By Any Other Name

by Wesa

Series: Crossover War of the Worlds/ The People stories of Zenna Henderson

Category: Angst

Alternate Universe:

Disclaimers: War of the Worlds characters belong to Paramount and Strangis & Strangis. The concept of The People belonged to the late Zenna Henderson until her death; I don't know who owns it now. I have nothing but admiration for those who created these characters and concepts, and I mean no disrespect. I'm not making any money from this; this is just for my own entertainment and for the entertainment of those who want to read it.

A brief comment is in order for those who are not familiar with Miss Henderson's People. Her stories about the People appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction from the early 1950s until the mid-70s. The People escaped the destruction of their home planet and crashed on Earth in the desert southwest of the United States sometime in the last years of the 19^th century. They were fully human in appearance, but possessed many extraordinary powers, including a closeness with God to which the rest of us can only aspire. Miss Henderson's stories tell of the People's struggles to fit in and to live their lives as ordinary people, unmolested by fearful and ignorant neighbors. The People are us as we would hope and wish to be, and where with work, with luck, and by the grace of God, we may someday find ourselves.

For those who wish to read the original stories, I believe the only collection currently in print is Ingathering. I highly recommend it.

By Wesa.

Paul was in the computer lab after his morning workout when Dr. Harrison Blackwood entered with a book of southwestern legends in his hands. "Norton," he said, "when you get a moment, try to find out if there's anything else out there regarding this..." and he showed the computer genius, with Paul looking over their shoulders, the book he'd brought.

Most of the legends in the book involved Hopi, Navaho, or Apache myths; many of the others were well-known tall tales invented by white men. But the one that interested Harrison was a somewhat disjointed legend common to all four groups about people who fell from the sky one summer day. Most of the Indians had regarded these sky-people as gifts from the spirits, and had readily accepted them into their tribes and villages, despite their strange ways.

Most of the whites' accounts spoke of witches and evil monsters that used magic to fly and to make fire. One account spoke of a kind of round up that had taken place, with the monsters herded into an enclosure that was then set ablaze. Those that tried to use their magic - or witchcraft - to escape by flying were shot to death as they came out of the flames.

"These people were terrified of something," Harrison said.

"Blackwood, it's just a legend," Paul protested. "Mythology. Folklore at best."

"Four cultures with no ideas about space travel independently come up with a legend about unusual people falling from the sky, Colonel?" Harrison asked. "How could that possibly not be based on a real event? Of course, I tend to discount the spirits' role in their arrival, as well as the accusation of witchcraft, but if these were aliens, it stands to reason that there might be something left of their craft. Maybe we could get a handle on their technology." He paused a moment. "If they're 'our' aliens, maybe we'll find some remains, as they certainly wouldn't have lived long exposed to our atmosphere."

"When is this supposed to have happened, Doc?" Norton asked, beginning to take an interest in the challenge.

"Sometime late last century, Norton," Harrison told him. "The legends don't give an exact date."

"Of course not," Paul objected.

"If they did, they wouldn't be legends, they'd be history," Norton pointed out, his eyes gleaming.

It took Norton only a couple of hours to correlate several dozen reports of a meteor that had screamed in over the Pacific and southern California in 1891 or '92 - there were some discrepancies in the date - on an easterly course, finally crashing into Mount Baldy. "Trouble is, Doc," he added when he finally admitted only limited success, "there are four - count 'em, four - Mount Baldies or Bald Mountains just in California, Arizona, and New Mexico. And that's not counting all the unnamed mountains that stick up above the tree line. The names of the towns the reports came from aren't much help, either. Those that haven't ceased to exist have changed their names. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Well, there is Socorro, and a little unincorporated wide spot in the road called Kerry or Kerry Canyon."

That was all Harrison needed. "Find me the nearest Mount Baldy to those two places, and then mark the next couple most likely candidates, Norton," he said. "Colonel? Are you coming?"

He couldn't let Harrison wander off alone, and forbidding it wouldn't have worked, so he went along. Suzanne opted to stay at the Cottage and work unless or until they found something.

Paul was relieved. While Dr. Suzanne McCullough had more sense than Harrison, her curiosity still led her into danger sometimes, and it was far easier to look after one scientist than two. He made up a training schedule for Omega and told Suzanne and Norton to notify them immediately if anything came up. He sent a report to General Wilson, letting him know where they planned to be and why, and went upstairs to pack for a trip that would possibly last as long as a week. Even with all that to do, he was ready before Harrison was; sometimes - no, most times being a soldier was a definite advantage. Paul could pack for war in three minutes flat, for leave in ten. For this trip, a fact-finding mission in the guise of a vacation, it took him almost fourteen minutes to pack his single bag.

