“It was the Sublukhar’s idea. Her species, anyway. They paid a visit to this place a hundred thousand years ago, and saw that it was bad. Too cold. Too much ozone. Too little latent radioactivity. The oceans were too small, too salty, and didn’t have the right levels of PCBs or mercury. There were too many of the wrong kinds of plants and animals around. Too many mountains. Forests.”
I felt my heart leak out through the bottoms of my padded feet.
“So,” the Naag went on, “the Sublukhar said, hey! Why not tinker with the DNA of one of the existing species? Hardwire it to xenoform the planet? They did that thing, then told their creation: be fruitful. Multiply. Spread out and seek dominion over all the Earth. This was before the age of quick and easy xenoforming machinery, of course.”
I slumped back against the couch cushions. I’d been duped. Why hadn’t I seen this? The human race themselves, the perfect intra-biospheric xenoforming organism. No matter what they thought, no matter what they wanted to do or talked about doing, they’d been designed to do one thing: to turn their homeworld into a paradise which they could not inhabit.
“Simple. Elegant,” the Naag went on. “It takes a long time, I’ll admit, but the results speak for themselves. Another few hundred years and their work will be done. They’ll self-destruct in cataclysmic biological attacks, and the Sublukhar will have their paradise.” He chuckled. “Only one small problem. With all the scrutiny over xenoforming lately, the Sublukhar were worried someone would find them out and stop them. So they hired me to get the human race protected. Of course, it takes someone with pull inside the government to protect a species.” He did a little half-bow. “I thank you for your help.”
In that moment, centuries of guilt caught up with me. My own world, gone. My father, crushed (literally) by a roll of the dice. Hundreds of planets, xeno-formed right under my nose. And now I’d failed to save the Earth.
And in that moment, the Naag moved in.
“Hello, Xzchsthyl,” he said from inside my head. His Catholic slumped forward on the credenza. “You know, I’m sick of having you on my back all the time.
Sick of having to bribe judges because of you. Sick of you in general. I’m going to enjoy this. I’m going to devour you, Xzchsthyl, and when I’m through, I’ll use your empty husk to get offworld.”
He walked around, using my body like a puppet made of bone and meat. I didn’t try to fight him. I deserved it, after all. That was clear enough. It was my fault that the Earth was going to be xenoformed, and there was nothing I could do about that now.
But there were other, future worlds the Naag would xenoform, and anyway he had really pissed me off. So, even though I’d earned my guilt, I knew I had to ditch it.
“You’re off the hook,” I told myself.
Now, I’m no Xalian monk, and my forgiveness wasn’t much. But it was just enough for me to take back a small amount of motor control.
“What are you doing?” said the Naag.
For an answer, I reached out and grabbed the psychological injector, and I aimed it at my head.
After he recovered, the Naag was brought up on charges under article five million three hundred thousand eight hundred and thirty-one: conspiracy to use an officer of the law as interstellar transportation. He bribed the judge, of course, but I had had about enough of him by then. In other words, I bribed the jury. It took my life savings, but it was worth it to see him brought to justice. He was incarcerated on Earth, in California, Pismo, in the mind of a marijuana-smoking, ex-competition surfer whose favorite phrase was “Hey, man, ain’t nothin’ but a thing.”
Remsee came out to supervise the procedure and, after he was told the surfer also ran a puppet show at county carnivals, they fell in love and Remsee left the force.
The Sublukhar, meanwhile, was badly injured when, pursued from Breakneck Mountain by a pack of enraged monkeys, she was struck by a public works truck hauling fifty tons of road salt.
As for the Earth, well, by their very nature, the human race will turn it into a paradise they can’t inhabit, but even if they hadn’t been protected, what was I supposed to do? Have them destroyed? It’s just one of those things. And anyway, there’s always hope. Not much, I admit, but it does exist. I visited the planet a few years later, and by that time, Remsee’s consumption of ambient intelligence had mellowed out the population as far away as Idaho, and the environmental movement in that area had subsequently grown by leaps and boimds. He’d taken a particular toll on the Naag, who had become so idiotic that the last time I saw him, he actually apologized to me for being such a jerk.
