by Yoss
In any case, the decision about the future depended entirely on man. The choices seemed very limited: either rational development at a dizzying pace, or suicide.
But the xenoids showed up, and apparently they didn’t know about futurology and didn’t care. At least, not human futurology.
Following the xenoids’ Ultimatum, the augurs lost their monopoly on the future. So did the rest of the human race.
All that Homo sapiens had left was the present, like a bone thrown to a dog to gnaw on after its master has gorged on all the meat.
No more “predictions of the world fifty years from now.” Or ten years... or even tomorrow.
Every morning, every human wakes up in fear and hope, to discover, to his dismay but also relief, that he is still there. It was no nightmare. The xenoids exist, and they’re the masters. And nobody knows what they’ll decide tomorrow.
Social workers, Body Spares, erasing the memories of humans who travel off Earth, the Auyar huborgs taking the place of fallible humans in Planetary Security, mass-produced mestizos, Earth’s history and ecology sold wholesale...
Nobody could have imagined it before.
Nobody knows what will come next.
Even the descendants of those pessimistic science fiction writers have stopped imagining and writing, overwhelmed by the dizzying madness of reality.
But just as a man condemned to death knows that no pardon will come, everybody knows that this situation is just a strange interregnum, that it can’t last long.
And everybody is scared; if it’s hard now, what will it be like later?
Better the frying pan you know than the fire you don’t...
Some visionaries try desperately to find a way out.
Earth discovering some new form of superultralight propulsion and abandoning the solar system and the galaxy, getting far away from the xenoid vultures who gnaw our livers every night, only for us to have them grow back the next day.
Earth discovering the ultimate weapon and threatening the galaxy with annihilation if they don’t let us emerge from underdevelopment once and for all.
Earth discovering the ultimate drug to stop death and aging, and giving it to the galaxy in exchange for being allowed to have our own, self-determined future.
But the scientist-serfs toiling away in their laboratory-slave barracks know all too well that science won’t be the solution. No matter what gets invented, there aren’t enough resources to deploy it on a large enough scale to compete with the xenoids.
Others speak of human dignity and propose mass suicide for Earth. Better not to be than to be slaves.
But psychologists know all too well that life and the instinct for self-preservation are too strong. Much stronger than pride and despair... The entire Earth will not become a new Numantia or a new Sagunto. Better slaves of the xenoid Romans than dead...
Others, even more divorced from reality, dream of the galactic act of altruism that will at some future date give this terrestrial colony its freedom to develop. As England so graciously did for India at the end of World War II.
They forget that Queen Elizabeth II only sent her last viceroy, Lord Louis Mountbatten, to give the subcontinent its independence when she could no longer control it. When neither the Englishmen nor their sepoys could continue to lord over millions of people.
So long as the xenoid Englishmen and their Planetary Tourism Agency sepoys continue to control Earth, there will be no independence. Nobody gives away the goose that lays the golden eggs until he’s forced to.
Some put their faith in time, which can wear away stone, so that decadence may capture the exhausted old xenoid races and make their empire fall, much as Rome collapsed.
Historians disagree: no empire falls on its own, if it has no shrieking barbarians hammering on the doors of its city walls. Spartacus’ rebellion was heroic, but it failed...
Others believe in even more illogical and unlikely things. In the Second Coming of Christ (or of Muhammad, or of Buddha, or of Joseph Smith...) as a Lion, not a Lamb, to drive out the demonic non-human races from the world of His children.
Or that God, or Something Cosmic and Indefinable called (for lack of a better name) “homeostatic justice,” will inevitably punish the xenoids’ wickedness and highhandedness with stellar cataclysms and devastating plagues, compared with which the magenta illness of Colossa will seem like a minor rash.
But even the most orthodox believers are starting to believe that God, if He does exist, might not be on the humans’ side...
Other trust that a mighty and overpowering race will appear from beyond the galaxy, enslaving all the Milky Way and putting the masters and servants of today at the same level...
Many sects hold and secret ideas and theories and indulge in endless debates about the possible futures of Earth and the galaxy. Nobody lifts a finger to bring about the futures they say they believe in.
Of course, it’s not all talk and no action...
The famously irredentist Xenophobe Union for Earthling Liberation does act. Though their motto, “It matters not if a hundred humans die, so long as one single xenoid dies or leaves,” seemingly ignores the fact that there are many more xenoids than there are humans, their bombs and attacks at least annoy the planet’s extraterrestrial masters.
The bad part is that the Union, like many pre-Contact terrorist organizations, has nothing resembling a liberation strategy. Just tactics, and not very brilliant ones at that. Nearly a hundred humans do die for every xenoid... Planetary Security is much more efficient.
They have no plan for taking the power now held by the Planetary Tourism Agency, nor would they know how to keep it... Following the ideas of Bakunin and Nechayev, they just keep trying over and over again to jab their bee stings into the monstrous oppressor’s tough hide. And, like bees, they often die trying. And the monster scratches at the stings, smiles, and keeps on going.
The Xenophobe Union for Earthling Liberation has even been accused many times of playing into the xenoids’ hands, serving only as an outlet for human aggression and frustration. Draining to death the forces that should be organizing to struggle for life...
