I, Alien

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  “Would it not be rational to give me a class without ‘troublesome’ students, given my new status at your school, combined with the fact that I am Tenjant and not human?”

  He expelled air. “Yes, it would be rational. But it’s not going to work that way.” He plugged my computer into his desk, tapped a few keys, then unplugged it and handed it back. “I’ve just given you a booklet of tips on how to deal with kids with special needs. See if that helps.”

  My brief training had dealt with the generalities of Earth children, but never once had our readings indicated the existence of “troublesome” kids. Perhaps this indicated just how desperate the humans were for good science teachers. I thanked Mr. Greenberger for the document and left the room.

  I soon found out that teaching science meant running an occasional laboratory session. Tenjant children, of course, did all their practical work in virtual environments, but the humans had not yet developed that technology.

  Before the class began, I set up the lab tables with beakers of water, digital scales, small plastic canisters with caps, and round tablets of sodium bicarbonate. As the children filed in, some of them started playing with the equipment on their desks. I requested that they stop doing so, and with the exception of John Palmer, they all did.

  “Children, I have sent instructions to each of your computers regarding how to perform this activity, along with the name of your partner for today. You will see how sodium bicarbonate, when placed in water, releases carbon dioxide gas. The scales will allow you to measure the mass of the gas released. Please read your directions and let me know if you have any questions. Only then should you begin working with the materials.”

  I began to walk around the room, checking on the progress of the students with the instructions. Most of them understood what to do, and I told them to begin work.

  Then I got to John Palmer, who was assigned to work with Eileen. Instead of reading the screen on his computer, John was standing on his desk.

  “John? What are you doing?”

  John began to jump up and down and swing his arms. “Ook ook ook!”

  “John? This is not the proper behavior for a human child.”

  “I’m not a child! I’m a gorilla!”

  “A gorilla?” I asked.

  A student named Gerald who sat two desks over answered my question. “It’s an animal, a primate. John’s pretending to be one of them.”

  I recalled my basic studies of Earth. “Ah, yes. Gorillas.” I grabbed John by the waist and gently lowered him to the floor. “Please work.”

  “You know about gorillas?” Gerald asked.

  I walked over to his desk. “Yes. Humans evolved from them.”

  Gerald frowned. “I don’t think so,” he said, but I was already rushing back to stop John from pouring a beaker of water over Eileen’s head.

  I grabbed his arm before he had a chance to spill a drop of water. “John, this behavior is inappropriate. Please go to Mr. Greenberger’s office.”

  He stuck out his tongue at me. “No.”

  I was unprepared for this disobedience. “No?”

  He stuck out his tongue again and crossed his eyes. The room fell silent; I could tell that all of the other students were wondering what I would do next.

  I was wondering that myself. Finally, I made a decision. “Class,” I said, “please do not continue with the experiment until I return.” I placed my hands under John’s arms, lifted him up, and carried him out of the room to the principal’s office. All the while, he made sounds such as “Wooo!”

  When I got to the office, I dropped him off with Greenberger’s assistant, whose mouth opened up as I brought the child in and remained open as I left. I returned to the classroom to see the students still in the position in which I had left them.

  Mr. Greenberger had not been pleased at my attempt to control John Palmer’s behavior. So, at his strong suggestion, I had .arranged for a phone conference among John’s parents and myself. At the scheduled time, a split image appeared on the screenboard in my classroom. John’s parents were in two different locations, and I recalled that Mr. Greenberger had said something about a “divorce,” in which the parents no longer resided in the same domicile.

  I began by detailing the specific behaviors that I had witnessed. I began by telling them about John interrupting me and wandering .around, and I finished by telling them about his pretense of being a gorilla and his defiance of my authority.

  When I finished, the two of them sat there, staring. Finally, Mrs. Palmer said, “So?”

  Unsure that I had heard her correctly, I said, “Excuse me?”

  “What gives you the right to pick up my son? Do you know the humiliation you caused him?”

  Flummoxed, I said, “Actually, he seemed to enjoy the ride.”

  “That’s not the point,” Mr. Palmer interjected. “The point is that you had no right to do what you did.”

  I tried to recast my argument. “Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, I do not think you understand. Your child is disruptive. He is unable to focus his attention long enough to learn properly.” I paused, thinking of a phrase I had been taught to use in these situations. “Perhaps,” I said, “he needs to be tested.”

  The Palmers recoiled, and the corners of Mrs. Palmer’s mouth turned down. “How dare you even suggest such a thing! You’re not a licensed psychologist! Hell, you’re not even human!”

  “I do not think that my race has anything to do with your son and his issues.”

  Mr. Palmer spoke. “This has nothing to do with our son and his ‘issues,’ as you put it. This has to do with your ability to teach our child.”

  “It is hard to get him to learn,” I admitted.

  “Well,” Mrs. Palmer said, “get him to learn. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “My job,” I said as evenly as I could, “is to get all of the students to learn.”

  Mr. Palmer expelled air and rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know why they hired an alien to be the teacher. You better watch yourself, Mr. Fromlilo, or I’ll tell Earth to send you back where you came from.”

  That would be the greatest favor you could do for me, I thought.