I felt just the tiniest bit guilty,
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THE SKEPTIC by Jennifer Roberson
O
DD CREATURES—(Sidebar: yes, even I admit it, honored colleagues [note the irony, won’t you?]; I’m not blind to reality)—but that doesn’t change anything. They’re fascinating all the same.
They come in a wide assortment of sizes, colors, scents, and textures, even though they all approximate the same basic shape. They’re a massive jumble of contradictory data. I mean, the vast majority of otherwise intelligent beings—(Sidebar: yes, I said “intelligent”; they found us didn’t they?)—waste huge chunks of time sleeping, grooming themselves, playing games, copulating, and eating.
Since my rep is that I love to conduct empirical studies on new spacefaring species rather than playing around with theories—(Sidebar: going native, my peerless colleagues—[yes you; you’re still reading this, aren’t you, with some kind of perverse fascination?] may call it)—it wasn’t too difficult to get myself assigned here to check out the latest arrivals into our part of space. So as usual I learned the language and the slang, reshaped my body, donned appropriate female guise and clothing—(Sidebar: the males are easier to manipulate; dare I say it’s the same with us?)— adopted incomprehensible habits, and headed out to experience reality such as they know it. (Sidebar: How else do you really learn a species without getting inside its mind?—and no, don’t tell me it’s easier to use the scanner. This species has no idea why they do what they do, they’re just a bundle of biological wiring. How could a scanner uncover anything of actual value? Besides, laboratory experiments are boring when compared to going into the field.)
So, here I am. In the field. On the inside. Learning by doing. I scouted ships, found a likely one bound for a rimworld called Paradise, bought myself a license, and set up an office.
Pheromones are pheromones, regardless of the species; and yes, even in this guise I receive as well as exude. So I confess—(Sidebar: and won’t that amuse all of you, now?)—to being a sucker for the studly young types who enter my place of business with a lazy grace and try to charm me. Some of them mean it. A few of them don’t.
I’ve gotten very good at sniffing out the skeptics, as they’re called. Some are innocent enough, trying to figure me out so they can say they have; others truly don’t believe a word I say.
And then there are the self-satisfied ones who find immense amusement in poking holes in my job, which also means in my cover. (Sidebar: and yes, they are intelligent enough to figure out I’m dissembling. They may think differently from us, but it doesn’t make them stupid.)
Anyway, it had been a slow day on the job—and in the study—until he sauntered in, all sleek and smug and elegant. Not a hair out of place, not a foot put wrong, with the faintly superior air of one among the blessed, sanctified by whatever power had endowed his kind with enough intelligence to find their way to deep space.
Silver hair flecked with black and brown. Clear hazel eyes. A tilt to his head and a negligent stride as he eased inside my office.
He halted, letting the door slide closed behind him. He struck a pose, eyed me a moment, then yawned.
Ah. That kind of skeptic.
I arched a brow at him, waiting. When he didn’t offer anything beyond a stare replete with self-indulgence, I smiled and began the game. And the game within the game.
In
cense, lighted. A candle brought to flame. Silks and velvets and carpets; an endless supply of cushions. They expect certain trappings in this line of work, and if I want to really get into their heads I have to live up to those expectations.
Lastly, the cards. I took them from the casket, from the scarf, and set them down on the table with its green cloth. I looked at him again, studied him, the attitude, the arrogance—and turned up the Knight of Cups.
“So,” I said, “it begins.”
Now he moved. With an elegant stride of no wasted effort, he arranged himself in the chair across from me. The stare was fixed and unwavering.
His nails were long. With a skilled flexing of tendons he flicked the pile of cards set on the table before him. They toppled, slid, spilled in a river of painted pasteboard across the green surface.
Commentary. Or challenge. Oh, yes, they love their games.
“You must think of a question,” I said.
He blinked, unimpressed—and clearly disinclined to answer.
