Record of Proceeding
Incident at Gray’s Brook
Injustice Collector 0080 Presiding
Citing of the Injustice[s]
According to custom, I place the bag on the Decision Desk. The bag maintains its composure above the desk; the bag’s porous outer layer is now a creamy white.
Then I state the interrogatory: What do you believe are the Injustices in this Incident?
The Non-Requesting Party attempts to respond, but is silenced. The Bystanding Party simply shifts from foot-to-foot as if the proceedings do not concern either representative. The Requesting Party looks at the bag with great fear before replying:
“The Injustices are, as we see them, as follows: One Injustice occurring against the Requesting Party, and one Injustice occurring against the Bystanding Party.”
Interruption in the Proceeding Eleven Cycles Into the Requesting Party’s Testimony, A Breach of Protocol: Cause of breach is, as noted above, human ignorance.
—Injustice Collector 0080
The John Graf steps forward. “What the—?” He does not finish his own sentence.
Record of Proceeding Incident at Gray’s Brook Injustice Collector 0080 Presiding
Citing of the Injustice[s] [continued]
“The Injustice against the Requesting Party is this: The humans should have explained to us the nature and vulnerability of their young. In this, they should have explained the purpose of “children” and the caring of them. We should not have been responsible for beings we know nothing about.
Interruption in the Proceeding Eleven Cycles into the Requesting Party’s Testimony, A Breach of Protocol: Cause of breach is, as noted above, human ignorance.
—Injustice Collector 0080
“Right” the other human representative says, surprising me with his agreement. “Go ahead. Blame the victim.”
Record of Proceeding Incident at Gray’s Brook Injustice Collector 0080 Presiding
Citing of the Injustice[s] [continued]
“The Injustice against the Bystanding Party is more severe. It is this: Although these human young, these “children,” are adaptable enough to survive their youth away from their home world, they are not strong enough to face challenges inherent in space exploration. It took less than a season to wipe out ten of these youth. One can only surmise how many more will die before the fall comes and the floods—”
Interruption in the Proceeding Eleven Cycles into the Requesting Party’s Testimony, A Breach of Protocol: Cause of breach is, as noted above, human ignorance.
—Injustice Collector 0080
“For Crissake,” the John Graf says, using yet another unknown phrase. “We did not bring the children here. We gave birth to them here. We’re colonists, for God’s sake. We’re building a life here. Can’t you people understand that? My father explained it all when the ships landed. He told you what we were doing, and you agreed to let us have the land. You agreed to let us live here. And all our studies said it was safe. There’s no injustice in that. Don’t you get it? We’re just living—”
Record of Proceeding Incident at Gray’s Brook Injustice Collector 0080 Presiding
Citing of the Injustices][continued]
According to custom, I place another hand on the bag, and ask: Does the Bystanding Party accept the Injustice claimed in its behalf?
The representative of the Bystanding Party has to be prodded by the John Graf. The representative of the Bystanding Party appears startled, then says, “I dunno.”
Again, faced with the ignorance of the humans, I cite the Gubernatorial Decision, accepting that response as an affirmative, and continue with the procedure.
“In this case,” I intone, “as in all cases of this nature, the final decision on the Injustices will be made by the Wiwendian.” I add for the humans, “the Wi-wendian is what you have casually heard us refer to as ‘the bag.’ It is, instead, the true Injustice Collector, in that it feeds on such violations, needing them to survive. We feed the Collector, so that it and its people will not create new Injustices, simply for the sake of devouring them. In stating this old truth, I remind us all of the oaths we have taken to maintain Justice in our universe.”
I place my remaining hands on the bag, and undo the knot I tied in its opening. “Do you accept these Injustices?”
There is a whooshing, and the bag turns a light lavender. The Injustices white and blue, swirl away from the Requesting Party and the Bystanding Party. For a moment, I believe I see something red near the Non-Requesting Party, but the redness vanishes.
The bag accepts the Injustices and then fades to its normal color. I place the bag beneath the Decision Desk once more, and declare the proceedings complete.
But the proceedings do not exactly end. I add these events as an addendum to my report:
“That’s it?” the John Graf asks. “You ask a silly question of a bag and then it changes color and we get to go? That s all that happens? We spent months of our lives here for that?”
The time reference confirms yet again the MugwL’s impression of time differences between the humans and our various species. More study will be needed to ascertain if this is, indeed, a fact.
“Yes,” I tell the human. “The Proceeding has ended.”
“But nothing has changed,” the John Graf says.
“On the contrary. The Wiwendian—we—have taken the known Injustices from this world. The slate is clean. You may begin again.”
“Begin what?” the other human asks. “Our children are gone. We’ve gotten no satisfaction here. You let those people—those murderers get away with feeding our kids to their pod thingies.”
I signal my Collectors-in-Training. “I have done
my work according to the laws and customs of our Alliance. I have responded to the Requesting Party, brought the Wiwendian, and collected Injustices. If you perceive any violations, you may bring them up with the Review Board.”
I have, of course, added this for the humans’ benefit. It is more explanation than I usually offer after a decision has been rendered.
