Star Sailors

by James McNaughton

  He opens the file. It is a Comms prototype, as he suspected. He skips the preliminaries.

  It begins with the familiar hospital scene, the bed with the alien propped up against pillows. But he looks different. The protective tent-bubble has gone and he’s fattened up. He glows with good health. His black hair, combed neatly behind his ears, has become glossy. The lantern jaw which looked awkward before now lends him a certain gravitas. He’s as charismatic as a happy baby or drugged carnivore.

  The humanoid reminds many Outers of the Native American chief Sitting Bull, despite there being no close physical similarity between them. For one thing, Samuel is much younger than the elderly chief in the old photos all over the internet now, but there is some shared quality, Jeremiah has to admit, some similar sense of restrained power, or something. Maybe it’s just the sense of them both having survived against impossible odds: the US cavalry and the endless vacuum of space. The alien isn’t popular at Sky Park right now but Jeremiah has to concede him an undeniable dignity, even if his ideas are as simplistic and dangerous as his colleagues suggest they are.

  A purple-robed and expressionless Buddhist monk sits to one side of the humanoid; the beautiful red-haired sign interpreter, in a green business suit, to the other; and Klotch, in the visitor’s seat, leans forward, high-haired, in a blue suit with a white, open-necked shirt.

  The intro outlines the desire of Comms to maximise Mr Klotch’s dominance in context. However inherent conflict in contexts is a major risk. Mr Klotch’s situational advantage is clear as a visitor in the hospital setting, but the test audience finding is that Samuel’s potential as a patient to recover to a position of strength greater than Mr Klotch as a visitor is problematic. Comms blather. Jeremiah skips it.

  Four PAs fade in around Mr Klotch, twice as many attendants as Samuel has. However feedback suggests that the tableau is too crowded, ‘like a chess match between two gang leaders’. Furthermore, the function of Klotch’s assistants is not obvious, as it is with Samuel’s. The PAs fade out. To give Klotch a pastor or two against Samuel’s monk would be adversarial, an escalation of sorts.

  Jeremiah skips forward. Samuel’s monk dissolves. The signer is relegated to a little box in the corner. One on one: Klotch and the alien.

  Feedback suggests that Mr Klotch is not well-known enough outside Australasia to fulfil the role of Earth’s spokesperson. Could he be constructed as the Earth’s greatest economist? No, viewer trust around rich elderly economists is low.

  Jeremiah skips to Context Option Two: A Journey. The raw footage has been enhanced. Mr Klotch pushes a wheelchaired Sam in bright sunlight. A variety of trial backgrounds appear behind them. Klotch as a carer—rather than the previous incarnations of ambassador or visitor—rates better, particularly in sunshine and around greenery, but still poorly. According to feedback, his dialogue doesn’t come off as a discussion so much as a monologue when delivered over the top of Samuel’s head.

  Context Option Three: Park Bench. Four variations of Klotch as a companion, in various settings. Jeremiah selects Four: Umbrella.

  There are three variations of an umbrella-bearing Klotch as a protector on the park bench, in various forms of precipitation. Weather options at the interview’s culmination range from a double rainbow to a gathering twister.

  Jeremiah skips past Motorcycle, Skiff, Soup Kitchen, Park Swings, Golf and Real Tennis context options to the section’s conclusion. The final recommendation, after numerous settings and permutations, as judged by viewer and robot feedback, is that Mr Klotch be cast as a guide in a desert setting and should lead two small brown horses with bitless brindles, on which sit the humanoid and a neutral sign interpreter.

  Jeremiah skims over the rationalisation for this scenario and shakes his head. It’s New Comms, all about reaching people in a way that makes sense to them by presenting the essence of complex issues. But really? Old-timers like Bill and Radley call it Fake Comms. He looks around the dimly lit office. The office is a practical place. It has the technology required for the work law-programmers do. Cowboys and Indians? He wishes he could see the interview raw, in real time.

  What the hell, he thinks. I’ll run it anyway.

  Tall cactuses. Jumbles of ancient red rock. Menacing ridges.