Inwardly I sighed. Handsome, young, elegant, in-eluctably self-confident. So typical of his kind.
My turn to move quickly, with no wasted effort. The next card, turned up to cover the King of Cups. I opened my mouth to speak—and the card blanked.
I managed not to gasp. Wondered if he’d think it was some stunt J was pulling. Or had someone snuck into my office last night and replaced my cards with another set? That would suggest someone—maybe even he—had learned my true purpose. (Sidebar: Nobody likes to discover they’re the subject of a study, after all)
I shot him a quick searching glance from lowered lids, raising my pheromone levels to distract him. (Sidebar: trust me, it’s worked before, even with a few of you.) He merely stared back at me, undistracted. Patience personified.
With economical haste, I worked my way through the balance of the deck: covering, crossing, crowning.
And all of them went blank.
My mouth dried. I summoned the slang. “Okay,” I said, “give. What’s the scoop?”
One slow, casual blink. Then he leaned forward, hooked a nail beneath the edge of the card that had once been the King of Cups, and flicked it from under the other.
He yawned. Displayed teeth in a feral grin. Fixed me again with a stare. “You should know better,” he said. “I and my kind make our own fortunes.”
And with a disdainfully high hook in his tail, the cat jumped down from the chair and sauntered out of my office.
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NATURAL SELECTION by Laura Frankos
I
MADE MY WAY into what the Terrans had dubbed the Drones Club, the refectory of the Selection Center to which I had been assigned. Some of you are no doubt aware that “Drones” is one of the numerous—and often rude—appellations the Terrans have given us Hripirt. Unlike many of my colleagues, I see no point in taking offense at these jibes. They aren’t a bad race, not compared to some. My assignment, screening potential Terrans to find those best suited to journey to Hripirt, is largely a pleasant one. The Terrans tried submitting lists of candidates chosen by their governments, but our leaders quickly rejected those. As if we’d let just anybody visit our home, without meeting proper criteria and being able to contribute to our society!
That was one reason I enjoyed relaxing in the refectory after a long day evaluating humans. It was exclusive even by our standards, and offered a fine array of both Hripirt and Terran food. I hadn’t gotten much past the entryway when someone noticed what I was wearing. “By the spoon of my great-aunt, Mullnor, what is that you’ve got on your foretabs?”
Such a screeching voice could only belong to one Hripirt: Bingokk. He was at his customary table, feasting on the usual greasy lavender mound of frobrill eggs. I don’t know why he goes to the added expense of ordering them. Terran chicken eggs aren’t that different in texture, and the fried salty pig-meat that often accompanies them is quite tasty.
His noisy remark caused everyone in the refectory to stare at me. Afttabs buzzed far above the level of ordinary conversation; one could understand why the rare human visitors had deemed this a Drones Club.
I addressed the room at large. “They are an example of a Terran handicraft called knitting, purchased from a human in my survey region. I find them quite fetching.” I removed one with a finger-tentacle, waved it about, then slid it back on. The articles are small, and shaped rather like right angles, so they fit nicely on my foretabs. As foretabs are relatively useless appendages, the covers do not interfere with communication, as they would if placed on afttabs. My demonstration concluded, I joined Bingokk and his shipmate, Delip, at their table.
“That is most intriguing,” Delip said. “When I first saw you, I was reminded of those long-gone days when rebellious youths tattooed their foretabs or had glimmer-nodes surgically attached to them, all for the sake of gaining attention.”
Bingokk began coughing loudly and turned his face away from the table, but not before I noticed the thin line of scar tissue on his foretabs. He is vain, as well as extravagant. Why should anyone care what youthful follies he once perpetrated? To save him further embarrassment, I asked Delip how his meal was. He is partial to Terran black beans, cooked in the style of some tropical island, as am I.
“Do not order them today, Mullnor,” he said. “They taste scorched.”
Heeding his advice, I logged an order of Terran pastries called crumpets with several pots of jam. I am especially fond of orange marmalade, and have shipped a container back home for my many relatives.
