not because they mean the same thing, but because they sound kinda similar to the word in the original tongue. A sooval stable is an organised crime gang that specialises in muscle for hire. The outfit it’s wearing is an armoured environment suit used in zero-g mining. You can tell it’s stolen because they painted their symbols on top. Each of those markings brag of their achievements, and this one’s boasting of robbery, murder, and lots of horrid stuff. But most sooval, like most humans, are really nice. Don’t judge a species based on these two. Well, three, counting the leader that Tempi killed.

So it’s an alien killer-crook? Harold said. Why is it here? And don’t tell me this has anything to do with some ancient story about Alexandria.

It really does, she said. They truly are hunting for the Library of Alexandria, but their myths are different to ours. The librarian at Alexandria was an alien.

Which librarian? Harold asked.

Most of them, she said. "It was the same librarian, appearing in a slightly different form from one generation to the next so