I, Alien

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  Delip is a pleasant being, but every so often, she falls prey to flights of fancy, and this, I fear, was one of them. For while certain personality traits are common to sentient beings—without them, civilized life would not exist—others differ from race to race. We Hripirt had already learned that while we share much with Terrans, we value some characteristics that they view with distaste. Some of their religions even regard them as moral crimes. For Delip to equate our search with a silly Terran entertainment showed poor judgment.

  A young Hripirt, her foretabs still velvety, brought my order of crumpets and jam. “I hope this is satisfactory, Screener Mullnor,” she said. Her afttabs were faintly humming, so I knew she wasn’t finished. Highly unusual, for here at the refectory, the staff interferes with members as little as possible. Serve and scoot, that’s the policy.

  Still, I thought I knew what was coming, and I was right. The little thing hummed louder and asked, “If you don’t mind, Screener, could you tell me where you got the Terran handicrafts you are wearing? I’d love to purchase a pair for myself.”

  “Perhaps we could come to a financial arrangement,” I said.

  The server practically trilled. “Oh, thank you, Screener!” She looked around, probably to check if her supervisor was watching, then presented her all-purpose unit. I produced mine, and, as she was eager, we completed the transaction in moments. She slid the human articles onto her foretabs and scurried back into the kitchen.

  Delip’s afttabs murmured humorously. “I fear you may have started a trend, Mullnor.”

  “I’ve no objection to making a small profit from the foolishness of youth,” I said, sampling the crumpets. They were nicely done, and I quite enjoyed the boy-senberry jam, a new flavor for me. I logged a note to order some.

  Bingokk continued messing about with his unit. Finally, he put it down and blatted sharply. “I still can’t figure it out. You must tell me how you came to a decision so quickly. As I had it, you were screening three groups, each with twelve to twenty individuals. How did you narrow it down?”

  “Last Sunday, I immediately eliminated the entire group known as the San Fernando Valley Rowdy Riotous Raider Nation on the basis of irrational behavior.”

  “An entire nation consisting of a few entities?” asked Delip.

  “They do not comprise a recognized state. They are supporters of an athletic team.”

  Both Delip and Bingokk zzurbed in understanding.

  Our leaders prepared special lessons on Terran sporting rituals, mandatory viewing for all Screeners. I found them appalling. Had I had my way, the Rowdy Raider adherents would never have made it onto a shortlist for screening, but then, I confess to being something of an elitist.

  “I did not mind their outlandish face-painting and peculiar garb,” I said, “but while at the sporting event, they all became ‘drunk and disorderly,’ violating numerous local laws. Nor, I discovered, were these their first infractions. Obviously, I could not select a lawbreaker as a candidate.”

  “No, for if they break their own laws, they might not respect ours,” said Delip.

  Bingokk waved his tentacles. “And the next group you eliminated?”

  I hummed pleasantly, remembering. “A gathering of fans and authors of speculative fiction. I enjoyed being with them; of all humans, they are most at ease facing the reality of visitors from another world.”

  “So why did you not make your selection from there?” Bingokk asked. The low desperate tone of his afttabs made me wonder just how detailed his pools were. Perhaps he was not merely wagering on which of us would make our selections quickly, but from which of our focus groups we would choose.

  “They scored extremely well on intelligence and creativity; some of the authors had also high marks for cunning, avarice, and duplicity—you should hear some of the wrangling they engage in regarding their internal political offices and awards. But they showed too much individualism and initiative. Our leaders want visitors who are not herd-beasts, like those Delip encountered, but neither do they want Terrans too inclined to stray from the path and explore on their own. Finally, they are definitely unusual sorts, even among humans, and not truly representative of the species.”

  Bingokk blatted, “I should have known you’d be this stuffy! When will I ever learn?” He pounded his unit on the table until the Washington-screener began buzzing again and the server, her pretty pink-garbed foretabs twitching, motioned for him to stop.

