Kana MacLaure: Elves in Space. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

   Tristan Woodleigh looked at his appointments and shouted through to his P.A.
   "What’s this with the lawyer? If it’s libel send him to legal."
   "No, it’s a story, apparently, I think the lawyer is just to get your attention."
   "Assholes." 

   The lawyer was a thin grey man, though his hair was brown. Tristan wondered idly why he wasn’t wearing glasses, he looked as though he should, then as they shook hands he spotted the contact lenses floating on the pale grey eyes and suppressed a smirk. Powers of observation were useful in more than just policing.
   "Good afternoon Mr Woodleigh, I am Martin Southwark of Pendlebury, Pendlebury, Lamb and Southwark."
   "Tristan Woodleigh. I hear you have a story for us ? Take a seat."
   "Thankyou. My client has sent me to represent him, since he feels, as do I, that you will heed my words as you would not if he spoke himself."
   "Are you... are you calling me a racist or something?"
   "Not at all, but my client feels, and I concur, that"
   Tristan held a hand up "Alright alright just tell me the story!"

   It was his first time on the Pegasus, he had never imagined going into space, it was strictly billionaires up there... He looked out of the tiny, triple-thick window at the horizon, and even as he watched, it flicked suddenly from flat to round as the earth fell away beneath them, and the thin blue line of the atmosphere showed clear against the blackness. For a moment he thought he understood the greenies, it all looked very fragile, and so thin...
   But the flight attendant was there with more champagne, from actual Champagne, courtesy of Kana MacLaure.

   Tristan sat back in his chair and laughed aloud "Kana MacLaure, the rock star? An immortal?"
   Southwark pressed his lips together. "We have evidence" he said curtly. "My client anticipated your reaction, as did I. Here." he held out a usb stick and Tristan sighed and took it and plugged it in. It began with a photo of a classical style sculpture of the head of MacLaure, then there were portraits, done on the style of old masters, all of MacLaure. Tristan smirked "They’re very good, he could easily sell these, he'd make a packet. Is that your angle? Spin a yarn for publicity and raise the price?"
   "Mr Woodleigh, I am a respectable solicitor, not a P.R. agent. My client is a distinguished academic and art historian. He was given the task of preparing these artworks for transportation to the Starflower Space Station, at which time he realised that not only were these masterpieces unseen, they were also authentic."
   Tristan was silent. He had heard some strange things, some unbelievable things, and the worse they were, the more likely they were to be true. People could be truly evil. But immortal...
   "Mr Southwark... I mean... there’s entropy, the laws of thermodynamics... You cannae change the laws of physics!" he laughed, but alone.
   "You can if they’re wrong."
   "Oh come on... Look, why not take these to the art editor, they’re a story in themselves. Why bother news with this nonsense? Elvis stories are so last century."
   "This is not an Elvis story." Southwark sniffed and pulled himself upright, and for the first time showed doubt, which paradoxically made Tristan take him more seriously. Until his next words "My client thinks MacLaure may be an elf."
   Tristan snorted and swung to his feet and looked out on the grey sky and the grey river. "You’re wasting both our time, Mr Southwark."
   "I merely ask that you look at the files. My client has meticulously documented his exhaustive research and expects a similar standard of work from an esteemed investigative journalist such as yourself."
   "But I can’t go to my editor with this fairytale!"
   "That is up to you. My client will be happy to answer, by email, any questions you may have concerning his findings, methodology and provenance. His email address is included." He rose to his feet. Tristan felt a strange reluctance to see him go.
   "Wait ! What... what do you think, yourself?"
   Southwark smoothed the front of his pinstriped and drew in a breath, then exhaled slowly "Have you read 1984 ? George Orwell?"
   "Yes, of course."
   "I am in doublethink. I know, as you say, that it is impossible, nevertheless, I have seen the evidence and I am compelled to believe it." He shrugged "Fortunately there are no apparent legal precedents or implications, so it is very much 'somebody else’s problem'." He smirked "Yours, in fact. Thankyou for your time."

   The weightlessness made him nauseous, he was glad to dock at the Starflower, and watch through the priceless windows of the shuttle bay as the Pegasus moved silently away, the blue flares of its exhausts the only hint of the vast elemental power unleashed. The billionaires and their flunkies were off to the Xing Long, where they could look down on the rest of humanity from a safe distance. He was the only passenger to disembark, for the Starflower, alone in space, was a private residence, the private residence of the global superstar Kana MacLaure.

    None of his queries, questions, emails or calls had been answered by the MacLaure estate. And, like Southwark, he was in doublethink, convinced by the evidence but utterly unable to accept the conclusion. But he was a good and thorough journalist, he had access to sources beyond the reach of the most dedicated academic, and had uncovered not the disproof he sought, but more and more evidence to support the absurd claim. He had discussed it with his at first amused girlfriend Caroline until at last she too had been convinced, and finally he had approached his editor. 
   "Look T, I don’t need convincing, I need evidence. Hang on." There and then she had placed the call to the Starflower, and his ticket on the Pegasus had been emailed back at once. He looked at his editor, impressed and annoyed.
   "Months! I've been calling them for months!"
   She smirked "Perhaps he doesn’t read your column?"

