Olive Branch

“If they find us before we hide the ship,” said an older man, “it won’t matter if we hide the pilot.” He wasn’t angry . . . resigned.

The Auto Doc beeped beside her. The two men were talking in hushed tones—they didn’t know she was awake. Both had long, dark hair. She guessed Latino. The younger was in his 20s, the older in his 50s and starting to show a little gray. Father and son? They wore loose, beige button-up shirts—homespun linen—with khaki pants, stained with dirt and plant matter.

The camouflaged cornfield. . . . They were farmers in a hidden settlement.

Limping away from a Chodin squadron, she’d crashed her fighter into their farm tucked into the rolling California hills. It was coming back to her.

“Will the village support my decision”? asked the younger farmer.

“The meeting has considered these scenarios. You found her, and you have to follow your conscience. They’ll support you.”

The younger man nodded.

She saw her guns on a book-lined counter across the room, the adobe wall behind them. Just a few strides. . . .  She hurt all over and only succeeded in gasping.

The younger man looked over and said, “You’re awake.”

No use pretending now. She met his gaze. Had to admit he was handsome despite his shabby clothes and sweat-matted hair that had been oddly dented by the wide-brimmed straw hat hanging by the door. Calm intelligence. Fit from farm work, no doubt.

“Probably best not to try and move for a bit,” he said. “Auto Doc says it’s almost done with treatment. You’ve got a number of broken bones and plenty of soft tissue injuries. Good prognosis, though. Just need time to heal.”

“I need . . . my weapons,” she said.

“I won’t keep them from you. But I won’t help you get them, either. You don’t need them here.”

“Remains to be seen.”

“I’m a pacifist. This,” the young farmer gestured as if to take in everything in the valley outside, “is a Quaker settlement. We call ourselves “Friends.” I’m not going to turn you over to the Chodins.”

“You might not have a choice. I evaded them, but they weren’t far off. And they’re merciless. Just as soon kill as look at you. Be as peaceful as you want. You can’t negotiate with these heartless monsters.”

“I haven’t met enough of them to know. But you might know them better. How many have you met, Pidgeon”?

The call sign on her helmet, of course. But speaking it felt like a violation. The twinkle in his eye pissed her off. She glared and wanted to cross her arms but remembered last time she tried to move. Of course, she’d met precisely zero Chodins, except in battle.

But everyone had seen what they’d done. Alien bombs ruthlessly destroyed cities, her parents, sisters, best friends, Robert. All dead. Maybe these ignorant farmers somehow missed the Chodin invasion.

On the other hand, they had camouflaged their cornfield. They would have heard LA bombed from here. And they were working to hide her ship and repair their camo cover. They weren’t Luddites; they had an Auto Doc, clearly a high-end model and well-maintained. Plus they had the power to run it. With electric grids down around the world, they were well off.

A young woman burst into the room. “They’re here”!

“Give me my guns!” Pidgeon demanded.

“I’m sorry; I won’t assist you in killing.”

“Just arm me; leave; and send them in. You won’t be pulling the trigger, and I’ll take out as many as I can.”

“I’m not going to assist them in killing or capturing you, either.”

“You’d be better off!” 

The fire of anger died down.

“Well,” she said, “if I did go out in a blaze of glory, like the general says, they would blame you. And if we’d found your settlement on our own, the general would order us to steal your harvest as a tax. Hell with the general. I’ll go peacefully. Maybe they won’t bother to wipe you out.”

The three farmers stared back at her. The young woman sighed and looked at the floor.

An alien kick burst the door down. Four soldiers swarmed in. Matte black armor hid their orange skin that only showed when they raised their visors after the first soldier gave a hand gesture. Stubby energy rifles blended into their armor, humming at a frequency she didn’t so much hear as feel.

She’d never been face to face with one of them before, though she’d seen plenty of up-close photos from surveillance, battle footage, or autopsies: like hairless tigers. The young farmer’s head came up to their chests, and he was the tallest of her three misguided rescuers. Predatory split irises pinned them all down, as if they didn’t need guns.

Then a fifth Chodin strode slowly through the damaged doorway. Where most Chodins had brown or yellow eyes, this one’s were green. Their shoulder was adorned with three gold pips: an officer. A ragged purple scar sprawled across their left cheek.

Prisoners were given an hour of exercise, and after a week she’d recovered enough for that. She’d sat against the shaded wall of the dirt-floored courtyard, staring at a scrawny olive tree in the center.

“Prison suits you,” she’d said when he sat down beside her. His baggy purple jumpsuit looked better than his dusty farm clothes.

“You look healthier than last time I saw you, too.” He brushed his long hair from his eyes, smiling warmly.

“Their torture tech only causes pain, no damage. At least not until they crank it up to kill. But they’re feeding us, and your Auto Doc did its job.”

“They’re torturing you”?

“They’re not torturing you? Maybe they haven’t gotten around to you yet.”

“I’ve been interrogated regularly.”

“I’m sure your day will come, unless we escape. I’ve been building up strength with exercise; we need to be ready.”

“Do you think your general will stage a rescue”?

“Honestly? No. She might attack the base for strategic reasons. The longer we stay here, the closer we get to death. Chodins are ruthless.”

