“Huh,” Juliano said, impressed. “Where’d you get that, from Star Trek?”
“It’s true. I was taken over by an advanced alien being. But I’m okay now.”
“You were taken over by the FBI, asshole.”
Juliano lurched forward, his arm looping around my neck. His hand ripped the front of my shirt open and grabbed inside. The wires hurt as he yanked them savagely, ripping them out.
He dangled the tiny mike in front of my eyes. The compact transmitter was still nestled at the small of my back.
“Aliens, huh?” he said. He threw the mike and the wires at the dashboard with great disgust and vi-ciousness. “Aliens, my ass.”
The suburbs thinned, and Jerry said nothing for a long time. Then he said, simply, “Turn off the next exit.”
“Pretty far out in the boonies,” I said, chewing a last fry.
“I was thinking of doing it in Bloomingdale’s, but I thought, nah, too many witnesses.”
I laughed. “There’s another piece of fish left. You want it?”
“Lost your appetite?”
“No, go ahead, you take it.”
“I don’t want it.”
I shrugged. “Going to waste.”
“Never mind about the goddamn fish. You eat it, fer crissake.”
“I’m not hungry anymore. You eat it.”
“Jesus. Awright.”
Jerry leaned over the seat, opened up the lid of the cardboard box and looked in.
At that moment the Lincoln hit the concrete Jersey barrier that I had suddenly and deliberately swerved toward. It was sitting by the side of the road, angled oddly out, left by a road crew that had not taken great pains to straighten up after themselves except for putting up a flimsy wooden horse with a flashing amber light, barely visible in the bright sun. For all that, the thing was no great hazard, unless you deliberately drove straight at it.
The car hit the thing at a little over 30 mph. The impact was enough to throw Jerry over the front seat and head-first into the windshield, cracking it. He ended up a fetal huddle on the floor in front, his neck bent at an odd angle. The windshield bore a small circular wound like a star with rays of cracked glass.
Both front air bags in the front, the one on the steering wheel, and the one in the passenger side of the dash, had deployed with astonishing explosive energy, uselessly. My seat belt had restrained me from coming into contact with my bag, and Jerry’s head had simply glanced off the other.
I was fine. My shoulder hurt a bit, but I felt okay. I unhooked my belt and leaned over Jerry, listening.
I heard no breathing. Jerry’s gun was nowhere in sight. It didn’t matter. Jerry wouldn’t be using it. I reached into my jacket and brought out my own piece, a black plastic 9mm semiautomatic. I checked it over, put it back. Then I got out.
Inspecting the front of the car, I was surprised at the minimal damage. The thick plastic and fake-chrome bumper had deformed only slightly. Not only was the car still operable, it was hardly touched. They make good vehicles, I thought. Nothing like a big old car. I hated compacts.
There were woods nearby, and I took myself for a walk. Following a deer trail, I passed through a copse of beech trees and came out into a little clearing.
It was a perfect day. The sunlight warmed and the wind cooled. The high sun backlighted a single cloud of writhing wisps and smokes, illuminated to an ethereal glow. It could have been some long-departed spirit, once earthbound but now free.
I was that spirit. I was a ghost on this planet, a shade of my former self, my former life on a planet far across this island universe that my race shared with the dominant species of this world. My essence had been transmitted across the vast black reaches, and I took up a new life here. The irony, the irony of the nature of that new life.
I smelled the sea and watched a white gull circle below the cloud. Birdsong came from a stand of timber to my right. A breeze came up and stirred the tall grass and made the sound beach grass makes with wind in it, a high, thin, brittle rustling, as if the grass were made of paper.
I smelled sea smells and earth smells, and the mixture was heady. The sky seemed bigger, out here in the boondocks, and the earth and sky was all there was. I heard no highway sounds. I looked down. The black earth was damp. I watched a beetle crawl along the ground, then disappear under a rock.
An insect flitted by; a blur of color, a flutter, then gone.