  Mr Klotch in the distance, shimmering through a heat haze. Clad in jeans, a blue shirt, a leather vest, boots, and a neckerchief, he cuts a fine, tall and powerful figure. In his hands are two reins. The reins are long. Two slow brown ponies and their riders come into view out of the narrow mouth of a gulch.

  The clip-clop of hoofs on stone. A snort.

  Klotch winds in the exceedingly long reins until the ponies are abreast of him. One of them whinnies.

  Everything is as it was in the context recommendation Jeremiah skipped through: the tidy jeans, clean shirts and neckerchiefs; the small horses neither black nor white; the gorgeous redhead with the nasal bray gone, replaced by an overweight young male signer sweating profusely in slightly inferior clothes.

  Jeremiah looks harder. What was it that the feedback robots liked about this? It strikes him that Samuel is likely to be compared to Chief Sitting Bull again in this scenario, though in actual fact he looks more Chinese than Native American.

  The rationalisation for the Wild West, he reads, is that Samuel is designed to cut an ambiguous figure, even before his revolving left eye comes into view. Viewers will wonder to whom the alien is loyal in this archetypal setting: his guide the Cowboy, the off-screen Indians, or the even more off-screen and inscrutable Chinese.

  ‘It fills my heart with great happiness,’ Klotch tells the riders, opening his palms deliberately as if opening the doors to his heart. The brown ponies toss their heads on either side of him. He finds the words needed to express his great happiness: ‘That I have been able to help you, Samuel.’ Klotch bows his leonine head and then rests his blues eyes on the alien. ‘Let me tell you a little bit about myself, in the spirit of full disclosure, going forward.’ Klotch takes a breath. ‘I’ve worked hard all my life, and yes, I’ve had some luck along the way, but I’ve also had my share of bad luck.

  ‘I’ve made mistakes, Samuel. But my father allowed that. He allowed me to make mistakes. I picked myself up and I kept going. I learned from those mistakes. And then I made more. And I picked myself up and dusted myself off and learned from those too. My father was a very stoic man. There were times when he had to shore up the company with his own money.

  ‘Yes, I don’t mind telling you that it’s been a long road, Samuel. But I’m very proud and grateful to be able to stand here today and say to you: I’ve got myself and the company (which became mine shortly before my father’s death at age 97) to a place where I can reach out and offer you a helping hand. I can take care of your medical needs. I can ensure your privacy and security. I can set you on the road to recovery and independence. As my father did for me.’

  The humanoid sits on his pony a while, his eye revolving clockwise as he gathers a reply, if gathering a reply is what he’s doing. Jeremiah wonders what he could possibly say in reply that’s so bad it must be buried. The silence is long and the gist of Klotch’s opening words are fading, when Samuel makes a few signs.

  The profusely sweating overweight young man segues into the humanoid’s regular translator, the redhead with the grating nasal voice. Her ivory skin is sweat-free and her cheeks untouched by even the faintest blush. She sits side-saddle. Her long black-stockinged legs, short black lacy skirt and red bodice make her look like a half-dressed saloon whore who has escaped an altercation through a high window. Her hair is braided in a long ponytail. Her pony becomes a donkey.

  Jeremiah shakes his head. He can’t be bothered reading the Comms reasoning about it but they must have been truly desperate to even consider using a fake signer. So the woman’s back, unannounced, as a whore. The file’s a mess. Comms panicked. It’s all a mistake.

  The signer turns to Klotch. The infamously nasal voice is definitely her own. ‘Samuel sa
ys, “What can I do you for?”’

  She actually says ‘do you for’, like a jolly Outer auto-electrician. Her lips moved right.

  Sam makes the same few signs. It’s a repeat. This time the signer’s grating bray is heard over a close-up of Klotch’s kindly listening face. ‘Samuel says, “You saved my life, Mr Klotch, and I will always be grateful. Indeed, your kindness and generosity shall never be forgotten, for such generosity is rare in this universe. It takes a lifetime of work to be able to give so much. You’re a credit to your planet and star-system.”’

  Jeremiah shakes his head. Samuel made only a few signs, not that speech. They’ve faked her voice.

