Solar-3

We touch down at 1469753.23. That's February 13th 2019, 04.47 in the local time measurement. More or less. There isn’t a direct correlation, what with the constraints of the space-time continuum and the physics of relativity.

This was not our initial destination and not the best option in my highly-valued scientific opinion. My plan, as the senior official on this mission, had been to land in Solar-3’s capital city — London.

My carefully constructed mission plan collapsed when Ja-El aborted touchdown. He said he hadn’t travelled 128.16 light-years and negotiated a treacherous asteroid belt only to spend a month living in a city with constant drizzle and a daytime temperature of four degrees Celsius.

Being the pilot, he, unfortunately, had operational control during the landing phase. He piloted the craft south until he located blue skies and a winter temperature of 20° C. The city he stumbled upon is known as Valencia in a region called Spain.

However, my assignment remains the same. I will spend thirty days observing the backward indigenous population of Solar-3 and no egotistical pilot taking me to the wrong city is going to prevent this important scientific initiative.

1469754.69 — Feb. 13, 05.01: Ja-El has shut down the engines and initialised the invisibility shield. I’m not speaking to him. If he wants to land us somewhere different on a selfish whim, I’ll treat him like the child he is. I stick my tongue out at him behind his back while he’s running the system checks.

We have replicated Solar-3 attire and learned their language based on observations of contemporary television transmissions. We cannot risk becoming detected: interference with inferior indigenous species is illegal and subject to a 70 Sceatta fine under the Planetary Federation Code of Conduct Section 2, Paragraph 4. This reduces to 35 Sceattas if paid within ten days.

I attempt to explain Convergent Theory to Ja-El while he works. I tell him this means all species independently evolve similar traits and features no matter what the planet. This is why we look the same as the aboriginals here.

Ja-El fails to understand, being little more than an overpaid grease monkey. Besides, he isn’t listening to me and he isn’t really working. He is preparing to watch a Solar-3 film called Top Gun with Tom Cruise as Lieutenant Maverick Mitchell for the twenty-eighth time since we set out from Rigel-6 five days ago. The film is about a fighter pilot from somewhere called Yoo Ess of Ay. Apparently.

Ja-El claims he needed to study the film to understand more about their ancient flying machines that are utterly incapable of speeds of Warp Factor 9. Or even Warp 1 for that matter. I admire his dedication although I fear that he may have an unhealthy obsession with Tom Cruise. I will need to keep an eye on him. Ja-El, that is, not Tom Cruise.

We landed in an artificial shallow lake between buildings that remind me of my home town of Zxqrq%xzt’th*th on Rigel-6. Thankfully, I am back in charge and I’ve recomputed the mission plan with the ease that comes to intrepid intelligent academics such as me.

1469754.92 — Feb 13, 05.49: I launch our fleet of 7,952 mini drones cunningly disguised to look like mosquitoes. They will surreptitiously record the activities of the natives so we will be well prepared once we leave the ship.

We will remain on board for a further eighteen hours to allow the drones to send their information and for me to analyse the results. Ja-El settles down to watch Top Gun again.

1469844.92, Feb 14, 17.49: We have lost 7,899 of our drones due to hostile native activity. They destroyed them with rolled-up magazines. My initial analysis from the surviving drones shows the aboriginals have only three interests:

• Watching football. Cleverly packaged as a sporting event, the real purpose is to hurl abuse at a hapless official who amusingly attempts to enforce arbitrary rules on the ‘players’.

• Eating for several hours at fixed times of the day. In between, they spend several minutes at places called work to digest this food.

• Consuming huge quantities of a locally concocted liquid that inhibits bodily coordination, destroys internal organs and kills brain cells. They call it wine.

More than three activities clearly over-stresses their limited aboriginal brains. Ja-El should feel at home.

I have weightier matters to attend to. I will meet the city’s leaders to ascertain the sociological and anthropological implications of their societal constructions and procedures. Or something like that.

1469844.92 — Feb 14, 19.54: We’re standing next to each other dressed in local clothing ready to leave the craft.

