by Ian Creasey
“Indeed, our relationship to the masses is much like that of a rancher to his sheep. The rancher houses, feeds, and protects his brainless flock. In turn, the sheep provide the rancher with wool and mutton.”
Chase was irritated. What pompous doublespeak. “That’s a pretty way of explaining it, Dad. Put more plainly, the rancher takes care of the sheep on account of the profit they make him. It’s a totally self-serving arrangement – nothing fair or benevolent about it. The sheep pay for the comfort of sleeping in a barn by getting shorn and slaughtered by the rancher.”
“Ah,” said Damien. “Spoken like a true animal lover and would-be vegetarian. But the fact remains: it is a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“Dad, that’s just bullshit.”
“The sheep must and will be penned. Humans cannot be permitted to wallow in their lives undirected, running roughshod over the environment in their petty rage and heedless greed. We save them from destroying themselves and the planet. They, in turn, sustain us.”
“Please, Dad. It’s the greed of the masses that causes environment problems? Seems to me it’s the greed of the powers that be – people like us, the elite ultra-rich who own all the banks and corporations. It isn’t the little guy out there financing nuclear power plants that could destroy all life on the planet, and it isn’t the little guy who starts the wars. ”
“This isn’t up for argument, Chase,” said Damien. “I’m telling you how the world works. Accept it and thrive, or fight it and die. Those are the only choices we are given.”
“Can I go now?” Chase stood up. “I don’t see how this has to do with my wanting not to eat meat, but thanks for the sermon. It’s Saturday, Dad. It’s sunny. May I be excused?”
“’No, Chase, you may not.” Rockfort senior strode to the library door and opened it. Two of Chase’s uncles stepped inside, their faces as solemn as his father’s.
“Uncle Robert and Uncle Mel – what are you doing here?” Chase asked in surprise.
“Sit back down,” said Damien sternly.
Chase dropped back in his chair. Whatever his dad was up to with calling him into the library, it clearly was more important than Chase had surmised. The uncles did not pay social calls. If they were here, this had to be something serious.
“What’s going on, Dad?”
“Be silent and listen.”
The three adults approached Chase and stood in a half circle before him, his father in the center.
“Now you will learn of your destiny,” Damien intoned, in a voice that sounded like a priest. Again, Chase shivered. It was starting to feel like the twilight zone in here.
The man looked at his son, and his face softened. He sat back down in his armchair and motioned to the uncles, who also took a seat.
“Tell us what you know about the food chain, Chase,” he said, his voice sounding natural again.
“The food chain? Well, it’s where the more advanced life forms eat the lesser advanced life forms, I guess.”
“It begins with plants consuming minerals, advances to animals consuming plants, and then we have humans consuming animals. Tell us: do you think that human beings are the top of the food chain?”
“I guess so. Nobody eats humans.”
The uncles exchanged a glance.
“It is an arrogant human assumption that humans constitute the pinnacle of the food chain. Of course there are higher life forms, and of course they feed on human energy. The history of every religion records tales of human sacrifice. The gods do exist, and they feed on the emotion of the life forms underneath them. Human suffering and human worship are the two main forms of feeding that the deities enjoy. When they can’t get enough of one, they generate the other. Humans strengthen and feed the gods, and in return, the gods answer human prayers.
“But there is another life form between human and god, an intermediary life form, that harvests human energy in service to the deities. This life form is our people. We come from a planet long since gone and have lived beneath the Earth’s surface for millennia. There, where it is warm, we live in our true form. Above the surface, we live in disguise, for humans in their ignorance would otherwise destroy us. Hysterical and paranoid by nature, mankind cannot tolerate anyone looking different from themselves – not even other humans of other races. If they destroy their own kind because of skin color and trivial racial markings, what would they do to a species as unlike their own as a species could possibly be?”
Chase felt his skin crawl. It was as if he was watching a dream, or a bad movie. He couldn’t believe what he thought he was hearing his father say.
“But humans have had glimpses of our true physical nature,” the man went on, “glimpses that inspired legends in every culture and every mythology. In India we were called Nagas, the serpent kings. In Africa, we are the Chitauli. The Bible calls us the Jinn, and medieval lore recorded us as dragons. We appear in popular, modern lore as vampires, werewolves, and greys.
“No depiction is utterly accurate, and none are utterly false. We are the lords of men, the lords who feed on the sacred elixir. We marshal humans for ritual sacrifice, and the suffering of our victims wafts toward heaven in the form of an energy aroma. Satanic sacrifice is real, though it is not directed only to Satan. It supports the gods of every religion, for without them the sun would not shine, the clouds would not yield rain.