I felt odd, but good. I was aware of the world, and my place in it, interloper though I might be. I was here. Why? To see. To see, I thought. And I saw. I saw all this. I was alone on the Earth. There was only the Earth and myself, in solitude with my senses. My life—my lives—and their particular details, their shape and contour, their fits and starts, and this final faltering, were of little importance. All that mattered was that I was alive. I was here. I saw, I experienced. From this I derived an immense satisfaction, wordless and incommunicable.
But what of the life I had supplanted, usurped? That individual—Charles “Charlie Fish” Bonanno—was gone, and his demise posed an ethical problem, for all that he had possessed the morals of a slug. What rankled most was that it had all been in vain. “Juliano” could have been a transplant himself, an agent, an assassin sent by the galactic criminal organization I had betrayed eons ago, in another star system at the other end of the starry swarm of the Milky Way. Their tentacles were infinitely long. They were still reaching for me.
There was no remedy for it. I had no way of communicating to my protectors. There was no instrumentality on this planet capable of sending a distress signal. I was trapped here. The trouble with the Witness Protection Program was that it was a one-shot affair, so to speak. You got one chance to escape and hide. It was useless. If they could find me once, in time another assassin would come. Of that I could be quite assured.
I took a deep breath, then walked back to the car. I wedged my stocky frame into the front seat, and took out my primitive firearm. I slid out the clip, looked at it, then shoved it back into the handle.
Releasing the safety on the automatic, I glanced at the still form on the floor beside me. Was he or was he not an agent sent by the Organization? I didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. It was only a matter of time before such a one appeared. My only recourse was clear.
Holding the gun upside down, I placed the barrel between my lips and fired a bullet up through the roof of my mouth and into my tiny human brain.
Back to Contents
ALIEN GROUND by Anthony R. Lewis
I
T’S STRANGE TO BE on a starship instead of on Mrrthow. It’s even stranger when you realize that no one on Mrrthow has any starships. Still, I am onboard a starship, so somebody has one. The people who own this one aren’t from Mrrthow. They aren’t people by my definition of five days ago. My new definition is more universal—any being that controls my food and air and pays me a salary is “people.” That’s a practical definition and I’m a practical vavacq.
As a practical person, I am cleaning the tables in the galley. My reading of cautionary romances on Mrrthow led me to believe that this would be done by machines, but I am informed that machines cost more than General Maintainers (Probationary) and it is not half so satisfying to hit machines. I don’t know how I know this language nor how my credentials were in order. I suppose I am a pawn in a game with many Hidden Players behind the scenes. I’d worry about it, but the first thing to do is survive.
Lady Susan came into the galley, ducking to avoid hitting her head. She’s a human and they run to height. She drew her five-fingered hand along the tabletop. “Not clean
Humans don’t like vavacq. (Yes, there are vavacq out here. This puzzled me at first.) Lady Susan takes this cultural trait and nurtures it. “Vavacq,” she said. “If your race practiced genetic engineering and forced culling for a few million years, they might be eligible to apply for a junior partnership in a lichen. You,” she sneered, “would not have made it to the second generation.” When she sneers
, her shiny white omni-vore teeth contrast with her brown face.
I finished my cleaning and returned to my cubicle. I passed other crew on the way; none of them are vavacq, but none of them are human either. I think Lady Susan is on some sort of a training mission. I didn’t expect so many species. Our scientists said this was highly improbable; another good theory done in by facts. “Never thought about it,” was the majority opinion (this fits in with my new definition of people). This was followed by “It’s always been that way.” A few of a more mystic persuasion believed that an Elder Race had seeded the galaxy with life-forms for their own unknowable purposes. These were referred to as the Eldest Ones, the Gardeners, or the Causal Ones, depending upon the particular sect involved.