  I scooped the last globs from the bottom of the jar of strawberry preserves and started on the plum jam. Bingokk’s financial troubles were no concern of mine. “One odd thing happened when I surveyed this group,” I commented. “There is apparently a famous fictional piece in which the aliens arrived on Terra and took away humans, intending to cook them on their home world. At the gathering, people kept asking me if I was there ‘to serve man,’ and laughing rather nervously.”

  “That is not odd, Mullnor, it’s disgusting,” said Delip. “What a concept! I am relieved you did not choose from this group of candidates.”

  “So you picked one of the ornithologists,” Bingokk said gloomily. “I never would have expected it.”

  “They are not accredited experts on avian species,” I said. “Merely well-educated enthusiasts. They journey into undeveloped areas, looking for birds.”

  “Then what do they do with them?” Delip asked.

  I didn’t answer immediately. I was watching the little server chatting with yet another diner and giving a demonstration of the foretab-covers. Most amusing.

  “They don’t do anything. They count the different species,” I finally said. “It is a pleasant pastime.”

  Delip mused, “Well, perhaps this is a good test of the Terrans, to see how they fare in the wilderness in which they evolved.”

  Poor Delip. She obviously did not pay attention to the human history lessons. Terrans evolved on another land mass altogether different from this one. I chose not to reveal her ignorance, but merely said, “No, they only stay for brief periods in the wildlife regions, so it is not indicative of their survival skills.”

  “Which one did you pick?” Bingokk asked. “I must know.”

  I trilled lightly. “I shall describe my final four candidates, all of them high scorers for intelligence and common sense. You tell me which one I chose on the basis of the other factors. Come, we shall have a wager.” I slid my unit toward his.

  “Very well! Maybe a chance to get some of my losses back!”

  “The first was the group’s leader, Joe. He is a strong man of middle years, well respected by the others. He organized the trip, as he has done many times before. This included scheduling transport—the site was some distance from the organization’s headquarters. When one individual damaged her optical equipment, he developed an ingenious solution to her problem.

  “The second candidate was the youngest, a teen-aged boy named Spencer. He proved the best at identifying bird species, made numerous realistic sketches of the creatures, but generally was silent. He spent the entire bus journey playing with a small gaming unit and wore a shirt emblazoned ‘New York Knicks.’

  “The third was another middle-aged man, this one called Mort. Mort showed an inconsistent ability to identify birds, often loudly proclaiming a sighting was of a particular species, only to be corrected by Spencer or Joe. I mention him only because of an incident at the end of the trek.

  “I explained to the humans that while the fresh mountain air and unspoiled surroundings were delightful, I found their hobby rather pointless. I then demonstrated the Sense-Surround feature of my unit, and provided them with an exact total of the avian species in the area: twenty-one Stellar’s Jays, thirty-eight California quail, nineteen white-breasted nuthatches, and so on.”

  “What did Mort do that was of interest?” asked Delip.

  “He approached me, wanting to buy my unit. Claimed he would win the Birding World Series with it, an event of competitive bird-counting.”

  Bingokk zz
urbed: “Ah, avarice! Good score!”

  “The final candidate, a woman named Agnes, was elderly, but in good health. She regaled me with tales of her many grandchildren, and spent the long journey creating clothes for the smallest ones. As the organization’s secretary, she kept track of the birds they identified, and planned to publish the list for the members who could not attend the trek.

  “So, which human did I select?”

  “Spencer, Joe, and Agnes displayed creativity,” said Delip. “Mort, obviously, was the only candidate to show avarice. I would pick Joe, for overall qualities.”

  “I would choose Spencer,” said Bingokk. “Talented youths often make good candidates, and those who play with gaming units often exhibit other useful characteristics.”

  Now it was Delip’s turn to blat derisively. “Ah, but Mullnor said the boy wore a New York Knicks shirt. He is undoubtedly a sports fanatic, and this negates all his other good attributes.”

