Unexpected ETA

20260210

Written for Bradley Ramsey’s “Flash Fiction February Day 10”.

Ben had never expected to become a father. Certainly not like this. But, well, it seemed the universe had decided that for him.
Staring down at the fragile life clutching his shirt, whom Ben had tentatively named ‘Alex’, he wondered what on earth he should do.
Get help, right? Find medical professionals. Or maybe a veterinarian would be better? Since Alex didn’t seem at all human-like. Seven tentacle-like limbs with grasping four-fingered hands at the end, jelly-ish flesh, who knew what underneath… truly alien. Which only made the need to get help keeping them alive more pressing.
But… alright, he knew movies and all weren’t a good basis for decision-making, but… if he showed up someplace with an alien, a genuine extraterrestrial life form capable of communication, what would happen? To him and Alex?
At least the psychic whimpering had died down. Poor thing.
Moving slowly, so as not to wake the baby, Ben walked over to the window to peer out.
He’d never seen darkness so deep. The adverts for this cabin hadn’t been kidding - there wasn’t light pollution for miles. Except the stuff coming from his window, which just illuminated his telescope, forgotten in the excitement.
Ben sighed. His therapist was going to be so disappointed in him, on hearing that his holiday hadn’t been relaxing at all. He’d tried! He really had. When he saw the news about the ‘biggest meteor shower on record’, he’d decided he was finally going to pick up that astronomy hobby he’d been meaning to get into since he was a kid.
Took the whole week off. Booked a nice cosy cottage out in a certified dark zone. Bought himself a decent telescope and even took a class on using it. Made a packing list way ahead of time and done all his breathing exercises while getting ready to leave. He’d been so proud of himself.
Everything had been set up hours before the shower was predicted, so when he got the alert that it was happening ahead of schedule all he’d had to do was rush outside and look up at the sky. Admire the show.
Which he had… until he noticed that wherever the lights fell they left dark patches.
Trick of his vision, of course. His mind getting confused. Obviously. But the increasing empty expanse left him uneasy. It felt… wrong. So he stepped back from the telescope to inspect the sky with his naked eyes. Reassure himself everything was there and as it should be.
The gaping void was still there. Worse, now, because without the telescope between him and it, it felt somehow much closer.
As he rubbed his arms and considered going back inside, where it was warm and safe and he had all the fixings for cocoa, one of the remaining stars started growing brighter. Bigger. By the time he realised it was definitely getting closer it was clear this was only a small meteorite, and wasn’t coming at him, so he dithered a little longer rather than dashing indoors.
It crashed down in the woods, close enough he heard the impact.
And the crying.
If he’d stopped to think about it he would’ve concluded that he was losing his mind, gone indoors, taken a soothing tablet, and gone to bed. But he didn’t. Hearing that plaintive, juvenile wail kicked instincts he didn’t know he had into frenzied action and without hesitation he’d pulled up his phone torch and dashed towards the sound.
About halfway there he realised the ‘sound’ wasn’t registering in his ears. The crying was tickling somewhere in his head.
At that point he paused and considered the possibility he’d lost it. But, being halfway there, and now deeply curious as well as worried, he finished the trek in a slow and careful manner.
It wasn’t a meteorite at all; the steaming, cracked-open remains was clearly metal of some kind, blackened and warped from its journey through the atmosphere. But it was cooling quickly in the chill night air.
The crying shifted as Ben got close, becoming less panicked yet more urgent. Whatever was calling for help knew someone was out there and could hear them. Primal fears bridged the gulf between species; Ben could feel an echo of the crier’s anxiety, their sense of loss and of being trapped, and realised with sinking horror that he was the only one around to help.
Getting Alex out had been nerve-racking for both of them. And the poor hatchet was truly wrecked, having been designed to cut wood rather than metal.
But finally he’d trudged back indoors, clutching a whimpering baby to his chest, and collapsed onto the sofa. To rest, and to try and think. What now?
Alex felt cold. Not object-cold, but certainly colder than Ben expected from a living being. But they weren’t shivering, so maybe that was normal? But… how universal was shivering?
And they felt hungry. What on earth - literally! - would be safe for them to try and eat?
Ben chewed his lip, then gave a slow nod. No way around it; he needed help. And if he was going to get help he needed to make sure Alex couldn’t be disappeared. And the only way he could think of to achieve that… was being so public nobody, not even the press and government, could hush it up.
He’d never, ever wanted to be a celebrity. But the universe had given him a child, and if facing the public was the only way to keep that child safe, well… he’d just have to cope with the panic attacks.
Mind made up, Ben set about improvising a sling out of a shirt, to keep Alex close and secure while Ben collected evidence. Photos of Alex, photos and a recording of walking around the… pod-thing. Put them on every alien board he could find. Contact local journalists - and vets.
He gently patted Alex’s puffy, bristle-covered head and promised “I’m no ‘ma and pa Kent’, but… I’ll do my best.”

Prompt was “After getting a telescope, you try it out at night in the backyard, only to notice the stars are going out. When a falling star lands nearby, you to go investigate and discover a baby alien who says its needs your help…”