  But aloud, I said, “I will endeavor to be more careful in the future.”

  * * *

  The next day, Mr. Greenberger called me back into his office. The Palmers had left him a rather irate e-mail.

  “They tell me that you’re not doing your job,” he said.

  “They told me that it was my job was to teach their child.”

  “Well, isn’t it?” Mr. Greenberger asked.

  “I don’t understand. Among the Tenjant, education is a joint effort, among all the people.”

  “Look, some parents are more involved than others. Some take an active interest in their child’s education, every step of the way. And some—”

  “And some just expect the teacher to do everything?”

  He pulled his shoulders up and then let them fall again. “It’s their way.”

  “I do not understand. Perhaps it is because among my people, we don’t even have parents.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not in the way you define them. Yes, every child is born of a genetic father and a genetic mother. But the children of every community are pooled together, and cared for by one particular caste. It is the caste of which I am a part.”

  He leaned back and stared at me. “Xerpers, may I ask you a personal question?”

  “That is why I am here.”

  “Are you male or female?”

  “I am currently male. I will become female again in approximately three of your planet’s years.”

  He nodded. “That may explain why you Tenjant have a different perspective on teaching and parenting than we do.”

  “Perhaps. But it does not help me deal with John.”

  He expelled air. “Look. Any teacher will tell you that in every class, there’s always one kid who makes teaching the class almost impossible. He’s
disruptive, annoying, difficult to control—”

  “That describes John perfectly.”

  He nodded. “Well, take out that kid, and poof! Guess what? The class runs much better.” He shook his head. “The only problem, of course, is that we can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re a public school, Xerpers. We have to instruct all children, for the public good.”

  “But what if the public good is served in a different way?”

  “It just doesn’t work that way among humans, Xerpers. Sorry.”

  “Mr. Greenberger, please listen. I have read over your materials on what you call discipline. None of the techniques have proven to be effective.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Then use your own techniques, damn it.”

  Instinctively, I bared my teeth, then I relaxed. “Pardon?”

  “Sorry; I forgot that you guys don’t like cursing.” He paused, apparently waiting for something. Finally, I figured it out.

  “It is all right,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he replied. “But my main point is still valid.”

  “I should use my own techniques to maintain discipline.”

  He nodded. “You know why the program was created, don’t you? Cultural exchange. It’s a two-way street. The idea is for you to apply your culture’s techniques to teaching our children, as well as learning our techniques so you can bring them back to your home world.”

  “Let me just confirm this. I am expected to use Tenjant teaching techniques?”

  “Expected?” He barked a laugh. “Heck, you’re encouraged! Whatever works, man, whatever works.”

  I pondered this new information for a moment. “I understand.”

  “Good. Let me know how it turns out.”

  “Good morning, children.”

  Almost in unison, the class replied, “Good morning, Mr. Fromlilo.” The only one who did not was John, who sat in his seat, with his right index finger digging into his left nostril. He removed some of the dried mucous from his nose and placed it in a small ball on his desk.

  “I have been told to teach you more of my race, of our customs. For example, how many of you have parents?”

  Every child’s hand went up.

  “How many of you would like to get rid of your parents?”

  The children giggled now, John loudest of all.

  “Well, among the Tenjant, we do not have parents.”

  “You don’t?” asked Gabriel.

  “Not in the same way as among you humans. My people do have children, but the children are given over to a specific caste for rearing and education. I am a member of that caste.”

  Gerald raised his hand. “Yes, Gerald?”

  “Is that why you’re our teacher?”

  “Yes, it is. But I am more than just a teacher. I am a Nor-Shantr

  The children laughed, and Gerald asked, “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I am more than what you Earth people call a teacher. The members of my caste and I raise the children and improve our race by practicing a form of culling the herd.”

  Another hand went up. “Yes, Jennifer?”

  “What does culling mean?”

  “Allow me to demonstrate. May I have a volunteer?”

  Quite a few hands went up, including that of John’s. I called John to the front of the room.

  “Watch carefully,” I said, “and you will learn of one of the many differences between the humans and the Tenjant.”

  As I had done countless times in the past, I loosened my jaw, stretching my face as wide as I could. I grabbed John by his waist and shoved him into my mouth.

  “Hey!” he shouted.

  He squirmed as he went in, but of course the strength of the human child was no match for my own. I pushed him down my throat and swallowed him in one gulp.

  With John eliminated, I expelled excess gas from my digestion chamber. “That is culling. It is the way my race improves itself. And now I share it with you.”

  Silence.

  “Are there any questions?”

  The silence continued; the blissful, beautiful silence.

  I grabbed my stylus and began writing on the screenboard.

  “Then,” I said, “let us learn.”

  Back to Contents

  THE LAST WAVE by Kay Kenyon

  H

  ERE’S THE OLD woman again. She peers over the side of the rowboat, her white hair framing a face wrinkled by years and the rippling water. She calls me by that name, the one I detest. Nessie, she whispers. She knows that I can easily hear quiet sounds, and that the loud ones hurt.