I feel the humans’ displeasure and empathize with it, but even they must realize that nothing brings back lost lives.
That, perhaps, is the ultimate Injustice, but one so common that the bag usually rejects it.
“My assistants will explain how to file your petitions with the Review Board,” I say as I open the doors to the Great hall. The rush of cool air is marvelous. “But not in here.”
The Collectors-in-Training usher the humans out, but they are not the ones that stop at the doors. The MugwL do, and as they do, they let out their own sounds of fear and displeasure.
I rise, peering over their heads.
In the distance, smoke rises from the MugwL village. Too much smoke, accompanied by leaping flames.
The John Graf looks upset. Me puts his arms around the “children” and leads them outside.
But the other human, the vocal one, stops, turns, and looks at me, not the MugwL. I do not know human expressions, but this one seems, in some way frightening—the raised eyebrows, the half-contained amusement.
“On my world,” he says, “when systems break down, only one kind of justice remains. We call it street justice.”
And then he leaves.
The MugwL cry and wail, claiming their village is gone. My Collectors-in-Training still usher them out, and finally close the door.
I am alone, except for the bag. The bag that wants to collect these Injustices, in a Preliminary fashion, to save us a trip.
If my bag is any indication, the Wiwendians are becoming dissatisfied with our agreement to feed and house them in exchange for controlling their somewhat destructive talents. But that is an aside.
I would have refused its request on principle—one finished Proceeding is enough for any Collector—but principle is not my real reason for saying no.
I say no because I do not want to preside over another Proceeding involving humans. Too messy, too many chan
ces for mistakes.
The red floating above them as the bag collected the Injustices disturbs me. Red is usually the color of violation. The Injustices from the MugwL and the “children” were not red.
The humans have a rawer, more passionate sense of Injustice than we do.
There is already so much Injustice in the Alliance that we barely maintain our hold on the Wiwendians. My Wiwendian already finds the human sense of Injustice attractive. Other Wiwendians will as well.
The humans will give the Wiwendians too much power.
Together, they will destroy everything.
And I fear that, after this Proceeding, they have already started.
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CREATURE FOR HIRE by Paul L Martens
I
WAS ALONE. And if you’ve never been the only one of your kind on a world of billions, then you don’t know what being alone is. I was a monster, shunned and unwanted, with no place in the universe.
Morty was on the phone, confirming that assessment. “I’m sorry, E, I just can’t get you another movie.” Morty was my agent. “I mean, face it, you can’t act.”
“But, Morty, I’m an alien. Christ, I’m The Alien, the only one on the whole damned planet. There’s got to be something.” It occurred to me that my apartment was too big. It seemed to be getting bigger every day. And when I considered the rent vis-a-vis my bank account balance, the place was huge.
“The novelty’s worn off, kiddo. I’m surprised it lasted for four movies. And that last one didn’t really count, just a walk-on in a dream sequence. The point is, people aren’t going to keep paying to see something they’ve already seen, even if he is an alien. I mean, it’s not like you do anything. You’re just there, you know?”
I looked around at the plush carpets, the antique furniture, the paintings that hadn’t been painted by starving artists, things my next place would be lacking.
I caught sight of myself in the gilded mirror across from the couch. My Celtics T-shirt hung loosely from my spindly frame. My head, which I used to think was a perfectly normal head, seemed too big. I blinked silvery lids over my enormous black eyes.
“What about TV?” I asked, knowing that my voice was too high and thin for any hope to live in it.
There was a sigh. “Maybe. The producers of Inter-galactic Battlecruiser have dropped some hints about a guest-villain spot. But they want to pay bupkes. And besides, people know you too well, they won’t buy you as a bad guy.”
“Couldn’t we work on my image a little? You know, play up the Menace-from-Outer-Space angle?”
He didn’t bother to say anything. It was my turn to sigh. What kind of world was this if you couldn’t even depend on xenophobia to make a living?
“How about the lecture tour?”
“Ah, jeez, E, I just can’t sell it. You’ve got nothing to say that people haven’t heard already. You don’t know how your spaceship worked. You don’t know how anything worked. You were a cook’s assistant. You don’t even know where Tethys is.”
Sure, I did. It was somewhere out there, far, far, far away. And I would probably never see it again.
“And anything you did have to say, you gave away for free when you spilled your guts to the Feds and let them record your interrogation. You remember what that did to the sales of your autobiography, don’t you?”
“Morty, I told you, I didn’t know . . .”
“Okay, okay. Water under the bridge. I’m just trying to tell you why I can’t get you a gig.”
“All right, Morty. Thanks, anyway. Let me know if anything comes up.” I hung up and wondered if this was one of those times when a human would cry. I can’t do it myself, but I was willing to bet that if I could have, I would have,
I didn’t really mind moving. The apartment had been Morty’s idea. The other tenants were writers, accountants, lawyers, and so on. I’d never belonged there, and soon I wouldn’t have enough money to make up for not belonging.