     In the softly lit elevator he found himself singing "Beaching Blues", Kana MacLaure's anthemic song to lost love. They had sniggered as children at the pun, but even grown-ups liked it, even his grandfather had MacLaure albums, it was a classic... And Kana himself looked twenty five, even in daylight. But it was the sculpture that haunted Tristan, for as Caroline had pointed out, there was no way of knowing how good the likenesses of people like Julius Caeser were, but the likeness of Kana MacLaure was unmistakable.

   They ate among the stars, the roof was a dome, open, it seemed, to the sky. Finlay, the guide, explained "There is a lot of glass, of course, but the framework, half of a buckyball, is covered in screens which show live feed of the stars and the planets. He's very pleased with it. He let the designer stay."
   Tristan smiled with the condescension of one who sees others being fooled. But Finlay lowered his eyes and looked away with a secretive smile, as though to say 'just you wait'.
   Sipping more champagne, Tristan gradually became aware of the music. It was said of Kana that he could make the guitar sound like it had strings of air, and the tune rose like the sound of starlight, and the voice of MacLaure, pure as the moonlight on new-fallen snow. To his astonishment Tristan realised that MacLaure had been there all along, but as the Starflower turned in space, the light of the moon had filled the dome above them, and there he was in all his youthful beauty, singing softly. Tristan, whose mind had been filled for months with the legend, was stunned by the reality. 
   The others in the room were still as stones, and Tristan barely glanced at them, while the music hypnotised him as no music had ever done before. He regretted that he had never seen MacLaure live, then understood with a shock, that that was really him, just over there. He looked up at the stars again, and suddenly he knew he was in space, and exclaimed wordlessly in disorientation and held an arm over his head. Finlay laid a hand on his arm and said calmly "It’s alright, most people have the same reaction, sooner or later. It’s a bit of a shock to the system. It'll pass. Here, drink this."
   He poured a small glass of clear liquid. Tristan looked doubtful, Finlay laughed and drank it down, then filled another glass. It was almost tasteless after the champagne, but as powerful as vodka, and Tristan sighed and breathed easily again. To his embarrassment he realised that Kana had stopped singing and was smiling at him. He swallowed and smiled back, and realised with horror that he felt as moved by the smile as he had the first time he saw Caroline. He laughed at himself; after all the build-up, and the hype, and the drama of being in space, it was not surprising he was in awe. But he did not feel awe, he felt love, he wanted to love and be loved by MacLaure, and with the perceptiveness that had seen him promoted so far, he knew that all those in the room felt the same. 