The unidentified leaders of the Union haven’t even gone to the trouble of refuting these charges.
Many think they wouldn’t be able to...
Life goes on, the years go by, the present seems like it will last forever and always be the same in spite of all the changes that give the impression that Earth is moving into the future.
Ordinary humans, the famous “moral majority,” are tired of impossible futures even before they get here.
The question remains: What fate awaits a race that has lost faith in the future, idolizes the past, and puts up with the present?
It seems the futurologists were wrong, and in reality, for Earth, everything before Contact was better.
Homo sapiens, forever trapped in a present that doesn’t belong to them and they don’t determine, can only aspire to one thing: that the hypothetical and frightful future will never arrive. That the present will last forever.
Fearing that, as things stand, any change can only be for the worse...
The Platinum Card
He appeared in my life on a Tuesday in August, in the middle of the afternoon. One of those summer days when heat is like a sticky spider’s web that you can’t get off you.
The stifling air above the asphalt played at looking like water or a mirror in the distance. All Barrio 13 looked lethargic. I had left my Abuela sunk in her alcoholic dreams after her third bottle of Seven Rats vodka, and had gone down to hang out with my gang.
They had just finished blowing up a fire hydrant with a smidge of plastic explosives that Dingo picked up off the street after the latest Triad robbery. All us kids were having a great time goofing around out in the gush of water that filled half the street. More kids than ever. Even a fe
w sullen adults decided to join in: it was so hot, and there aren’t any air conditioners or swimming pools in Barrio 13. They were almost smiling when they came out of the water, looking ten years younger.
We were having even more fun because we knew it wouldn’t last. Less than half an hour later the buglickers from Planetary Security showed up with the repair crew. To run us off and look for whoever was responsible for the “sabotage” while the others were fixing the leak.
He showed up wrapped in a gray overcoat, trying not to draw attention. Sort of hard to do when you’re ten feet tall and your reddish Colossaur armor is peeking out through the folds of your clothes. Really hard to do on Earth. Impossible here in New Cali, Barrio 13, where we can smell a xenoid ten light-years off, even if he’s mounting a human “horse” from Body Spares. Which wasn’t the case.
When Dingo saw that it was a Colossaur and that he was alone, he gave a signal and the triplets ran out to ask the visitor for “some credits, Your Excellency, please.”
If he had been from any other race and not a native of Colossa, maybe we would have all ganged up on him. To beat him up and rob him, of course; what else could a xenoid wandering around alone in Barrio 13 expect?
But fifteen kids are no match for one of those armored monsters, not even in the sort of dirty fight we all love. Better use cunning, not strength.
Bubo, Babo, and Bibe were the best beggars in the gang: they knew how to make genuine-looking wounds with printer ink and sandpaper. Their specialty: Colossaurs. They’re always moved by what they think are magenta disease sores, and their guilt complex makes them more generous. Since the virus is endemic among them, and they were the ones who brought it to this planet...
How come I wasn’t suspicious of him from the start? He didn’t try to shoo the triplets away for fear of disease, like all the others of his race do. But he didn’t give them a single credit, either. Very strange... And since everything strange is suspicious, it was very likely we would have tried stoning him right there. Just to frighten him so he’d run off. We couldn’t have even tickled those armored plates—even rifle shots just bounce off of them.
Then, in that hoarse voice they all have, he said, “Kids, I’m looking for Leilah, Friga’s daughter. They told me she lives around here...”
That’s when we stopped playing and gathered around him, feeling surprised and keeping quiet but trying not to look too interested. The first thing you learn on the street is that giving away your emotions is always a bad move.
Some of the guys in the gang had joined so recently they only knew me by my street name, Liya. The ones who did know me stared at me out of the corners of their eyes. Like they were inspecting me, checking to see how much I might be worth, for that xenoid to show so much interest in me, how much woman there was in the nine-year-old girl I was. And it wasn’t much at all. I pretended I didn’t notice them sizing me up.
Even if I hadn’t seen Dingo make a sign, I’m not such an idiot I would have identified myself just like that to the first xenoid who came around looking for me. In Barrio 13, when they come from the outside looking for you, it’s hardly ever for anything good.
Of course, I had no way to know that this day and this Colossaur were going to change my life forever.
“Leilah... Sounds familiar,” Dingo said grudgingly, looking down at the ground.
“Do you guys know her?” the Colossaur insisted.
“Maybe yeah, maybe no.” Our gang leader sort of casually stuck his hand out palm-up, one of the few gestures that doesn’t need any translation anywhere in the galaxy. Money always talks, same on Earth as on Colossa.
And moving so fast we could barely see it, the xenoid grabbed him around the waist with his huge three-fingered hand and hoisted him in the air. His tiny sunken eyes shined when he looked at him from close up, and though some of the guys picked up rocks, something told me Dingo wasn’t in any real danger.
“I like that... Business sense from a young age,” he told Dingo, nearly sticking his tongue into the short, bristly chestnut hair that gave him his street name. “You people will inherit the Earth... or what’s left of it when we finish.” He brought Dingo closer to his snout. Dingo wrinkled his nose: must have smelled bad.
