Analog SFF, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The Bug Traps had a lot to do with the way America—and for that matter, the rest of the world—was right then. We'd worked our way out of a pretty bad stretch when everything that wasn't in the toilet was teetering on the rim, into something like peace and stability. Some wars ended. Terrorism was getting policed into the margins. The economy had started chugging along. Actual steps were being taken to deal with the rapidly degenerating environment.

  Then the Bug Traps appeared. Overnight, and out of nowhere.

  What they were was no secret. Messages began appearing on various media outlets, slick and jam-proof off-world infomercials announcing the SETI grand prize. Members of an alien race who called themselves the B'hlug had come to our solar system and taken up residence on Venus, that planet chosen because we didn't seem to be using it, and it was comfortably out of bomb range. The B'hlug declared themselves a peaceful and benevolent race, looking forward to having some earthlings come on out to check out the very nice place they had built for us so we could all get to know each other better.

  To facilitate this process, humans being comparatively backward in the space travel game, white cylinders about the size of a UPS truck stood on end began appearing all over the world. Want to visit us on sunny Venus? Just step into one of these transport booths and leave the teleporting to us.

  The rational planetary demographic was tickled, amused, and intrigued by this invitation and its meaning. We were not alone, and the other guys sounded kind of interesting.

  Of course those level heads are rarely in charge, or get to stay in control when what the paranoidocracy decrees to be the shit hits what they define as the fan. This reactionary xenophobic fringe went full-out foam-mouthed, bug-eyed, howling batshit. Never ones to scruple at such charming niceties as logic, fairness, intellectual honesty, or any of the other stains they wanted washed out of their concept of a proper society, they and their darlings immediately began seizing power, blasting themselves upward on a blaring cacophony of shrieking propaganda, gibbering hysteria, and extravagant threats calculated to make any fence-sitters on the alien issue stain their shorts and fall off on their side.

  The New Order formed, attacks were immediately launched on what the mouthpieces of the new regime called the Bug Traps.

  They set new low water marks for failure. Various attempts to remove or destroy the transport booths got precisely nowhere. Armies—America's and those on foreign soil—tried to break in so they could go kick the evil ETs off “our” planet, which meant Venus. They might as well have declared war on gravity. One heavily decorated general with a history of ending wars was able to go into a Bug Trap. A week later a two-word message from him appeared in the Oval Office: I resign. Over in the Middle East, where some denizens take their backlash against outsiders seriously, a group of fundamentalist mullahs with a typically weak grasp of science and reality managed to incite a group of fanatics into nuking one.

  At the conclusion of this Elmer Fudd fatwa, sitting in the giant crater surrounded by glassified sand was the portal, barely smudged and fully functional.

  I wasn't sure what I thought about the aliens. The government line was so luridly cartoonish it had to be a lie, meaning the Bugs were probably not the slavering baby-eaters and virgin-defilers certain fact-impaired media outlets insisted they were, even without a single chewed baby or weepy deflowered virgin to back up their recitations of official talking points.

  Walking into a Bug Trap and seeing what happened next had never been something I'd planned on trying. Not so much from lack of curiosity but because there were too many causes and issues to posto for right where I was. Big Brother needed snotty little brother kicking him in the ankles every chance possible. My focus and industry had of course led to my present situation. So much for the virtues of a solid work ethic.

  "There he is!" A rising clatter and rumble of boots followed the shout. Decision made: Hello Venus, good-bye Earth.

  I bolted for the police barricade around the Bug Trap.

  Warnings blared, triggered by proximity sensors. "Warning! This is a Prohibited Area! Anyone approaching the alien artifact is subject to severe penalties!"

  I considered myself duly warned as I hurdled the concrete barricade. I was halfway across the open area between it and the Bug Trap when the first gunshot sounded, a round cracking off the ground just in front of me. I focused on the black door-shaped area on the face of the trap, trying to will myself there. I knew it wasn't the sort of door you'd find in a house or a store, but some sort of exotic field. Certain people were allowed to pass through, others were rejected. Soldiers, suicide bombers, sociopaths, and fundamentalists might as well try to walk through a brick wall.