As I’m still not speaking to Ja-El, I send him written mission instructions via Bluetooth to his retinal implant. I will keep this up until he apologises for his infantile actions. Sometimes he acts as if he’s six rather than one hundred and eighty-six.

Ja-El looks ridiculous. He’s wearing a one-piece boiler suit and dark glasses with Ray-Ban printed on one lens. His outfit has a name badge on the left chest which says Lt. Mitchell and USAF printed underneath. Ja-El is an idiot, but I can’t tell him as I’m not talking to him.

I have modelled my appearance on an impressive character called Laird Dougal Mackenzie. Mackenzie is a Scottish warlord from a popular local TV programme set in the Solar-3 year of 1744. I know that my tartan kilt, fluffy sporran and knobbly knees will impress the local chieftains.

I admit the series is set in Scotland, which is not quite Valencia, and it’s a slightly different time period, but 1,500 miles is the next town on Rigel-6 and 275 years is a mere blip in time. It really can’t be that different.

I particularly like the three-foot sabre I’m carrying.

1469844.96 — Feb 14, 20.01: I press the exit button and the airlock door swishes open. We step down into the shallow water and I hold out my air analyser: 76% Nitrogen, 15% Oxygen and 5% Carbon Monoxide. There are two other air components I’ve never before detected on a planet: 1% marijuana residues and 3% alcohol fumes.

I direct Ja-El to a lively area identified by the drones. It’s full of places called bars where the locals go to intoxicate themselves with the poisonous alcoholic liquid. It’s night time so I hope he can find his way in the Ray-Bans.

I set off for the City Hall to meet the aboriginal leaders. I can already imagine being fêted on my return to Rigel-6 for the quality and intellectual depth of my research here on Solar-3.

14697101.97 — Feb 14, 22.32: I don’t make it to City Hall. I wanted to practise my sabre skills in the street before I got there. I felt it would give me an advantage with the aboriginal elders when they saw my impressive fighting techniques.

Five vehicles propelled by a toxic combustible pollutant and with flashing blue strip-lights on the roofs surround me, tyres squealing. A group of what are clearly desperate bandits get out, wrestle me to the ground and tie my wrists with plastic restraints.

The bandits are dressed in identical dark-blue uniforms and peaked caps. I find it odd that criminals dress in a way that identifies them so easily. It seems that even I have a lot to learn about primitive societies in our galaxy.

They shout strange words like ‘es un loco’ and ‘cuidado tiene una espada’. They argue for a few moments as to whether my sabre is an espada or a sable. They search their internet using primitive communications devices for photos of swords and sabres before settling on espada.

My substantial brain deduces they are using an underworld patois. I’m fluent in the syntax, morphology and linguistics of Solar 3’s English language, so it’s them who can’t speak properly. Obviously.

14697122.15 — Feb 15, 00.01: I’m in a small cell in the basement of the criminals’ lair. They brought in Ja-El a few minutes ago. It seems they have drugged him: he is slurring and telling me he loves me.

One of the criminal gang comes in. She must be the leader of these oafs as she speaks English. I mentally note her errors in the past perfect continuous and present subjunctive.

I think the truth is called for and I admit I am not really Laird Dougal Mackenzie. She appears relieved. I tell her I’m an eminent anthropologist from Rigel-6 in the Gamma Quadrant and I arrived here in a space capsule at Warp Factor 9. And please can I have my sabre back.

She leaves at that point. I remain trapped here in the criminals’ lair with Ja-El snoring on my shoulder and an uncomfortably cool breeze around my sporran. My glorious research paper on the Anthropological Psychology of Species X7918b, Human, from Planet 3 of this remote and insignificant solar system on the edge of the Milky Way is going to be somewhat delayed.

The author moved to Valencia from London in 2018 and this story is entirely fictional. Anything that relates to the actual behaviour of the author and the locals is purely coincidental. Honestly. It is.

An earlier version of this story was first published on medium.com.