“What’s your name, future businessman?” asked the Colossaur.
“Jeremí... Dingo.” Dingo was scared to death. But as the head of the gang he had to look just the opposite, or every snot-nosed brat would challenge him to a fight for the leadership. If he survived this one.
“Ah. Jeremías, and they call you Dingo?” The wide mouth filled with sharp teeth bent in a caricature of a smile. “Look, Jeremías, you look like an intelligent kid, and I’d love to have a nice long talk with you... but I don’t have much time.” He pointed at us with his other hand. “Which of them is Leilah? I’m not going to eat her, and I’m not from Planetary Security. I have some business that might concern her...”
“I could...” Dingo dared suggest, seeing a chance for the gang to maybe make a profit and trying to get back some of his authority, which had been placed in doubt.
“I don’t doubt you could, perfectly well... But she’s the one I want,” the Colossaur shook his head. “For, let’s say... sentimental reasons.”
“Leilah’s still a virgin. I have an eleven-year-old sister who’d be cheaper for you,” piped up Silk, who’d never exactly been subtle or had a sense of timing. He’d basically just admitted that I was there, the moron.
“Shut up, stupid!” I hissed, furious, and jumped him, trying to pull his cap down over his nose.
The part about my virginity was true... But it wasn’t the sort of thing a girl was supposed to let a guy talk about in front of the whole gang. And it’s not like it did Silk any good to go around saying it: the two of us were steady, and everybody knew it... So if I was still a virgin, it was mainly his fault. Ten years old and still not able to get up an erection that was worth the trouble. Aside from his baby face and his corn-silk hair, Silk was a perfect idiot. I don’t know what I saw in him...
He resisted, of course, and we wrestled. He was stronger, but I was angrier, and I would’ve gotten him in the end. But before I could pull his cap all the way down to his neck, the Colossaur grabbed me with his other hand and picked me up to look me over.
I stuck out my tongue and put on my best Down syndrome face, cursing the moment I decided to start playing in the hydrant water. I’m normally so dirty that nobody notices my face... We call it “Barrio 13 makeup.” It’s very handy for keeping people from giving you a second glance, and keeping those Cetian pigs who’re always hunting for little girls from carrying you off to one of their slave brothels.
My Abuela always told me that my coffee eyes and chocolate skin would be my downfall one of these days. And if this wasn’t the day...
“Hello, Leilah,” the monster said to me. He was trying desperately to sound polite.
“She’s not Leilah!” the whole gang screamed together, even Dingo. “She’s...”—and that’s when they really gave me away, because some of them said “Liya,” my street name, others “Mary Jane,” which is like saying John Doe or Juan Pérez. That is, nobody.
I was done for.
“Ah, well. If she isn’t Leilah, she’ll do just as well.” The Colossaur set Dingo down and gave him something. “Here you go, chief... For your trouble. You have half an hour to use it up... Then I’ll report it missing and they’ll close the account.”
Dingo’s eyes shone with greed when he realized it was a gold card. The bank only gives them to people who have more than a hundred thousand credits in their accounts... and not to all of them, either. I’d never seen one outside of a holodrama.
“But... she...” He pointed at me, insisting almost as a formality, but his impatient feet gave away his desire to run off with his fortune and forget about me. The dirty bastard...
I looked at him, sulking.
Judas! I would have insulted him, but I wasn’t sure I could say three words in a row without starting to cry. All that talk about group solidarity, all that “One for all and all for one,” all that “us against the world,” but he was selling me for a few credits, the rat! I was going to crack his skull with a rock, and the gang would be mine... if I got out of this.
For a second everything seemed to stand still.
“The buglickers!” Babo screamed, and fifteen kids ran off at top speed before the armored Planetary Security aerobus could land in the middle of the asphalt. For the first time in my life I was glad to see them. If that’s how the gang was going to betray me, at least the Law wouldn’t let me be kidnapped in my own neighborhood. Now this xenoid would know what’s what... I only had to ask them for help, and...
I thought better of it and kept quiet.
My captor greeted my supposed saviors with a slight wave of his free hand and walked off holding me tight against his chest, like it was nothing. Sure. A xenoid, even if he’s wearing a recently severed human head as a hat, will always be just fine, everything in order, for his lackeys the buglickers. When it comes down to it, they’re the masters, the ones who pay their salaries. And we people in the Numbered Barrios are basically just human trash.
The Colossaur went striding off. Farther and farther from my street and from Barrio 13. He seemed to know where he was going... and I didn’t like that one bit, if you know what I mean. It isn’t what you’d expect from a xenoid. They’re supposed to get lost every couple of seconds in our urban labyrinths, and give us poor natives a chance to make a living...
Later on I would find out that he knew much more about the good and the bad of my planet than I did.
His carapace was so rough, it was scraping my knees... I couldn’t hold back any longer, and the tears started to flow.
I was furious with myself, but I decided that if I was going to cry, I’d really sob my eyes out, so three seconds later I was bawling like a baby goat that just got weaned. If it didn’t stop him from taking me off my turf, at least it should bother him a little... and that would give me a better chance to escape.