  “You are both wrong,” I said, shoving my unit at him. “Pay up, Bingokk. I chose Agnes.”

  He yowled and buzzed, and the Washington fellow got up and left. “Why, Mullnor! It makes no sense, and you are esteemed among screeners.”

  I slid a tentacle into my travel-sack and pulled out another pair of Agnes’s hand-knitted booties and placed them on my foretabs. “Don’t forget, we evaluate Terrans on what they can contribute to Hripirt society. Agnes claims she can knit many pairs of these foretab-covers each day. She and I have already registered our trading firm, Earth Socks, and have some seventy orders pending.” Perhaps more, given that I transmitted the relevant information to the server’s unit and she had shown hers to at least four diners.

  Bingokk abruptly cut off his buzzing. “You astound me, Mullnor. I must go.”

  “Where do you suppose he’s going in such a rush?” Delip asked.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he was going to survey his candidates for knitting ability. Pass the last jar of apple butter, if you will.”

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  AORTIC INSUBORDINATION by Batya Swift Yasgur & Barry N. Malzberg

  I

  DON’T WANT TO go, I said. Let someone else do this. Not me. I never wanted it. Please don’t make me—

  Ah, they said, you will change the world. The needle twinkled. And the world certainly needs changing; we have had enough of this.

  But, I said. Speaking as I did “(speech” of course is a converted term for what I did). But no, not what? They said. No change so great ever started with one so small. The syringe poised, hovering lovingly.

  Until we understand what we are doing, I said.

  We understand, they said. The syringe struck. I was propelled into the River of Memory. Swimming along its currents.

  Was that how it happened? It is my best approximation. It must have been something like that as the Priests methodically unlocked and sent me on. Surely it would not have been in silence; surely I would not have gone without protest. And yet who is to know? Out of circumstances we create consequence, link a chain of events to a source, even if that source is a dream. A dream from which I will awaken safe and warm, no enclosure, no lessons, no orientation, no Priests, no mission, only circumstance itself.

  Circumstance, I can handle. Haven’t I always? That is why they chose me, but perhaps I was not chosen, maybe it was just a dream that I was taken to change the world.

  A dream that I begged for this cup to pass (my capacity for protest was inexhaustible then), a dream that my plea was ignored, a dream that I found myself—

  —Falling, falling and rolling and tumbling and bouncing, bounce and jounce, tumble and jump, roll and folderol, surrounded by the thick, viscous, oily fluid. So they did it after all, they really did make me go and it had worked, the protocols correct.

  —And disbelieving to that last scoop, swoop, loop, and whoop, I thought they would desist, that someone else would be taken to prowl the darkness. But no, no passing cup, so there I was falling and rising in that tunnel, propelled by rhythmic pulsation.

  Thump. Thump: it’s dark, I said, and I miss my—

  —Best not to think of them. Of origins, of the way it had been before and of what had been taken from me. I must live in this new world. This world, my mission.

  Orientation Chamber earlier. Lecture topic: Meet Your Neighbors. You will be coursing through tunnellike vessels in a stream of blood. You will be surrounded by discs, oddly concave at the center. Red blood corpuscles. These new neighbors are important, yes, but not as important as the white blood cells: Leukocytes.

  Remember those. That’s what you’ll be.

  And even before: I don’t want that, I said. I don’t want that. Silence, I was told, and shattered and complied I acceded.

  Follow your fellow leukocytes: watch and copy them. Then at a crucial moment you’ll make that one critical change and then—

  And then what?

  And then you’ll see what is needed and why.

  And then they obliterated me.

  Into that blood of memory. Leukocytes, corpuscles, my new family. Two cells in front, fellow members of the White, fellow soldiers of the Immune System. Behind, a mass of them: some round, some ovoid, and some horseshoe shaped—as, fetchingly, am I. Eccentrically located nuclei too like mine, surrounded by cytoplasm that glistens in the slick and random darkness of the blood. Cytoplasm just like mine, except for that one crucial difference, the infinitesimal message of change given this humble Voyager to carry.