“Our people perform their part by generating suffering and sacrificing humans and animals. Our reward is drinking the sacrificial blood. This fluid enables us to maintain our human form. Without the elixir, we would shapeshift back into our reptilian identities. To survive on this planet, we must drink human blood. That’s why everything within us craves the substance.
“Our race interbred with the kings and queens of every race on Earth, but the mixed DNA alone cannot sustain our human form. For that, we must regularly water our cells with fresh blood. At times we ferment and bottle it, but the most powerful elixir is the fresh blood of the sacrifice – the hot fluid, drenched in terror, extracted live from the victim.
“No, it is not murder as you may think. Do humans perform murder when they slaughter the life forms beneath them? Since we are not human, we are not killing our own kind. Therefore, it is not sin. Human sacrifice is a necessity for us to survive in this world. The gods approve and bless our actions. That is why we thrive.”
Chase was long past being able to respond. He sat rigid in shock, his mind wheeling and reeling. He felt like he was watching himself in some horror movie. It was sickening. It felt unreal. But he was in this movie, not watching it. He was here in this room with these men who looked like strangers now, their features seeming to shift and pop as his father spoke – like a DVD that wasn’t working properly.
Damien Rockfort walked to his desk and picked up the glass of wine he had drunk from earlier. Slowly, he carried it toward the group. Chase felt his pulse pound. His skin began to itch. The closer his father came, the hotter Chase became. Now his skin was itching violently.
“You may be wondering why we tell you this now,” Uncle Mel said suddenly. “After puberty, each person of our species begins to feel the need for human blood. The taste for it possesses us, and our need brooks no denial. Without the sacred elixir, we would dissolve into reptilian form. We cannot maintain human appearance without it.”
Damien stood, grinning, in front of the boy now. The goblet shone in the candlelight – red, royal, and rich. It called him, beckoned him, sang to him …
Uncle Mel continued. “What you are feeling at this moment is the crazed thirst that proximity to spilt human blood causes in adults of our kind. In a moment, you will begin to morph into your lizard form. Don’t be terrified. You can’t prevent it. This is who you are and who you have always been. You’re a reptilian prince of one of our finest bloodlines. We are about to see your true form manifest before us, my nephew.”
Chase stood and grabbed his collar. He was choking – he couldn’t breathe. His skin was itching so
badly he thought he would burst into flames. He threw off his jacket, tore off his shirt. Then he began to scream.
“Get it away from me! Take it back! I won’t drink it!”
The uncles lurched to his side, grabbed his arms. Chase tried to break free. His father laughed and pushed the drink in Chase’s face.
The smell of it, oh, the smell of it – hot, wine-like, but so much more than wine! Was this what heroin addicts felt in withdrawal? He was in agony. He was convulsing.
The uncles dragged Chase to a full-length mirror on the library wall. As he gazed at what ought to be his image, he saw a huge, naked, lizard-like being, with a crown of horns rising from its head. Its skin was scaly, a deep hue of green. Its eyes were lantern-yellow, with red snakelike pupils. Chase blinked, and the monster blinked with him. Behind it rose a tail, spanning three or four feet.
Chase gazed in horror. Then he fainted.
When Chase came to, he could not open his eyes. As if from the end of a tunnel, he heard his father’s voice.
“Don’t be ashamed. The excitement of proximity pushes the neophyte over the edge. It forces you to change form, and only the elixir will restore you. You’ll look human again when you drink it. Unless you do, you’ll remain in lizard form indefinitely – and eventually, permanently. Accept your responsibility as a member of our race. Embrace your destiny. Tonight at the sacrifice, you will drink live blood from a live victim. Witnessed by a solemn assembly of our people, you shall consume the sacred elixir.”
Chase still could not open his eyes. He spoke, but his voice sounded small.
“I’ll never drink human blood. I’ll never be one of you.”
“He’s still delirious,” said Uncle Mel.
“Leave him ‘til it’s time,” said Uncle Robert. “He won’t be running off while he looks like that. He’d be a fool.”
“Let me tell you what will happen if you refuse to accept your destiny, Chase,” came the voice of his father. “The assembly will destroy you, for we cannot allow one of our own to betray us. In case you think of running away, think again. Think hard. Who among the humans would shelter you? They would only see a monster and kill you.
“Don’t judge your people too harshly. We have as much a right to exist as the humans. Like us, they consume the life forms beneath them on the food chain. It’s a matter of accepting one’s place in the scheme of things. ‘He who does not follow the wheel thus set revolving, lives in vain.’