I sat and scratched the place where my nose would have been if I was human as I considered my options. What I needed was a secret hideaway, an inaccessible lair buried deep inside a mountain from which I could hold the governments of the world hostage with the threat of annihilation by my alien death-ray. That would make people notice me. Unfortunately, not only did I not have a secret hideaway, I was completely death-rayless, and there was no way I could persuade anyone otherwise. The only reason the government had let me go was because they were convinced I had nothing useful to tell them. If they had even suspected that I knew how to build an alien death-ray, or even an alien give-you-a-slight-headache-ray, I would have still been locked up tight in an NSA laboratory somewhere.
All right, then, how about this? I have a hidden receiver implanted in my head, and I just got a message from home that they were prepared to wipe out the Earth if I wasn’t given a billion dollars and my own sitcom. No. The first thing they would do is grab me and start digging around for the receiver. My head might seem freakishly large on this planet, but I was still pretty attached to it.
I wasn’t getting anywhere alone in my apartment thinking soberly and rationally about my problems. I decided I needed a drink.
I took the elevator down to the lobby and went out into the LA afternoon. I stopped to take a breath when I reached the sidewalk. As always, the air seemed to be missing something to me, even with all of the extras provided by the smog. It’s breathable, but not exactly what my lungs are looking for. Like everything else, though, whatever is missing is a mystery to me. And there’s something wrong with the sun. Some scientist told me it had to do with the color of the light and rods and cones or something, but I really couldn’t follow what she was saying. I was still learning English back then, but I doubt I would understand it any better now either.
I did, and do, understand alcohol, though, and I knew where to get it. I walked a couple of blocks to Prof’s, a dark little place owned by Doc Siegel, who described himself as a defrocked teacher of Fantastic Literature. I kept hoping someone would notice me, maybe ask for an autograph, but all I got was a few brief glances, a halfhearted gawk. Someone in a passing car did throw an empty coffee cup at me, but that was probably just a coincidence. Morty was right, nobody cared about me anymore. He’d told me about something called a nine-days’ wonder. I guess, after five years, it was finally the tenth day for me.
Doc was sitting behind the bar, soaking up his profits in the form of a glass of bourbon, probably not his first. The sun refused to follow me into the place, the only light came from a couple of three-watt bulbs and some fizzling, red-and-blue neon beer signs over the bar. There were a few customers scattered around at tables in the murk. Prof’s was a good place to drink alone.
“Eyu!, my alien friend and the word made flesh, welcome.” He bowed his bald head to me.
“Hi, Doc. A beer, please. A cheap one.” I climbed onto a stool.
He poured me a draft and asked, “How’s the alien biz?”
I swallowed some beer and said, “It stinks. A few more weeks and a dollar draft will be out of my price range.”
“That’s too bad, brother. What are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do? I’m unique; a genuine, one-of-a-kind, out-of-this-world alien, but no one cares. You’d think all I’d have to do is sit in a room someplace and charge people five bucks a pop just to look at me and I’d be rich. But, no, I’m old news. I’m last year’s Christmas present, just another guy from out of town who couldn’t make it in the big city. It’s not fair!”
Doc squinted at me, aiming his blue eyes along his hawk-sharp nose. “Fair? It’s not fair? What are you telling me, that life is fair where you come from? If that’s the case, you don’t just come from another world, you’re from a whole different universe that operates under its own set of rules. Was it fair that I had to become a school teacher because no one would buy my books? Was it fair that I had to give that up because I had a slight drinking problem?” He took a guzzle of bourbon.
I blinked at him. “I didn’t know you wrote.”
“Yeah, well, it was a long time ago,” he kind of mumbled it, as if he were embarrassed by his outburst. “But let me ask you this, would you be special if you were home?”
I hesitated, then finally admitted, “Okay, no. But I’m not home.”
“Are you sure? What are the chances that you’ll ever see Tethys again? Maybe you ought to get used to the fact that Earth is home, at least for now, and ask yourself what you can do to fit in.”
“But that’s the problem, I don’t fit in. My agent’s right, I don’t do anything, I don’t know anything, I don’t have anything that anyone would want. What can I do to myself that would change that?”
Doc took a long gulp of bourbon, smacked his lips with every evidence of relish, and said, “Well, why not do what I do when I come up against an insurmountable problem? If you can’t rise to the occasion, drink yourself under the table.” He poured a glass of Kentucky’s finest and slid it across the bar to me. “On the house.”
Sometime and some bourbon later, it hit me. Actually, first, the bar hit me, or, rather, I hit the bar. I had been thinking that it would be really nice if the bar would elevate itself a few inches to help me hold my head up. After a little while, I figured that wasn’t going to happen, and decided that if the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed . . . and I let my head fall.
“Ow,” I said. “I mean, eureka.”
Doc peered at me and waited.
“It’s a matter of pershpec . . . prospect. . . perspective. If I don’t have anything they want, then I have^ to make them want what I have.”
“Right!”
“Damned right I’m right. What I have to do is make people think there are aliens, other aliens, sneaking around, secretly doing alien things. Then people will want to know, who are they? What do they want? What should we do? And who will they ask?”
Doc thought about it.
“Me!” I told him.
“Okay.”
“And I’ll tell ‘em, but it’ll cost ‘em.”
“You bet.”
I, Alien Page 4