“I talk to my interrogators about democracy. About how our world had some dictators but also free countries. And even those had problems, but many of us worked to make things better. They try not to show it, but I think they’re interested.”

“They’re just building your trust. It’s an interrogation technique. You ended up with a skilled interrogator. Your day will come, Farmer.”

They rotated who went out together. Later, she realized she hadn’t seen the farmer in the two weeks since. Was he still alive?

At night she sat on her pallet, pulled to the narrow slit of a window for the cool breeze. During the day, she could see the olive trees the aliens cultivated. Military scientists speculated that olives held some compound rare on their home world. Soldiers said it was Chodin pot.

An explosion shook the walls.

This was it!

Power went out. The cell door clicked open.

She couldn’t hear the whine of ship engines, but she didn’t care how they pulled it off. Focus on escape; ask questions later.

The market occupied a former warehouse store. The farther Pigeon looked, the more the tables of handcrafts, refurbished portable tech, and produce blurred under the jerry-rigged, solar-array-powered lighting.

The general’s orders were to recon—not the enemy but fellow humans: foodstuffs, tech, and anything a desperate army might need.

The attack on the base that set her free was still a mystery. If there was a new resistance group they didn’t know about, she wondered if she could join them.

A towering cloaked Chodin surveyed a stall with handmade wreaths of olive branches. Maybe the general was right. Maybe these plebes deserved to be robbed because they were too stupid to support their protectors!

Pigeon noted a table full of corn.

No, it couldn’t be! The farmer: he was alive!

He stood as tall and serious as she’d first seen him. He slipped away from the corn stall, absently dropping a loosely folded apron on a cart behind him.

The alien paid for the wreath. It glanced back: the green eyes, the sprawling purple scar. It was the officer. It followed the farmer.

So, the farmer lived but might not for much longer. Pigeon nonchalantly joined the chase, her hand occasionally dropping to the sidearm hidden beneath her cloak.

They turned a corner, and she rushed to peek around it. The corridor was empty.

She glided down the corridor to a storeroom and saw the wreath discarded on the floor. Farmer was almost to the other end, Chodin officer stalking behind.

The farmer would be dead soon. If she prevented that, her mission was compromised. She drew her sidearm and moved to line up a shot that wouldn’t hit the farmer if she missed.

Farmer turned around. “No! Don’t shoot!,” he yelled.

She had to, the fool!

The Chodin froze. If it went for a weapon, she was ready to drop the creature.

Why did she listen to him? Her mission was blown, and the threat still lived.

“It’s okay, Pigeon,” the farmer said.

But she didn’t lower the weapon. The alien raised its arms and turned slowly. Farmer came closer, and they converged near the Chodin.

“Don’t shoot him. He’s my contact.”

“What, you’re a spy?”

“I’m part of a resistance movement.”

“The ones who sabotaged the base?”

“No. We’re nonviolent. Alne is my contact with a resistance movement inside the Chodin military. They don’t support their government or the invasion.”

“You’re still on that? How do you know he’s not duping you in order to expose your network?”

“There’s always a risk,” he acknowledged, nodding to the Chodin. “Alne helped me escape in the confusion of the attack on the base that his movement carried out.”

“If they’re violent, then why are you helping them?”

“I’ve been recording videos that document the humanitarian toll of their invasion. Their state controlled media paints a different picture. I show the truth.”

“Sounds like they’ve tricked you into doing reconnaissance for them.”

“I’m careful. The videos could fall into the wrong hands. And I share a message of peace: how nonviolent resistance movements have been more than twice as effective on Earth for the past hundred and fifty years. I show them the keys to making such a movement successful that we have learned through human history. That’s how I’m helping them.”

Alne spoke in an angry-sounding growl with hard consonants. “Chodin are not of one mind, but most believe they are powerless to resist the government. We commit sabotage or revolt out of frustration rather than hope. We know we’re not powerful enough to overthrow the government, but we could recruit so many more civilians to commit disruptive nonviolent resistance. For the first time, we see another way, a path to hope.”

Pigeon lowered her weapon.

“Thank you,” said Alne. “Please hand your weapon to my lieutenant,” he gestured to her right. From a shadowy corner another Chodin emerged. She raised her sidearm at him again.

She felt the energy weapon’s vibration as the second alien drew closer.

“See, I told you that you couldn’t trust them!”

“Actually,” the farmer said, “I was talking as much to the lieutenant as to you when I shouted not to shoot. If you had, he would have killed you in response.”

“We’ll return your weapon,” said Alne. “Our government tells us humans are cruel and cannot be trusted. You just said that you couldn’t trust us. Forgive me for taking precautions.”

She would die, but she could take out an officer. Fair trade, the general would say: blaze of glory.

She surrendered her weapon butt first to Alne. Farmer smiled.

Pigeon scoffed.

She expected the meeting to be curt and business-like. She’d been on clandestine operations. This was heartfelt with words of encouragement. The farmer and Alne actually hugged when their discussion was done.

As they left, Alne returned her side arm. She handed the officer the wreath she’d retrieved while they talked.

“What is it with the olive trees?” asked Pigeon. “What do you do with them?”

“What do you mean, do with them?” asked the Chodin.

“Do they contain some chemical compound you don’t have on your world? Some think you smoke it, like a drug.”

“We . . . just grow them. They’re beautiful. Reminds us of home.”