“How goes your screening?” Bingokk asked me, his ears swiveling forward with interest. It was common knowledge he has started gambling pools based on when the selections would be finalized. He truly is incorrigible in his various appetites. Our leaders were wise to forbid him to visit the city of Las Vegas, for fear of what chaos might ensue.
“Very well. I think I am ready to register my choice.”
“So soon?” he howled. “But you were still reviewing three different groups only last week! How can you be ready to recommend a human? From which group did you make your selection?”
An angry low hum sounded from a nearby table. “Stop that racket immediately, Bingokk, or I shall fine you for violating the decorum of this establishment.” The rather slight Hripirt, an individual unknown to me, glared venomously, then knocked back a large glass of fermented azot juice. The murmur of his afttabs continued to broadcast his annoyance, despite Bingokk’s feeble attempt at looking apologetic.
“What’s the matter with that fellow? I asked.
“Depression,” Delip said. “He despairs of ever finding a suitable candidate. There are many, he says, who score well on duplicity and slyness, but they uniformly lack common sense.”
“What is his region?” I asked.
“Washington, District of Columbia, United States,” Bingokk said through a mouthful of eggs. He also muttered something indistinct about my family background which I carefully pretended I did not hear.
“Strange,” I said. “Washington is a major population center, as is your region, Delip. New York, is it not?”
Delip’s snout wrinkled in the affirmative. “Perhaps his candidates demonstrate the herd-animal mentality of the ones I encountered on the thoroughfare called Broadway. Many of them dress the same, act the same, and stand in the same endless lines for performances of live actors.”
Bingokk smirked. “It’s not so entertaining watching dead ones.”
His comment reminded me of the worst planet I ever surveyed: the sentient race, who resembled Terran peapods, had made decomposition into a religious cult. We found no suitable candidate there, and it smelled terrible. We left after one of the natives killed a Hripirt solely to see her rot. This, however, is not a pleasant subject to discuss at a meal, so I remained silent. Unlike Bingokk, I know the meaning of restraint.
“Most of our jokes about Terran entertainment are well-deserved,” Delip said, spooning up some beans. “But one of these shows am
used me, though not for the same reasons the humans liked it.”
I gave a short blat with my afttabs, but not loud enough to disturb the noise-sensitive fellow. “Call the medical forces; Delip is clearly ill.”
Bingokk shoved aside his empty plate. “I don’t know which bothers me more: Delip enjoying human entertainment, or Mullnor attempting humor.”
“Let me explain,” Delip said. “This particular entertainment involved the humans dressing as small domesticated beasts and cavorting in a heap of garbage.”
“Are you certain the Advance Teams screened this race for suitability?” Bingokk asked. “They sound delusional.”
Although I hated the notion of agreeing with the disreputable Bingokk on anything, I had to concur. “How is animal-mimicry a form of entertainment? I mean, aside from foolish characters who can pucker up and snort like wild gronkree, hoping to induce laughter at dull parties.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Bingokk’s afttabs relax in mid-pucker. He is as predictable as the Terran satellite’s cycle.
“The show is more complex than that,” Delip admitted. “The actors playing beasts represent human characteristics, such as vanity, gluttony, and so on.”
“Ah, it is a morality piece, such as Tipli the Humble wrote!” I said. My cousin is a noted scholar of ancient literature, so I am reasonably familiar with it.
Bingokk, obviously sulking, took out his all-purpose unit and flicked his finger-tentacles over it. I suspect he was revising the odds on his Candidate Selection Pool. “Humans portraying animals who act like humans. Madness! I truly hope I find my candidate soon, and can leave this planet.”
Delip, well-accustomed to her shipmate’s tantrums, ignored him. I do not know how she endured them on the long voyage to Terra. My patience will survive occasional encounters with him, but not daily ones.
She continued: “The beasts parade before their Elder, hoping to be chosen to ascend to animal paradise, or so a devotee of the actors informed me, for it had made little sense to me. She explained their characteristics determined which one is selected, and this amused me, for it seemed so similar to our job of screening the candidates for the voyage back home.”
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