Asimov's SF, February 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Yes,” I said, “but we're lucky they don't spread underground. If the blackweed sent out rhizomes, like bracken, we'd never get the stuff out."

  “We should never have let it here in the first place,” said Keith. “How come we even let these aliens walk around without a biosuit, shedding microbes everywhere they go? We have more virus protection on our computers than we do on our biosphere—but we could survive without computers a lot easier than without a biosphere.” This tripped off his tongue with the ease of a well-rehearsed slogan.

  “How long have you been caring about the biosphere?” I demanded. I don't normally argue with the volunteers, but I couldn't let this pass. “I haven't seen you out here before. You didn't notice when this riverbank got choked with Himalayan balsam—why are you so concerned about Hastillan blackweed? You think the blackweed is the only problem we have? If you care about the environment so much, there's plenty of other ways you could help."

  “But the aliens are the biggest threat we face. If these Hastillans can breathe our air, we shouldn't let them anywhere near it. We should make the Earth a quarantine zone."

  I looked to Olibrys to see how she was taking this, but of course I couldn't read the expression on her snout. In any case, her attention was taken up by someone trying to give her a book. I heard her say, “—no need for Jesus.” Another volunteer sidled over, offering to sell Olibrys the pyramids of Egypt.

  I smiled ruefully, realizing that we only had so many volunteers today because they'd heard an alien would be coming. They all had an agenda. Well, at least I could get some work out of them. Maybe the experience of doing something useful for once might give them a taste for it.

  “Okay, if everyone's finished their lunch, let's get back to work."

  I went down to the river to get some water to put out the fire. As I climbed back up the bank, I heard a cry of “Ouch!” from Olibrys's translator, followed by a fusillade of beeps.

  “Sorry,” said Keith in a distinctly unapologetic tone. “I'd help you up, but I don't want to get germs on my hand."

  I dropped the kettle and ran to the path, where I saw Olibrys picking herself up from the ground, brushing dead leaves from her carapace. “What happened?” I demanded.

  “She tripped over my spade—the one I'm using to remove unwanted alien organisms,” said Keith. “Have you got any bleach so I can sterilize it?"

  “His spade—” Olibrys began, then stopped. Her agitated cilia slowed to a stately wave, as if exercising diplomatic restraint.

  “Was your spade placed flat on the ground with the blade pointing down?” I asked Keith.

  “Guess not,” he said, his voice oozing self-satisfaction rather than regret.

  “Then you've violated the safety instructions. Please leave the site immediately. You'll be liable for any costs arising from this incident.” I turned to Olibrys. “I apologize for this. I assure you, his speech and behavior aren't condoned by myself, Yorkshire Green Action, or—"

  Keith flapped his arm in disgust. “Whose side are you on?"

  “The countryside,” I said. “Olibrys has hacked out far more blackweed than you. All you've done is cause trouble."

  I raised my voice and addressed the others. “Speaking of hacking out weed, we still have work to do. Let's get on, please. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish."

  With a clang of spades and a mutter of conversation, most of the other volunteers began drifting away.

  “John,” I said, “would you please escort Keith back to the flitter park."

  “No need,” said Keith. “I'm leaving.” He stalked off down the path, then yelled back over his shoulder. “You'll find out I'm right. Remember measles! Remember smallpox!"

  The Scottish woman had been staring at the confrontation as if transfixed.

  “What did he mean by that?” I asked.

  “I think he meant, ‘Remember what happened to Native Americans when Europeans brought measles and smallpox,'” she said. “Don't you think he has cause for concern?"

  “I don't know. I'm not a doctor."

  “But what about the ecosystem? Are aliens poisoning the Earth?"

  “Well, the blackweed grows here, so obviously there is an issue. But Olibrys came out to dig it up, and incidents like this won't help us get Hastillan co-operation in future. Someone's going to have to apologize to the embassy as it is.” Head office could deal with that, I thought.

  “What do you think the blackweed really does?” she asked, looking at me with an intent gaze.