  Would I, a moderately outlaw, rather subversive, more or less dedicated troublemaker be on the alien A List? If not, I was screwed.

  Another bullet passed by my head, so close I could hear it zip by. The spike of relief I felt at being missed snapped off when something slammed into me from behind.

  I went down, arms flapping as if I could fly instead of fall. I hit hard, desperately trying to gain ground in a spastic scrabble. Rubber bullet, I mentally chanted. I hope that was a cop firing rubber bullets.

  There was a wide white apron around the Bug Trap. Supposedly when you reached that you came under Bug protection. It was two body lengths away, the Trap itself thirty feet beyond. I writhed toward this promised safety like a Tazed caterpillar, tensed against another shot.

  A prickling sensation washed over me as I crawled onto the smooth white stuff surrounding the trap, and for a second I was afraid I was feeling my soul splitting from my body like a banana squeezed from its peel.

  "You are safe now," intoned a voice from someplace above me. Was I hearing angels? I didn't hear harps.

  This was followed by a barrage of gunfire. I cowered with my hands over my head—like that could help. Amazingly enough, not a single bullet reached me.

  When a second fusillade began, urged on by a lot of cursing, and still nothing was reaching me, I had to twist myself around and look.

  A dozen Chrome Lords were at the barricade, armed with everything from handguns to full auto drive-bys. When they saw their quarry—me—staring at them they went nuts, doing their best to blow enough holes in me to give them a clear view of the Bug Trap behind me. The bullets flashed into sparks as they hit an invisible wall rising up from the edge of the white apron. The aliens had to be protecting me. That was nice of them.

  But it was one shot too late. There was blood on the smooth white ground under me. It was soaking the front of my clothes. There was quite a bit of it. As if my brain had been waiting for the proper visual cue before reacting, pain blasted through me. I moaned as the world began to spin.

  No other option than to continue on. I tried to shove back the vertigo. Getting to my feet took a tremendous effort, and once up I wavered, jelly-legged and woozy.

  More yelling erupted at the barricade, contradictory demands to come back and to go let the Bugs eat my ass. A police drone swooped in, belly-mounted spot lighting me up. Speakers blared commands to Halt! and Back away from the artifact right now!

  A movie zombie shamble got me to the doorway. I turned back for one last look. A couple dozen screaming and cursing Chrome Lords now ringed the barricade. Two NYPD drones buzzed angrily overhead. The copette in the spook suit watched impassively from a nearby rooftop.

  I gave it all the finger, got myself turned around, and more fell than stepped into the Bug Trap.

  * * * *

  My first impression was of whiteness. Absolute and unrelieved whiteness.

  Now I was standing at the bottom of a vast snow-white bowl, the sides curving up and away from me in some distance too ill-defined to measure by eye, seeming to merge with a white ceiling far above. I flashed on the image of a spider at the bottom of a bathtub in an all-white bathroom. I was seeing something similar to what it might see, only with fewer eyes and no particular urge to snack on flies.

  And about the
same clue quotient as to where I was, and what it all meant.

  Then I noticed something strange and wonderful.

  I wasn't in pain anymore. In fact, other than being a bit weirded out, I felt pretty damn good. I checked myself over. The bullet wound was gone. A ragged hole went through my shirt, vest, and coat where the decidedly non-rubber bullet had passed through me, but there was no hole in my hide, and all the blood was gone. Moreover, my clothes were dry. Even my socks and sneakers.

  A quick further personal inventory told me that all my tools and toys were still with me. I even had my phone, though I had a funny feeling that calling for takeout Chinese might just be pointless.

  I pulled out the phone anyway and almost placed a call to Jimmy's Noodle Kaboodle. Two things stopped me: Was this a chicken or shrimp situation? I wasn't sure. Besides, there had to be a smarter move than that.