My quarters are small. My current possessions are two uniforms and a toilet kit. I have been accessing the available sections of the ship’s computer memory. Most of that seems to be pornography. There is background information in other languages, but I don’t know them. I don’t know how I learned this language I’m speaking. I’m going to sleep.
The captain is a Lobote—descended from a pack carnivore; we are the surrogate pack. I’m avoiding Lady Susan; she must dislike me as a vavacq specimen. I have not had a chance to be personally offensive to her. Given her size and obvious strength, I think the proper retort to her rudeness is a dignified silence or a “Yes, ma’am.” I’m the only vavacq on the ship. I know there are others in the galaxy. No one thinks I’m unusual. There are references to vavacq in some of the novels. Favorable, unfavorable, or background depending upon the author’s species or personality. It’s clear that vavacq are not the Master Race by any means.
I don’t think being a General Maintainer is why I am here. Someone or something put me here for another reason. I wish they would let me know what I am supposed to be doing. It would not be. a clever idea to broach my situation to anyone on board. They all know what I ought to be doing.
I hear we are going to reenter RealSpace tomorrow and dock at some orbital station. We don’t land on planets because it would cost too much. I’ll get station leave if I don’t screw up.
The cook ordered me to catch some small vermin that have been stealing food. I built three vermin traps. Lady Susan kicked me while I was crawling into a raided cabinet to place them. One snapped on my paw and I yelped. I think she smiled at that. It takes very little to please some people.
We’re docked. I drew some of my pay tokens. The tokens are silvery with a numeral on one side and a serpentine orgy on the other. I bought some sort of smoked meat with them. The meat seller warily directed me to the local equivalent of a library. Not too many General Maintainers (Probationary) look for that kind of diversion.
I stepped through menus on political galactography and entered my home planet’s name as nearly as I could transliterate it.
+Unknown+
I tried the name from other languages—RRgol, Hssthat, Mrr IV. And back came the answer every time.
+Unknown+
Conclusion: Mrrthow doesn’t exist and all my memories of it were hallucinations. I decided to investigate the Gardener Mythos. I reached that query point and the library came back with
♦Logical Exclavity+
I must have made a mistake; so I tried again and again it returned
♦Logical Exclavity+
I thought, Let me at least find out what that means, Again I made my way through the databases and was rewarded with:
♦Logical Exclavity: a volume of space removed from all records, databases, references. The space of a logical exclavity, and all objects in it have no existence with respect to the galactic knowledge. Note: the existence of this phrase and its definition are not included in any record, database, or references
A datum telling me that it did not exist. What next?
♦Hello, did you enjoy the trip?+
I jabbed my claws into my I/O device, recovered, and entered “Not particularly.”
♦Unnecessary; just talk.+
“You’re the one who set me up?” - +1 am the not-specific sentient who transported you. I am involved in the project.+
“Why?”
+We have a task for you.+
I could ask who “we” is or I could ask what the job is. “Who are you that you want me to do what?” That didn’t come out the way I expected it to.
♦Continue your job on the ship. More details will be available later.+
“No!”
+No?+
“No.”
+If you don’t want more details, we won’t give them to you.+
“You are deliberately misinterpreting my statements. I may decide I like being a General Maintainer and spend my life working my way up in that profession.”
+You wouldn’t. Vavacq don’t.+
“Tell me about vavacq. Why aren’t there many around? Why do most of the other species treat us (me) like dirt, especially the humans?”
+The last time you ruled this part of space you were a particularly unpleasant group. That’s why most species dislike you. The humans knocked you down and took over; before that you knocked the humans down and took over. This has cycled four times.+
“So everyone hates vavacq and loves humans?”
+No, they hate both species. The humans aren’t any better at ruling than vavacq.+
That agreed with my one data point—Lady Susan.
“Couldn’t you have told this to me while I was on the ship? It might have made things easier.”