  Flattered by the attention, I was about to relay what Olibrys had claimed, that it was just alien dope. But then, as the sun came out from behind a cloud, I spotted a metallic glint on the frame of her glasses.

  “Are you a journalist?” I said.

  She nodded. “Freelance. My screen name is Susanna Munro"—she paused to see if I recognized it, which I didn't—"and today I'm working on ‘Ten Alien Plots to Conquer the Earth’ for the Conspiracy Channel."

  I sighed. “So Keith was playing up to the cameras. I guess it takes TV to make someone that rude and aggressive."

  Susanna looked hurt. “I just record what's already there,” she said, with the air of a well-worn justification. “Conspiracists are usually outspoken—at least, the ones who want to get on TV are. But we've had his viewpoint. Now I'm interested in yours.” She tapped her glasses, reminding me that they were recording.

  “My view is that we need to stand up and get rid of the blackweed"—I brandished my spade for the camera—"not sit around arguing about why it arrived or what it really does. There are more important things to worry about."

  “More important than alien schemes to conquer the Earth?"

  “More important than hypothetical schemes, yes. There's plenty of real, practical environmental problems to solve."

  She waved a dismissive hand. “If you want to talk about global warming, save it for the Nostalgia Channel."

  “Do you freelance for them as well? Because there's a lot I could say.” I stopped, realizing I was in danger of coming across as a haranguing obsessive like Keith. No doubt Susanna's raw footage became fodder for all kinds of clip shows—a parade of earnest Cassandras, each with their own pet peeves.

  “They mostly use archive footage,” she said. “Like experts talking about the next ice age, or the oil running out, or the population time-bomb. Environmentalists are always crying wolf."

  “Yes, but there are wolves out there—metaphorical ones, anyway. The real ones mostly died."

  “And don't those wolves include the Hastillans?"

  I turned away and pointed to Olibrys. “Why don't you ask her?” I said, weary of the fruitless debate. In a lifetime of watching TV, I've never seen talking heads change anyone's mind.

  “Oh, I intend to.” Susanna's voice softened, and she touched my arm. “If I gave you a hard time, don't take it personally—it's only television. I do take your point. That's why I've been digging up blackweed, too."

  I appreciated this apology, even if it were only a journalist's veneer of human feeling, designed to dissuade me from objecting to the footage.

  The work continued. Olibrys dug alongside everyone else, doing her best to ignore the rugby-shirt guy talking about the golden lights he saw back when his mother disappeared. I sent him over the bridge to attack the weeds on the other side.

  As the volunteers grew used to the task, they speeded up, creating heaps of dead blackweed. Some of the larger fronds bore catkins, and even a few early berries. We were just in time, helped by our research on the environmental cues that spurred the blackweed's life-cycle.

  The group spread out along both sides of the river, as we searched for remaining clumps of weed. I knew we wouldn't clear the entire valley today. But if we could keep attacking the weed faster than it spread, we'd succeed eventually.

  I felt relaxed enough that I took time out to give an impromptu flower-ID course, pointing out red campion and wood anemone, and talking about classifications an
d how to use field guides. Susanna asked me about the bracket fungus sprouting from dead trees like pairs of ears. I couldn't help wondering if she were merely humoring me to garner footage for “Eccentric Englishmen” or somesuch. And yet—if someone wanted to record me for posterity, who was I to keep my knowledge to myself ? I enjoyed the attention, and as usual I was tempted to prolong the day's work, since I only had my empty house to return to. But they're volunteers, not slaves, and you can't overwork them if you want to see them again.

  About four o'clock, I headed to the flitter so we could start loading up the weed, ready for the incinerator tomorrow. Hovering over the river, I could see the difference we had made. On last month's survey trip, I had seen dark blotches all along the banks. Now the darkness was concentrated into piles of dead weed. In the gaps left behind, nettles and stitchwort and sanicle would grow—but mostly Himalayan balsam, in long pink ribbons edging the river.