When he went back downstairs, Mrs. Pennyworth met him at Harrison's Bronco with a cooler full of sandwiches, sodas, and plain water, along with two thermoses of coffee. The woman who kept house and fixed meals for them was an absolute jewel, Paul decided, not for the first time. If she were a little younger or if he were a little older, he might have asked her to marry him - no, that wouldn't have been fair to her. He thanked her and packed the food into the Bronco just moments before Harrison came outside, with Suzanne tagging along behind him, reminding him to check in on schedule and to please try to stay out of trouble. Absently, patting down his pockets as if looking for something, Harrison promised he would.

Norton wheeled up beside Paul. "They almost sound like they're married, don't they?" he asked in a low voice.

"I heard that, Norton!" both doctors objected, almost in unison.

"Sheeesh!" Norton exclaimed. "When I yell, I can't get their attention!"

Suzanne's daughter Debi abandoned the chase-the-string game she'd been playing with Ginger the cat, and ran over to say goodbye. "Don't be gone too long," she told Harrison, and hugged him before coming around to Paul's side of the Bronco. "Take care of him, Colonel," she said softly, "and come back soon. I feel safer when you're here."

Paul reached to ruffle her bright hair, but she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "Be careful," she added.

"Hey," Harrison protested, "how does he rate a kiss?"

Debi laughed and went back around to kiss Harrison's cheek while Paul, slightly bemused, climbed into the driver's seat. Since Harrison had been awake almost four hours already, they wouldn't get as far as the Central Valley before he had to take over the driving anyway.

Harrison was patting his pockets again when Paul started the engine. "Looking for your keys, Doctor?" Paul wondered. Harrison grinned at Suzanne and Debi, waved to Norton and Mrs. Pennyworth, and climbed into the passenger seat.

They passed the time the first day with inconsequential small talk - when Harrison wasn't napping, of course. They got into Flagstaff around six o'clock, in time to grab a bite to eat and, on impulse, catch a local baseball game; male bonding at its best.

The next morning, the breakfast Paul ordered thoroughly annoyed Harrison. Paul hid his smile and pretended to be angry when his friend criticized his omelet. He was, he realized, going to have to quit doing that, or at least quit doing it so often. Aggravating his friend wasn't worth what it was surely doing to Paul's cholesterol count.

They were on the road again by seven and crossed the New Mexico border before noon. Harrison was sleeping again, but Paul didn't mind. He was busy gazing at the severe beauty of the desert, so different from his native Georgia, or Oklahoma, where he'd grown up.

When Harrison woke up, he asked questions, and Paul told him what he knew about the local tribes: the few Apaches that were left, the Hopi, and the great Navaho nation to the north. Harrison mentioned the Anasazi and Paul frowned, realizing Harrison did it for the same reason Paul ate more meat and cheese around his friend than was exactly healthy: Harrison was trying to get a rise out of him. He refused to take the bait, explaining that the word itself was Navaho, and meant 'ancient ones' or 'ancient enemy.' Paul then steered the conversation toward World War Two and the Navaho code-talkers, and Harrison suggested that they should all learn Cherokee, for the same reason. They laughed together at the idea of Paul holding classes in his native language, and Harrison asked to learn a few basic words.

The mountain range they could see in the distance never seemed to get any nearer. Paul edged the speedometer up over seventy-five miles an hour, yet the range still hovered on the far horizon, although it did resolve itself into individual mountains.

"Maybe it's a mirage," Harrison suggested.

Paul shook his head. "I don't think so. They're right where they're supposed to be, according to Norton's map. It's this great flat desert and the clear air. Distances are deceiving. But I think we're starting to gain on them," he added confidently.

That was when the Bronco chose to throw a rod.

It was all Paul could do to keep the vehicle upright and on the road when the engine seized up, taking the power steering and power brakes with it. When they finally came to a stop, they were halfway off the road, looking down a steep slope into miles of alkali desert. "You okay, Harrison?" Paul asked as soon as he'd caught his own breath. "Harrison?"

There was no answer. Harrison sat slumped in his seat, his head leaning against the window - Why won't he wear the damn seat belt? Paul wondered angrily. Then he saw the blood trickling from his friend's nose and ear.