   The next 'morning' he met Kana MacLaure alone for the first time. They ate croissants on a pleasant terrace overlooking the garden under the dome. Two or three others were splashing in the irregularly shaped pool, and their laughter rose among the birdsong. Bright little birds flew among the trees, and butterflies danced like animated petals. It was idyllic, the croissants were the finest Tristan had ever tasted, everything was perfect, exquisite, he should have been marvelling, but he saw nothing, he tasted nothing, his whole being was focused on the beauty and the mesmerising voice of Kana MacLaure. 
   At last, realising that MacLaure had said little and that he had said nothing, he cleared his throat "Why do you live in space?"
   MacLaure sat back and lowered his eyelids slightly. Tristan flushed, appalled at how unprofessional he was being. Far to the back of his mind he could hear his normal voice mocking him, reeling off cynical questions, and shouting at him to think what his colleagues would say if they saw him simpering. But he swallowed, and in a voice he scarcely knew (that only Caroline had heard) he said
   "Is there anything you want? Is there anything I can do?"
   MacLaure nodded slowly. "You will think me vain."
   "Vain? Anyone who looked like you would be vain. I don’t think that!"
   MacLaure sighed "What am I to do with you..."
   "Anything."
   "You came to ask me questions. I have looked at your file, your source... Well, I had already left the planet before we employed him, and he would not come here..."
   Tristan, though human, was a journalist to his core. Questioning his sources was his job, not a job for those he was investigating. But his befuddled brain slowly cranked over and to his surprise he blurted out "You have hypnotised me, you hypnotise people, like one of those tv magicians, and you couldn’t do it to my source, and he started asking questions. You brought me up here to shut me up!"
   MacLaure sat up in his chair, an actual twinkle in his eyes. 
   "Au contraire, my dear Mr Woodleigh, I brought you up here because... because I hoped you would argue. They never... I... Yes, hypnosis is as good a word as any. Is it a trick? That, perhaps, is for you to judge. I expend no effort, it is not a thing I do, like singing, it is a... a way that I am, like breathing."
   "Charisma?"
   MacLaure smiled "If you like. I cannot say. There is only me now and..."
   Tristan sat up eagerly "Only you of whom ? Of what ? Are you an alien?"
   MacLaure looked away, watching a crimson bird fluttering nearby. His dark hair seemed to merge with the dark sky, the light in his eyes like stars in the darkness.
   "No. This planet is the only one I know."
   "What then?"
   "I am old."
   "How old?" Tristan was proud of himself, his mind floated like a lava raft above the storm of desire. MacLaure was so near that he could see the unnatural smoothness of his skin; he seemed to have no pores, no trace of stubble, his skin was that of a girl, but his square jaw and broad shoulders were unmistakably male, and his deep voice, so startling from such a face...
   MacLaure shook his head "The number would mean nothing to you. Very old indeed."
   "What, pyramids? Dinosaurs?"
   MacLaure grinned "Ah... those were fell beasts!"
   "Oh come on! Millions of years? Now you’re taking the..."
   "Yes. Return to Caroline, and laugh, and say 'Kana was having a laugh.'"
   Tristan was silent. He was convinced. The presence of the creature, whatever it was, affected him more than he could put into words, or even thought. But one word floated up through the maelstrom. "Caroline... don’t hurt her!"
   MacLaure raised his eyebrows "If you knew me better, you would not say that."
   "I apologise. But billionaires, well, in my experience they do whatever the fuck they want, and everyone knows you’re the richest..."
   "Money. It has been useful, certainly. Is it not enough that I live in space because I can?"
   "Don’t change the subject! So are you a mutant?"
   "Perhaps." MacLaure smiled "But not a mutant human."
   "What then?"
   "We... I am... We call ourselves the speakers. The talkers, perhaps, would be a better... We awoke, or were born, long long ago, beyond the count of years..."
   "Do you have superpowers?"
   MacLaure smiled slowly "I like to think I can sing rather well."
   Tristan gaped at him, this was Kana MacLaure, he had forgotten, in the intimacy of breakfast, just who he was addressing.
   "Yes, but is that because you’re a... talker?"
   MacLaure laughed "No, it is my talent, my fortune, perhaps, not a part of our nature."
   "Are you telling me that there are other species of humanoid on earth, that we just don’t know about?"
   "Yes."
   "But you are the last?"
   "Perhaps. Our people scattered, from the earliest times, we went our separate ways, drifting..." he looked up at the stars, and Tristan clenched a fist to prevent himself from reaching out to touch the long pale throat. MacLaure smiled at him, knowingly, and Tristan gritted his teeth. There was a silence, then MacLaure sighed "I hope there are others. I have people searching, naturally, but we, I at least, am expert in covering my tracks.

   I am in two minds, Tristan Woodleigh, I cannot say whether you are here to be won to silence, or encouraged to speak out. Perhaps you yourself hold the answer to my question."
   "I...me?"
   "If I ask it of you, would you return to earth and say it was a jest?"
   "I... yes, yes of course."
   "That is not a journalist speaking."
   Tristan gaped, his heart pounding, he could scarcely breathe. He wasn’t even gay, but this creature... he thought of the plants that eat insects, how attractive they were to their prey... MacLaure smiled again, and Tristan found himself smiling, as though entrained, or enthralled. "What have you done to me?"
   "Nothing. But I fear that I could. One reason I came here, apart from the view" he gestured gracefully at the sky behind Tristan. The earth was in half-light, the vast blue of ocean, with clouds like poured cream, curved into sight, and Tristan, for the first time, thought of home, of the hills where he lived with Caroline, of the river at night, from his office, with the lights reflected rippling in the water, and the beauty of the wave on the shore. But then he looked back at MacLaure and all was forgotten again. "You see... It is not good for my kind to be with your kind. At the very least you will give undue weight to our words. At worst... Well, alas, my kind go bad in extreme ways." He frowned, but it did not mar his beauty, if anything it made him look older, wiser and more powerful than ever. Tristan scrabbled for thought.
   "Are you saying that you live in space so that you don’t cast your spell on people back on earth?"
   "There is no spell, I tell you, it is no deed of mine! But yes, partly, to be separate from your kind."
   "And you brought me here to what, keep your cover story going?"
   MacLaure sighed "Partly. But... these are difficult times. In the turmoil, I fear that others of my kind, lost in the crowds, will vanish forever. This may be my last chance to find them."
   "To bring them here? An ark in space?"
   "If they wish it. If they yet live! I may be the last... Perhaps I must find out, or regret this too, forever."
   "What do you regret?"
   The muscles of his face did not move, but profound grief, regret, and shame darkened his features. Tristan watched without breathing, feeling like a naturalist observing a new behaviour, previously unseen, with cool wonder and enthralled excitement "You have done wrong! You are not an angel or something!"
   MacLaure laughed "An angel! You are not familiar with my music then..."
   "But wait, if they find out you’re immortal, or whatever, they'll come after you! Some psycho will try to kill you!"
   "Yes. So I am in doubt, and you are here to help me resolve this doubt. Shall I risk my life to find another like me?"