  That awful name is the same one that the tourists use, as they stand on the viewing platform, or slog along the shore, with their tour buses fuming in the parking lot. So, even though the old woman leaves a gift behind, I begin my plunge into the deep trench of Loch Ness, ignoring her.

  At the last minute, I have to admit I’m curious about what she’s brought this time. In a slow-motion fall through the water is a wooden machine with a round face, and numbers around the perimeter. As it sinks past me, it is still ticking. Just before it hits bottom, I snatch it with my jaws. It will make a fine addition to my collection, which includes coffee pots, beer bottles, fishing rods, old shoes, a nine metal vase, and various items that remain unidentified. After so long among these creatures, I have their names for most things, but not always their purposes. For example, the iron tray with a handle is a frying pan (whatever frying means). The shoes are obvious. I’ve seen them on tourists. Once I found an oval white chair with a hole in it. Since it was too big to lift with my jaws, I left it where it lay. I wonder what they’d make of that at Home.

  But this ticking machine ... as I swim home with it, I conclude that it is a device for marking the passage of time. The creatures are haunted by time. They bemoan its swift passage, but are surrounded by instruments to remind them of what is being lost. For myself, I have no need of reminding. It has been a long age since my exile. To be more accurate, it has been 1012 picoseconds. I am rounding the numbers for simplicity, so as not to be obsessed with counting.

  I deposit the time passage device next to the metal vase the old woman gave me last year. And near the representation (under glass) of her and the old man, in a nicely wrought silver frame. Nearby is my nautical collection including a mooring swivel, belaying pin, lanyard, an old deck lantern, and various anchors (not all of which I came by fairly, I’ll admit). There is also a ship’s mast, from the old days when I was stronger and could carry such things. I used to sort the entire collection by what I was planning to bring Home and what could be left behind. Back when I thought I was going Home.

  The time passage device has stopped ticking now. Just as well. The smallest unit of time it counts is seconds—to my taste, far too gross an interval. A surprising lapse for such a semi-intelligent species.

  Resuming my swim up the lake, I note that the old woman is already rowing home. The oars dip so slowly that I can tell she’s disappointed I didn’t do it. Well, I don’t perform on command. Monsters aren’t predictable; it’s part of their appeal. I make rare and random appearances—nothing too tasteless, just a curve of my neck or a flash of tail—but enough to give the locals a scare. It’s become a matter of pride. But sightings bring the inevitable rash of loud boats and oglers, and then I hate myself.

  From what I gather, there are two competing theories about me. The ones who come with binoculars and cameras believe in the monster theory. I consider myself as siding with this group. The scientists, on the other hand, with their annoying echolocation devices, hold that I’m a prehistoric Earth creature, the last of my kind, cut off from my fellows. Sentimental drivel, of course. Drifting along under their hulls at night, I eavesdrop. They think I’m some kind of fish. But if they ever caught me, the DNA analysis would give them a bit of a jolt.

  Inevitably, I find myself swimming up the fjord to the Going Home Place. Murk and silence greet me here, where it all began. Whe
n the chute is active, it glows. I’ve grown old waiting for it to glow once more. But even should it spring to life, there’s no getting through, because of the hillside slump 109 picoseconds ago, when the world tremor sent a slurry of rock and boulders off the cliff, sealing off my route Home.

  Coming here is an old habit, rather like the visits of the lady in the rowboat. She used to come out here with an old man. He was a busybody, always clanging his sonar echoes at the lake bottom, and marking things down in his notebook. I had him pegged for a retired engineer. She packed the sandwiches. Now, rowing out on the water alone, she dispenses with the sonar. Lately, she hasn’t bothered with sandwiches either. Yet she’s out here almost every day, dropping things into the lake, each gift more lavish than the last. I assume they’re meant for me—perhaps as bribes to show myself—or perhaps just acts of charity toward an old monster who no longer horrifies.

  A flash comes to my peripheral vision. A watery pulse of gold. No doubt it’s just the sun penetrating the depths, reflecting off a copper lid, a gilt frame, a . . .

  But I am swimming closer now. The jumble of mud and stones blocks my view. Yet as I make sweeps past the debris, a stuttering light escapes from beneath the pile. Nudging my face as close as I can, I manage to spy through a tiny gap. There, a strip of gold—is glowing. In my excitement, I thrust my jaws so far into the crevice that I nick my skin, clouding my vision with blood. But now I’m certain.

  The chute is active.

  I stare at it a long while. Then I turn away, my ventral fin digging a furrow in the soft bottom sand. I swim all the way to the western end of my prison. There, taking a deep drought of minnows and trout, I try to settle my stomach.

  I can’t get past the stony slump. It has been many picoseconds since I had the strength to move rocks that size. Not, mind you, that I’m counting the passage of time.

  The mast serves as a lever. Dragging it all the way from my home cave has left a sharp ache in my jaws, and carved up a plume of muck where its nether end dug into the lake bottom. Now I have wedged one end into a niche between boulders and, holding myself down by wrapping my tail around a rock, I use my neck and one of my pectoral flippers to pull down with all my strength upon the skyward end. It groans in its work—or is that me? The stone coughs up from its hole for a moment, then falls back. Finally it tilts and falls off the stack, but lodges close by, still impeding my goal.