His training took over, and Paul checked Harrison over carefully. Although there were bruises forming already, he couldn't find anything broken but when Harrison still wouldn't wake up, Paul began to get really worried. As if that wasn't enough, with the engine stopped and therefore no air conditioning, the interior of the Bronco quickly heated to an uncomfortable, perhaps dangerous, temperature.

Finding the phone took a couple of minutes, since it had been tossed around while Paul wrestled with the steering wheel. He finally found it under his seat and tried to call for help, but either they were too far from a transmission tower, or all the bouncing around had damaged the phone. Paul looked at Harrison, then cracked the phone case open to see if it was something he could fix.

Finding no obvious damage inside the phone, Paul firmed his mouth in determination, then got out and put the hood up on the disabled vehicle, hoping that any passers-by, if there were any in this desolate place, would see it and realize they needed help.

Not knowing whether Harrison might have a spinal injury, Paul didn't want to move him, but he did want to get him out of the sun. He found a blanket in the back and tucked it over the top of Harrison's door. He didn't have to go far to find a stick that had apparently broken off one of the desiccated-looking shrubs which thinly dotted the desert. He used it to raise the other end of the blanket and create a shaded air space outside the passenger window, which he opened as far as he could without disturbing the angle of Harrison's head.

Other than that, all he could do was to roll down the other windows in hopes of catching an errant breeze, and sparingly use what was left of their water to bathe Harrison's brow. For almost an hour after the breakdown, Paul watched as Harrison labored harder and harder to breathe. All there was left to do was to plead with the spirits. He began to sing softly, an old chant his grandfather had taught him.

The crunch of gravel alerted him to another presence, and Paul turned sharply to face whoever could sneak up on him out here, in the middle of nowhere.

Whatever he had expected, this wasn't it. "Hi," said a girl with an innocent, young-looking face and shoulder-length, straight blonde hair. "Did your truck break down?"

Paul decided not to look a gift teenager in the mouth. "My friend is injured," he told her, "and our phone isn't working. Do you have a way to call for help?"

On the other side of the Bronco, the passenger door opened, but for some reason Harrison didn't fall out. "You already did," said an older woman, whose striking resemblance to the teenager suggested that she was the girl's mother. "He has a concussion, and he's close to heatstroke." She raised her head and looked toward the east. "We have to bring him in." She paused. "No. It'll be faster to bring him in our way."

Who was she talking to? Paul wondered. He turned to the teenager and saw the same far-away expression on her face. As he watched, a pair of hands clasped the teenager's shoulders and moved her out of the way, and a man stepped into view. "My sister and niece are looking after your friend," he said. "I'm Remy." He offered his hand as Paul got out of the Bronco and looked around.

Paul hesitated. "Who are you people?" he asked. "Where did you come from?" he added, seeing no vehicle.

Remy looked over at his sister. "Shadow, Elias says there are thunderheads building up south of Socorro. You'd better go high; you don't want to get caught in a thunderstorm with him." He looked at the teen. "Can you help your mom, Lytha? I don't want to leave him here alone." Lytha nodded, her blonde hair swinging.

Paul watched as the girl went around the truck, and the two women somehow effortlessly removed Harrison from his seat and straightened his lanky body. Then, with Shadow in the lead, one hand under Harrison's head, and Lytha following with one hand under his heels, they simply rose into the air and flew away with him, heading east and up. Way up.

Paul watched until they were out of sight before turning back to Remy, but he just looked at the other man wordlessly.

Remy gazed back sympathetically. "Kind of at a loss for words?" he asked. "I understand the feeling, better than you might think."

"Are they -" Paul tried finally. "Are you -"

"Angels? No." Remy grinned and added, "Though we have been mistaken for such before; Shadow more often than me."

"Well, angels wasn't quite what I had in mind," Paul said. "I think you're who we came looking for, only I don't think we actually expected any of you to still be alive."

Remy raised his brows. "Where were you headed? Roswell?" he asked.

"Socorro, actually," Paul told him. "Harrison - he's going to be all right, isn't he?"

"Shadow doesn't seem too worried," Remy told him in a tone that indicated the words were meant to be reassuring. "She knows this stuff. It's her Gift."

Paul nodded, accepting the reassurance. "So. Now that we've found you, what do we do?"

"You mean you didn't have a plan?"

"Harrison's the scientist. I'm just here to keep him out of trouble. I didn't do that very well," he added morosely.