  A repeat: the translator turns to Klotch and brays. ‘Samuel says, “What can I do you for?”’

  Klotch opens his hands. ‘You’ve suffered severe cranial trauma. I want you to rest and recover.’

  The scene ends. That’s all? He finds and selects the deleted material, suspecting that was where he should have gone in the first place. Jeremiah fires a look around the empty office as the outtakes begin to roll.

  Klotch opens his hands. ‘You’ve suffered severe cranial trauma. I want you to rest and recover.’

  The humanoid signs. His translator declares, ‘Samuel says, “I am rested and recovered.”’

  Klotch blinks. ‘I am very happy to hear that. I mean, you look incredible, but to hear that from your own lips really is the best news. It’s fantastic.’

  Samuel’s fluid signs are given grating voice by the saloon whore. ‘I’m afraid your planet won’t recover as quickly as I have, Mr Klotch. Earth is being poisoned by greenhouse gasses, yet every day more of this poison is given to her. The poison must stop or there can be no chance of recovery. Slightly reduced doses of poison will still lead inevitably to her death.’

  Klotch raises his hand. Samuel keeps signing.

  ‘There is talk of further reducing the poison you give to the patient. For example, increasingly efficient six-stroke, fossil fuel-burning engines have been built. These engines are in high demand. Many more of these efficient engines must be built to meet that demand. Many more. The end result is still more carbon in the atmosphere.

  ‘Lessening the dose of poison given to the patient per capita is not enough, Mr Klotch. Poisoning must stop completely or most of the current plant and animal species will soon become extinct.

  ‘How to stop this fatal poisoning? How to stop the Earth becoming a dumb rolling ball? Stop making the poison. Stop extracting fossil fuels. Renewable energy must be more than a clean addition or supplement to the poison. Renewables must become your only energy option if the planet is to recover.’

  Klotch frowns. ‘I wish it was up to me.’

  ‘It is up to you. Venture Group is a media, communications and law giant. You don’t physically extract fossil fuels, but you carry out the much more complex job of enabling that extraction.’

  Klotch frowns harder. ‘The transition to renewables has proved much harder than we imagined, Samuel. The energy needs of the Earth’s rapidly growing population, along with increased quality of life in developing nations, defence needs, and the energy-expensive process of climate change adaptation through the creation of new infrastructure are well beyond the capability of renewables alone.’ Klotch looks down. ‘And might I suggest that describing carbon as “poison” is a little strong given that we are all carbon-based lifeforms.’ Klotch opens his palms to include Samuel in this equation. ‘Life would not be possible on Earth without carbon. Not only is carbon life’s basic building block, it is essential in the atmosphere for thermal retention and plant respiration. But I digress. My point is that we’re approaching that point where all but the most essential energy requirements, such as defence and climate adaptation, can be entrusted to renewables. We’ll soon be at a point where the amounts of carbon we release for essentials will be commensurable with down-tracking carbon parts per million.’

  The humanoid signs.

  ‘Samuel says that the poisoner always has a heartfelt justification for his crime.’

  Mr Klotch smiles sadly. He’s disappointed. ‘Excuse me? I think you might need a little rest now, Samuel. Your eye’s running around like a racecar.’ Mr Klotch smiles benignly. ‘That’s what happens when you’re tired. These are complex Earthly issues and we can come back to them in the fullness of time, when you’ve completely recovered.’

  The humanoid makes a long series of signs, pausing between sentences for the interpreter.

  ‘Samuel says that the basic causes of our environmental troubles are complex and deeply imbedded. They include: our past tendency to emphasise quantitative growth at the expense of qualitative growth; the failure of our economy to provide full accounting for the social costs of environmental pollution; the failure to take environmental factors into account as a normal and necessary part of our planning and decision-making; the inadequacy of our institutions for dealing with problems that cut across traditional political boundaries; our dependence on conveniences, without regard for their impact on the environment; and more fundamentally, our failure to perceive the environment as a totality and to understand and to recognise the fundamental interdependence of all its parts, including man himself.