  But what? I'd been presumably transported to Venus and given some first-rate medical treatment. The place I'd ended up didn't look anything like the alleged probe pictures the government spread around to prove the planet was such a hellish place only monsters could live there. Was I supposed to walk around and start exploring, like in a game? Stay put and wait for a tour guide—or the ET Emeril who would be preparing me for dinner? At least I wasn't a baby or a virgin.

  I was starting to put my phone back in my pocket when it began playing the theme song from Close Encounters. Not a song I'd ever loaded in it.

  I put the phone to my ear. Nervously. “Hello?”

  "Good day, Giorgio Lennon Phale, most commonly and familiarly known as Glyph. Welcome to Venus."

  “Uh, thanks,” I said. The voice on the other end sounded human, with the smooth, educated, weighty diction you'd hear on a PBS documentary.

  "You're entirely welcome. This is a courtesy call to let you know that a facilitator will be joining you shortly. We do this because not everyone reacts well to surprise."

  “Consider me warned,” I said. My next words were chosen carefully, like half-price California rolls at a downscale sushi joint with giant cockroaches for wait staff. “Will this facilitator be, ah, human?”

  "Does that matter, Glyph?"

  “I guess not.” Except it might. People on Earth still had no idea what Bugs looked like. All we had ever been shown were obviously artificial avatars. The question had been posed many times: Why can't we see you? The answer was always the same: You can. Come on out and take a look. I had always figured this was some sort of curiosity test, one I'd flunked up to now.

  "Very good. Orientation will now begin."

  “Which means?”

  “It means we have a talk, and get to know one another,” said the same voice behind me.

  I nearly dropped my phone, lurching around toward the source of the voice.

  Where there had been an expanse of eggshell nothingness, there was now a white desk. A white straight-back chair faced the desk. And behind the desk was . . .

  . . . Gumby?

  “Have a seat,” Gumby said in that voice that made me expect a pledge break or an explanation of the sexual habits of penguins.

  “Sure. Thanks.” I shuffled toward the chair, keeping a wary eye on the entity across the desk.

  “Not too scary looking, am I?” Gumby said.

  “Not really,” I replied, screwing a smile on my face and struggling to look and act cool. The aliens look like Gumby?

  “Hardly any resemblance to the creatures from Alien one through thirteen, is there?”

  That earned a nervous laugh. “Not much at all. You've really seen those movies?”

  Gumby nodded. “Sure. We've studied a whole bunch of your art and media. A personal favorite among my kind, alien-wise, are the invaders from Mars Attacks!"

  I was amazed to find myself discussing classic movies with a person from another planet. That amazement was nothing compared to what I felt when Gumby suddenly sort of whirled and turned into one of the fishbowl-helmeted, bare-brained aliens from the Tim Burton flick.

  “Ah,” I said, trying to pretend there hadn't been anything the slightest bit freaky about what I'd just seen—and was seeing. I had to reach hard for a snappy comeback. “Uh, so have you banned Slim Whitman just to be on the safe side?”

  The alien made a soft popping sound. “We haven't banned him, but we're not big fans. We much prefer Roy Orbison.” The creature sat forward, elbows on the desk. “I've let myself get sidetracked, Glyph. Pardon me for not introducing myself. My name is Orchid.”

  “You have a human name?”

  “That's the closest English equivalent to my real name.”

  “The flower or the color?”

  “Both.” The alien whirled again. It was like every molecule making it up unmoored itself, turned white, played super high-speed Musical Chairs with its fellow molecules, then settled into a new shape when the music ended.

  Now I was staring at Princess Leia, complete with hair buns. In the white robe, not the brass bikini.

  I didn't lose it and mostly managed to not stare at Leia's tits. “So are you a, you know, male or female?”

  More of that popping sound. “Why? Are you going to hit on me, Glyph?” Orchid/Leia batted her eyes at me coyly.

  That brought me up short. “No, I just—” I got it then. “You're laughing, right? With that,” I mimicked the sound. “Popping noise.”

  “Yes, and please forgive me. I am not laughing at you.”

  I shrugged. “Wouldn't matter if you were. Is laughing, um, universal?”