  I, Voyager, greet them as they greeted me. We communicate in the bloodstream’s ancient code. Their language comes easily as we signal and call to others of the Family: Monocytes. Macrophages. Eosinophils. All that instruction I have endured facilitates communication. I mask my origins and darker, higher purpose with the words of cells, commonplaces hiding the deeper codes of exile and ruin. The Leukocytes and I, burbling small confidences as we await the call: the true summons.

  The call.

  A nasty virus this, they say. Herpes zoster. Kill it now is the command. So it’s off to the hand where Herpes Zoster has pitched camp. We are armed and ready for battle. We jog and swim to the Herpes Fort. My own substance is grim with the knowledge that my battle is not with Herpes. Not at all. Herpes is not the enemy. I know this.

  I plan my address, then.

  Herp, I will say: Herp, old pal. We’re allies. Friends. Herp, I will say, you are the smallest life-form known, nothing more than a package of DNA with a dirty assignment. I have an assignment, too, and these missions are not dissimilar. Your mission is to replicate yourself and so is mine. You will use the body’s own reproductive process by taking over a cell’s internal machinery. And I—

  —And I

  —I stop. That would be too blunt. I might have said that I would take over Herpes’ own machinery, but that would alert him and then I would have to take him by force then instead of having his cooperation. Try this, Herp, I will say instead: I will assist your takeover by sending false signals to the Leukocytes. They will disperse, the dumb things. By the time my deception has been discovered, Herp and I will be sharing a cell and the process will begin.

  This seems more reasonable.

  Accordingly, I volunteer to lead the attack. The Leukocytes agree. Why not? They are so dumb, so gullible, so easily led after all. Furthermore, they are relieved. Let someone else lead the charge to the enemy camp. Find someone as willing as I.

  Wait ten heartbeats I say to them. Then move to the fifth capillary along the digital crease of the third right interphalangeal joint. I will be waiting for you there.

  They are dumb but imprinted. They waver. It should not be, they suggest. This seems peculiar, they bleat. We are not at all certain, they whine. We have doubt, they mumble.

  I am persuasive, intense as I have been trained. This is the best way, I say. This is the source of the signal. They grumble and mumble a kind of agreement. They bounce and jounce, hobble and bobble.

  I will be waiting for you there, I say. Go ye her
oes, etc.

  Mutual salutes, wishes of luck, and then I forage my way to the fifth capillary where Herp perches, indistinguishably.

  I speak to him just as I planned. It goes as I knew it would. Herp is persuaded.

  “Mommy, it itches!”

  “Itching is normal when you have chicken pox. Let me prepare an oatmeal bath for you.”

  “Oh, that feels better. Can I sit in the tub all day?”

  “If you want.”

  “I want. But, Mommy—”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “There’s one spot that is still itching. Like it’s on fire. And the oatmeal isn’t helping.”

  “Show me.”

  “Here. The middle finger of my right hand.”

  “Oh, my, that is some blister. I’ve never seen one quite like this. Let’s try some lotion and see if it helps.”

  “But, Mommy—”

  “What is it?”

  “I feel weird. And all the other blisters are starting to itch more. Something is happening. Something’s happening! The blisters—look, they are getting bigger and bigger. Help, they’re growing and growing! Look at that one on my pinkie, it’s as big as my whole finger. And that one over there—”

  “Oh!”

  “Mommy what’s wrong with me?”

  “I don’t know. Hello? We need an ambulance immediately. Something terrible. Terrible!”

  “Mommy!”

  Of course I don’t kill him.

  That was never the assignment, of course. Never. What would be the purpose of that? The mission can be accomplished only through a Uve carrier, an active host. And a good thing, too, because killing him— well, that would have been malevolence, nothing else.

  Seven years old: innocent and adorable. Cute as a button. That’s what the nurses have been saying, now that the swelling has receded.