+Not out of RealSpace.+ Pause. +Your job is to break the cycles. We will talk to you again when necessary. Use your personal imagination when the pain becomes too great.+
The screen was just a screen again. I had gotten the runaround, threats, and an impossible job, but I had to pay for the connect time. I walked around the accessible part of the station, entered the equivalent of a bookstore, bought some reels of popular history with most of my remaining tokens and returned to the ship. I wasn’t going to be able to retire on my earnings. I wondered if saving the universe for unknown races paid well.
I’m reading the tapes in my off hours. Most of them are meaningless because I don’t have the referents— the sort of thing that doesn’t get into the book because everyone knows it. The vavacq and the humans have been fighting over this part of space for a few hundred thousand years. Currently, the humans are on top, but vavacq are sniping at them everywhere. The other species are not particularly happy, either.
There’s no mention of Mrrthow. Mrrthow, and the Mrr System, are a Logical Exclavity. We don’t exist as far as the galaxy is concerned. The opinions of six-plus billion of us Mrrthowq don’t count because we don’t exist. There’s no such term as “logical exclavity” either.
I now understand this: I am vavacq: most sentient beings dislike me; Lady Susan hates me. Lady Susan is human: most sentient beings dislike her, too; if she vanishes me, there’s no one to complain about it. She is showing remarkable restraint for a human forced to be on the same ship with a vavacq.
The tapes are interesting. They’re biased, but all history is written from someone’s point of view and few cultures rate anyone higher than themselves. This part of the galaxy is a mess. There are tens of thousands of polities trying to undercut each other, putting high tariffs on goods, taxing passage—just like early Mrrthow. On Mrrthow, we thought this sort of behavior disappeared when technology came, but. . . Space is big, and worlds self-contained so that most trade is in intangibles and rarities. Bulk materials are there on the planets or in the planetoid belts that most systems have. Everyone should be secure and happy—but they aren’t. One of the intangibles that gets exported is religion. Jihads and crusades through space and time with high-tech weapons. Half of one tape is a list of extinct sentients.
In my CR stories we would come bursting out of Mrrthow, rip ears, order the galaxy, and all the subser-vients would live happily ever after. In reality, vavacq were a big part of the problem.
We’re docking at Haavio orbital stat
ion. The computer says it’s huge and has a reasonably-sized vavacq colony aboard. Do I want to meet my long-lost out-sibs or would I rather keep them lost? Do I know enough to keep from screwing up? Probably not, but I’m getting tired of reacting to events. Maybe I should go out and push something to see if it pushes back.
I find a map. I’m planning to go to the vavacq sector and see what information I can pick up. Perhaps my fellow vavacq could do something about getting me back to Mrrthow. I doubt this, but it’s worth a try. The path seems long, but it goes through safe areas where solitary vavacq aren’t likely to be molested. I pass a few vavacq who stare at me, but they ignore me so I ignore them. The vavacq sector could be closed off easily. The bends in the corridor allow a small human force to pen in any number of vavacq.
It stinks. The ship’s air was stale, but this is not passive staleness; this is an active, living stench compounded of rotting food, unwashed bodies, and un-emptied litter. Groups of vavacq glared at me or ostentatiously ignored me. I saw no females or kits. It looked more like a prison than a community. I walked briskly as if I knew what I was doing and where I was going and turned into the third cafe I came to.
It was dim. I ordered a mild drink and took it to an empty table. I was sipping the foul-tasting brew when it was wrenched from my hand and thrown at the dispenser, who ducked with an alacrity born of practice. “That’s human piss! Take a real drink.” Some distilled beverage was slammed down before me. The container was attached to a large paw; the large paw was attached to a large arm; and then to a huge vavacq.
“Er, no thanks.”
“Drink!” It was not a request but an order. I had made a mistake coming here. These sorts of problems had not occurred in the library. I looked at the drink again; I looked at the large person again. I picked up the drink. It didn’t smell too vile. I took a sip.
“All of it.” I drank. Whatever was in it was potent. I think I lost consciousness even before I tilted in the chair.
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