  Leia/Orchid nodded approvingly. “Among organisms who possess the spark of sentience, yes.”

  “So is that why you guys came here? To see if we know any good jokes?” An idea so absurd it might just be possible.

  Orchid laughed again. “Who knows, maybe we did.” Another whirl, and when it ended I was facing Mr. Spock. Middle-late period, from the second movie. “Now, your coming here was not exactly voluntary, was it?”

  “Not exactly,” I admitted uneasily. Now for hard questions.

  “You were being pursued by both a gang and the police, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  One Spock eyebrow rose. “You seem to be something of a troublemaker. This was not your first brush with the police, or anywhere near the first time your actions have put you in danger, or at loggerheads with society.”

  No point in denying it. “I've had people take the things I said and did the wrong way.”

  “Will you make trouble here?”

  “I don't know,” I said, answering honestly. “I mean, I owe you guys. You gave me a place to escape to and seemed to have fixed me up from getting shot. Thanks for that, by the way. If I wasn't here I might be dead. But . . .”

  Orchid/Spock whirled into the Tommy Lee Jones character from Men In Black. He frowned forbiddingly. “But what, Glyph?”

  How to explain the pressure that is always inside me? “The thing is, when I see or learn about something I think is wrong, I have to do something about it.”

  “By, among other acts, defacing public structures with various combinations of words and artwork.”

  I smiled sheepishly. “Some of them are so butt-ugly they're pretty much deface-proof.”

  A whirl and now the Terminator filled the space behind the desk, a grim expression on the parts of his face that didn't reveal metal. He said nothing, and that one red eye bored into my skull.

  I managed to keep from cringing. This sort of thing always seemed to happen in job interviews too. Not the whirling thing, but somewhere along the line I would manage to scare or piss off my interviewer. Not a smart move in this case. There probably wasn't anything keeping Orchid from zapping me right back to the cops and Chrome Lords.

  The silence stretched on long enough to become uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.

  “Well,” Orchid said at last, whirling into Gandalf. “This has been interesting and educational.”

  “For me, too,” I said with a weak smile, wanting to get back on Orchid's good
side. Not sucking up, just making nice.

  “Good. Now please stand up.”

  I did as I was asked, trying to hold on to that smile.

  “Please turn around.”

  I felt a spasm of panic. “You're not going to cap me, are you?”

  “We don't cap people,” Gandalf said. “At least not in the manner you're talking about. Now turn around.”

  Hoping Gandalf/Orchid didn't turn me into a toad, I obeyed. Now there was a white wall just a few feet behind me. In the wall were two matte black doors like the one that had brought me to Venus. One was marked with a big red X, the other was unmarked.

  “You will see similar doors when you join your kind in the Hoop,” Orchid said. “The door with the X will always lead to the same place. Back to your world, and the gate you used to come here. Though you can, by intention, instead end up at the gate nearest the one that brought you out. That's a provision for those in your situation, ones who might be facing a less than friendly homecoming. Any questions?”

  I had head full. “Where does the other door lead?”

  “Somewhere else.”

  I waited for more information. None came.

  “That's it?” I turned to look at Orchid, seeing that he—or she—had whirled into the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Orchid shrugged, shedding straw. “That's it. You don't like where you are, go through a Mystery Door and end up someplace else.”

  “Someplace here on Venus.”

  Orchid/Scarecrow grinned and spread his hands. “Probably.”

  “You're not giving me much to go on.”

  “What do you want, a yellow brick road?”

  I examined the doors doubtfully. “So I'm supposed to just walk through and hope for the best?”

  No answer.

  The desk was gone. Orchid was gone. The only things left to prove any of it had been real were a few stray pieces of straw. As I watched they sank into the white floor and disappeared.

  I faced the doors again. Took a deep breath and walked through the unmarked door to wherever.

  * * * *

  I had no idea what to expect when I went through that alien doorway. All I could do was brace for the worst, as if ducking into a bar notable for the multiple chalked body outlines on the sidewalk out front.