  Most of the volunteers stood by the bridge, waiting for me to set the flitter down. I wondered where Olibrys was, then saw her upriver. She was scrabbling through a blackweed heap as if she'd lost her wallet. I saw her put something in her bag, but to my surprise she kept on searching, while occasionally lifting her head as if to spot anyone approaching along the path.

  I reached for the binoculars. As I focused on Olibrys, I glimpsed what went into her bag—something small and orange. She was searching through the blackweed for the few nearly-ripe berries.

  I zoomed over and landed the flitter, not caring that the front scraped an alder and the back squished down into a bog. Then I leapt out, hurting my knees as I landed, and shouted, “Put the bag down!"

  Olibrys turned toward me. “It's not what you think,” she said.

  “How do you know what I think?” I demanded.

  “You think what they all think—Keith and Susanna and all the people who daub graffiti on the embassy walls. You're a nasty suspicious lot, and this is a nasty primitive horrible little planet.” Olibrys's translator was expressionless as always, but something about her furiously roiling cilia reminded me of my niece exploding into a tantrum.

  Just because she was taller than me and worked twice as hard, I'd assumed Olibrys was an adult. Silly, of course. Maybe she was more like a teenager. Or maybe I was reading too much into the combination of alien body-language and a toneless translator.

  “I'm not like Keith,” I said. “I don't think you're evil"—not without more evidence, I thought. “But it doesn't look good, pocketing the berries. What were you going to do, find somewhere else to plant them?"

  “No. I just wanted to get high with my friends.” She paused, and I waited for her to compose herself. “They've been saying I'm climbing the career stairway, crawling to my mother and the natives. You don't know what it's like when there are so few people your own age, and they all start ignoring you, and making comments behind your back that you're meant to overhear. When I saw that a few berries were ripe, it looked like a chance to win them over. I could say I'd saved the last harvest, and we could celebrate together. Can't you let me keep them? These are the last!"

  “You said when you chew the berries, you spit out the seeds so the blackweed grows again."

  “We won't do that. I promise."

  Could I believe her? She had certainly worked hard today, but maybe that was just a ruse to get me to trust her. Even if I credited her intentions, could she control all her friends—the ones who'd planted the weed out here in the first place?

  The volunteers were filing up the path, on their way to help load the blackweed into the flitter. I had to make a decision quickly.

  I felt sorry for Olibrys. I could imagine the tensions within a small embassy, the isolation of being ostracized. Hell, I know what it's like to be lonely. But my loyalty was to Earth, to the countryside. I couldn't let her walk away with the berries in her bag, not when they might sprout into yet more blackweed blighting the land.

  I held out my hand. Olibrys's cilia drooped like wilted flowers. “I understand,” she said. “I would do the same for my homeworld.” She handed me a plastic box half-full of orange berries. “That's all of them."

  “Thanks,” I said. Then I thought that my translated voice probably sounded as expressionless to Olibrys as hers did to me, so to make sure she knew I meant it sincerely, I said, “Thanks again—for everything you've done today."

  As Susanna and the others approached, I quickly hid the berries inside my coat, to protect Olibrys—and myself—from the journalist's gaze.

  People began heaving dead fronds into the flitter. The river gurgled tirelessly, but we were weary when we finished loading the dark cargo. The breeze had picked up, and the sun cast long shadows of wind turbines down the moors. I called the group together for a few final words.

  “I appreciate all your efforts here. Clearing the blackweed is an important job, which will help the ecosystem and stop wildlife being poisoned. On behalf of all the birds and water voles, thanks again.” I tried to catch people's eyes as I spoke: Olibrys, Susanna, all the conspiracists and missionaries attracted by the lure of the alien.

  “But there's plenty of other things that need doing. Over the coming months, we've got coppicing, pond maintenance, GM pollen counts ... lots of exciting things, if not as glamorous as alien killer weeds.

  “Next week it's footpath repair, and I hope you'll come along. Until then, thank you and good night."