Remy shook his head. "You did okay by my reckoning," he said, leading the way back along the highway, following the marks on the road. "You were driving, right? Look, here's where you kept it from rolling."

Paul had to admit that the tire marks did look like that might be what happened. He sighed and looked at the Bronco. "Know an inexpensive towing company?" he asked. "I'll have to get it fixed while Harrison's in the hospital or we'll be afoot."

Remy grinned at him. "I've already called Davy to come and get it. If he and Johannan can't fix it, it can't be fixed." He looked at Harrison's truck with a critical eye. "They'll love it. Most of the cars they work on are fifteen or twenty years old and look older. Trees beat the tar out of paint."

"Trees?" Paul repeated.

Remy nodded. "Cars are easier to Lift than people, unless they're unconscious, like your friend. We don't actually run the engines much."

To Paul's surprise, he was starting to like this guy, alien or not. The two men went back to the Bronco and sat on the ground to wait in the shade of the blanket. "So ... each of you has a different talent?" Paul asked cautiously. "You have to wait for Davy because you can't, uh, Lift the Bronco?"

"Oh I could Lift it okay," Remy replied. "I could probably even Lift it all the way without having to stop to rest. But Davy's got the unlight."

"What's an unlight?"

"One of Davy's inventions. It sorta flows the light around, making us invisible. It wouldn't do to have the Air Force think we were a UFO, now would it?" Remy laughed.

Paul stared, not certain if that was meant to be a joke. "Are those ... yours?" he asked at last.

"Some of them could be," Remy admitted seriously. "We did find a few of our People through the Freedom of Information Act by checking up on the locations. Most were Blends, of course. We were awful scattered during the Landing, and some of us ended up alone, like Shadow's 'n' my grandmother. Fortunately some of you Outsiders are good people, and they took our Lost Ones in."

"The legends we found said that some were accepted among the locals," Paul agreed with a nod. "What are Blends?"

"Mixed ancestry. It sounds nicer than half-breed."

Paul snorted. "Yeah." After a second he realized the implication and turned to Remy in astonishment. "You mean we can -?"

"Well, not you 'n' me," Remy laughed, "but our two peoples are alike physically, yes. Mother's father was an Outsider. It was awful hard on Mom and Uncle Peter when they were kids, Mom especially. She's a Sensitive, like Shadow and Lytha, but she developed her Gift within weeks of her birth, and she had no control over it, not until they found the Group. It wasn't so bad for Uncle Peter, but - well, 'Whatever you do, wherever you live, you have to conform or die. Different is dead. And one death is never enough. You die and die and die.'"

Paul nodded, remembering his early days at the Point, understanding exactly. "The whispers behind your back can feel like they're rasping the skin away," he agreed. "That had the sound of a quote."

"Uncle Peter used to tell me that when I got too rebellious. He learned it by getting caught being different when he was - oh, about 15, I guess. Lytha's age." He blinked. "Gosh, how time flies. It doesn't seem so awful long ago that Shadow was 15."

"It's an unusual name. The other people you've mentioned seem to have - well, less extraordinary names," Paul observed.

"Oh, her name is Bethie-too, because Mother is Bethie. They used to call her Remy's Shadow, though, because she followed me around when we were kids, and it sorta stuck."

Paul chuckled. "You know," he said, "if anyone had told me this morning that this afternoon I'd be calmly visiting with an alien, I'd've thought they should be locked up. We were only really hoping for some artifacts from the crash."

That made Remy chuckle as he idly picked up a rock and tossed it down the slope. "You're leaning on it," he said.

It took a moment for the implication to sink in. "What?" Paul exclaimed.

"Maybe not literally," he admitted, "but the main part of the ship was mostly aluminum. When it crashed, it drove hard into the west side of Baldy and sort of ... splashed. After they discovered how much in demand that metal is here, the Cougar Canyon Group made their living for years by mining the remnants of the ship. There was something complicated about marketing the stuff, though. Since that's one metal that doesn't occur naturally in this part of the country, they had to ship it out, and then ship it back in. They always got a very good price, too, because of its purity. There's nothing there now, though. The mine petered out years ago, even before the water from the reservoir covered it."

Paul looked from Remy to the aluminum custom wheels on Harrison's Bronco and began to laugh. He got up to retrieve the last two sodas from the cooler, handing one to Remy as he sat back down, still laughing as he opened his. "To aluminum," he proposed, holding out his can.

Remy grinned and clanked his can against Paul's. "To aluminum," he agreed.

End of part 1.