  ‘He says it should be obvious that we cannot correct such deep-rooted causes overnight. Nor can we simply legislate a way. We need new knowledge, new perceptions, new attitudes—and these must extend to all levels of government and throughout the private sector as well: to industry; to the professions; to each individual citizen in his job and in his home. We must seek nothing less than a basic reform in the way our society looks at problems and makes decisions.’

  Klotch’s listening face transforms into a dazzling smile. He extends his hand in the dominant, palm-down position for Samuel to shake. The alien takes it.

  ‘Wonderfully put, Samuel. You’ve summarised the problems facing us beautifully. It’s true that we cannot correct such deep-rooted problems overnight, but the time has come to take hold of those issues you mentioned and face them directly.’

  The humanoid signs.

  ‘Samuel says that while you pretend to learn your lessons, the status quo continues. The poisoning goes on and the rich get richer.’

  ‘Pretend to learn my lessons?’

  ‘Samuel says he just repeated the words of former US president Richard Nixon to Congress in 1970. Samuel says, Now plead ignorance, Mr Klotch. Then reconcile that ignorance with your position of leadership.’

  Mr Klotch opens his hands expansively but no words follow.

  It’s painful to see the boss tricked into speechlessness. Jeremiah sees that there are another 11 minutes of deleted dialogue to go. He closes the file and sits a while in silence among the standby lights and family pictures.

  Global stability, he thinks. The removal of high risks. He opens the file again. To commit the alien to memory, he tells himself. To take a record for the future.

  42

  James Stockman, managing director, 89. Thick silver hair. Broad-shouldered. Sits in subdued light. His chiselled eyes and long straight nose suggest the vigilance of an eagle. The thin lips and square jaw suggest asceticism and strength. A diamond Venture Group tiepin glints.

  Olivia Berm, beer blogger, 45. Her long blond hair hangs in a somewhat lacklustre middle parting. Pink-lipped, pink-cheeked, her bright green eyes are enhanced with long black lashes and pink eyeshadow. A gold Venture Group pendant rests above her considerable orange-brown cleavage.

  ‘Well, it is what it is,’ Stockman says. ‘You’ve got a silent extraterrestrial. We’d hardly sat down when we had to get up again. What can I tell you? People will take what they want out of this. I think we’re done here.’ He peers down the front of his suit jacket, looking for the miniature mic.

  Olivia blinks slowly, looks at Stockman and then the offscreen interviewer. ‘I thought—’

  ‘No, we’re done here.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Stockman has located his mic and removed it.


  ‘Please, Olivia,’ the interviewer says. ‘Any thoughts or impressions are welcome. This is history.’

  She looks at Stockman. ‘Oh. No. Nothing.’

  43

  Trix and Karen are hounded by calls to board as they race through the retail arcade. It’s serious: this is the last flight available to New Hokitika before the meetings. They remove their shoes and run faster over the polished marble veneer. Trix fears she’s made a terrible miscalculation. Last-minute work publicising TS Stanaway as worn by several Golden Gators for the ensuing meetings does not justify her and Karen missing the historic event themselves. To miss out through poor time management! All kinds of costs. All kinds. Their names echo horribly around the departure lounge and her screen sounds its alarm.

  She doesn’t have time to stop to deactivate it. It’s still sounding as they arrive breathless at the gate. It’s closed. But there’s a human! Not a holographic helper, a human! The hostess winks and lets them through. ‘Just in time.’

  The faces of the other passengers are stony as they make their way to the back row of the twelve-seater. They sit down and buckle up in silence. The plane begins to taxi immediately.

  ‘Like a private jet,’ Trix whispers. ‘Goes when we’re ready.’

  Karen stifles a laugh. ‘Shhhh.’

  Trix’s spirits soar with the plane. She squeezes Karen’s hand. They laugh with relief and shake their heads at each other. The enormity of their near miss is beyond verbal expression. She also feels very fortunate at being able to share this momentous experience with such a smart and gorgeous woman.

  The drinks cart wheels itself out as soon as the plane levels out. Trix watches it offer drinks to the passengers up front in a purring, subservient tone. The robot’s watch-face head inclines as if to listen more closely to the orders it receives. Its lips turn up. Pop! A champagne cork is pulled.