  The volunteers dispersed, walking back to the flitter park much muddier than they'd arrived. Olibrys lagged behind, trudging up the path, brushing against nettles because she didn't feel their sting, or didn't care. I felt a pang of empathy, realizing that she had no reason to rush home. I imagined how she'd hoped that by tonight she'd be popular again, whereas now she only had more loneliness to return to.

  I called out instinctively. “Olibrys!"

  She turned round and returned to the bridge, where I stood gazing at the rushing water. This spring, it would carry no blackweed berries downstream.

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “I guess it's hard for you to go home empty-handed.” I hesitated, wondering what else I could say. “I've seen your embassy on TV. It's just a few buildings, but there's a whole world outside. And it's not all nasty and primitive, or full of people like Keith. Some of it's beautiful."

  “I've seen the brochures,” said Olibrys.

  I remembered that the Hastillans were rich from licensing their technology. Of course the embassy would be deluged with offers from travel agencies, tour operators, and the like. I had little to offer Olibrys that she couldn't buy herself if she wanted it.

  Except—"When we were researching the blackweed's life-cycle, we built a habitat to replicate its natural environment. Back at the YGA centre, there's a Hastillan dome with the same atmosphere, the same heat and light as your home planet. If you wanted somewhere to hang out, somewhere to get away from your elders, I could let you use it."

  “Really?” said Olibrys. “I think some of my broodmates would like that. It sounds just the place for those who are always complaining about the smell of your air.” Her double-jointed arm made a sweeping gesture into the wind. “But what would you want in return?"

  I could think of lots of things. I wished Olibrys would come back next week, become a regular volunteer, and endorse a message about the importance of looking after your planet. But as I opened my mouth to ask, I realized I was being just as selfish as everyone else who tried to use Olibrys for their own ends.

  Instead I said, “What do you want?"

  After a long pause, her translator chirped and said, “I want to believe, to connect, to embrace.... “I couldn't tell whether Olibrys had said three things, or whether one alien verb had been approximated three different ways.

  “I know that's hard,” she went on. “But it means a lot that you asked. All I really want is to make the best of things. I'm here, after all. I just don't know what the best of it is."

  I sympathized. “I never found that out myself."

&nbs
p; We fell silent for a few moments. Far upstream, I saw a kingfisher darting over the shallows.

  “I guess the thing to do is to keep looking,” I said, thinking how long it was since I'd done so. “You don't find what you don't seek."

  “Where would you suggest I start?” Olibrys asked.

  The translator's monotone gave me no clue whether this question was genuine or sarcastic. But I felt I owed her the benefit of the doubt.

  I said, “Earlier, you asked what we did for fun. That seems as good a place as any. I could show you a few things—"As soon as I said this, I realized that the delights of my allotment, or my collection of Northern Soul classics, might prove a little staid for star-hopping adolescents. “If you'd rather hang around with people your own age, I could introduce you to some of my younger relatives. My nephews and nieces have some interesting hobbies. And if you find anything you really like, you can introduce it to your friends: be a trend-setter."

  If I could induce the Hastillans to develop a more positive attitude to Earth and its people, maybe they wouldn't be so cavalier about spreading blackweed everywhere. Yet I also wanted to make a genuine connection, unsullied by ulterior motives. I wanted to reach out to Olibrys, to learn how to get past the toneless translator to discover how she really felt.

  “It would have to be something even better than eating blackweed,” she said, “if it were to make the brood enjoy being here, rather than sneering in the embassy or feeling homesick in your Hastillan dome."

  “I can't promise that.” I didn't know what effect the blackweed had on the aliens. “But I can promise there's a whole lot of things you can try. There's a big world out here, full of people who love letting their hair down.” I looked at Olibrys's cilia and wondered how my metaphor would translate.

  “You would be my native guide?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said, already looking forward to the prospect. It would be a great chance to get out more.

  “Then I'm willing to look where you suggest,” she said. “Call me at the embassy when you have some ideas."

  Olibrys held out her hand. I removed my gloves, and clasped her hand in mine. Her grey skin was smooth and hot, and her thumbs gripped like pincers, leaving painful red marks next to my liver-spots.