“Embrace your identity. We’ll call for you when it’s time. Prepare to undergo the Sacred Initiation. Tonight you will drink blood with us, or tonight you will die.”
Chase heard footsteps moving away, and Uncle Mel muttering, “Better lock the door just to be sure.”
“As if there’s anywhere to run,” said Uncle Robert. The men laughed.
A key turned in a lock. Silence.
After a long time, Chase opened his eyes and sat up. He didn’t itch anymore. He felt his arms and legs with his hands. They felt like the skin of that pet iguana he had had as a boy. Strangely, he felt normal. He moved his hands over his face. His head felt huge. His eyes felt twice their size, and his nose was flat and snubby. His mouth was thin, like a slit in his face.
Tears came to his eyes. So this is what it was all about. This is how the world really was. He was a lizard humanoid. He was a shapeshifter. He was expected to murder people in order for his race to maintain its disguise. He belonged to a species of killers. He was a prince among a people who made it their goal to enslave the world.
“I suppose they won’t need to disguise themselves once they’ve totally subjugated everyone,” Chase thought out loud. “Well, I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
He stood and looked at himself again in the mirror. That stranger wasn’t him. The body he had worn before also wasn’t him, apparently. He must be more than the physical form he occupied. Otherwise how could “he” still be here? He, the person feeling and thinking, weighing and deciding things. That was the real him. The man within. He had not changed on the inside. Only the wrapping was different.
“I am more than a body,” he said to the image. “More than either a human or a reptile. I’m more than flesh and blood. I am the person inside. And that someone I am rejects all this. There must be another way to live. I will never be a murderer.”
He hurried to the door and tried the lock. It held fast. He glanced toward his father’s desk. The drawer stood ajar. He ran to it and rummaged through: a key! The boy unlocked the library door.
Sneaking down the long hallway, he hid inside rooms, peered around corners, and finally slipped into his bedroom at the far end of the mansion, locking the door behind him.
Inside his closet, Chase dug for his backpack, tent, and sleeping bag. Into the pack he threw a pocket knife, candy bars from his desk, shirts and jeans, underwear, and socks. Then he remembered he might never fit into his clothes again. He tried on his jacket, but it was way too small. He grabbed a blanket from the bed and threw it around his shoulders.
He saw himself in the dresser mirror, and this time almost threw up at the shock of his image. Could he ever get used to it? The eyes were the worst – glowing reptilian orbs, like the eyes on a jack-o-lantern. He opened a drawer, grabbed a pair of sunglasses, and tried putting them on. They fit so tight that the hinges cracked, but they stayed. Then he crept from the room, down the hall, and out a side door.
The air was cold, and the lights of the nearby town were twinkling in the twilight. Keeping to the shadows, Chase ran as fast as he could to the wooded hill that bordered the family estate. The forest went on for miles, and he knew he could hide in there a long time if he had to.
What do lizards eat in the wild? he wondered. He hoped their natural diet was vegetarian. Human blood was necessary if a humanoid lizard wanted to maintain human form. If he was willing to “go natural,” drinking blood should not be necessary.
The plot of his people had to be exposed. Humans had to be told. But who would believe him? And how could he tell anyone without first getting shot for how he looked?
Maybe that guy at infowars dot com, that radical journalist Ted talked about who only cared about facts and exposing the global conspiracy – maybe that guy would help him. Chase was living proof that the conspiracy was real, and that it went much deeper than that journalist guy imagined.
The proof was his own body. Any doctor could do tests and see he wasn’t making this up. If he stepped forward, maybe others would, too. There had to be others who wanted to rebel. Maybe kids like him. Lizard kids.
He pulled out his cell and dialed Ted.
“Bro, where were you? I thought we were doing basketball.”
“Something came up. Ted, can I come over?”
“You always can come over.”
“Is anyone home besides you?”
“Everyone’s out for the night.”
“Remember when I said, ‘Next thing I know you’ll be telling me there are aliens in your backyard?’”
“Yeah?”
“How would you feel if you ever met an alien?”
“I’d welcome him, man. Hey, what’s – ”
“Meet me in your backyard in 20 minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Ted?”
“What.”
“I’ll be the guy in the lizard costume.”
“What?”
“See you in 20.”
The Tortoise Parliament
By Kenneth Schneyer
Although for different reasons, my mistress and I agreed that I should leave her before daybreak in order to return home to my wife. Before I threw off the colorless sheets, Merro grasped me in a fierce, muscular embrace, so that I felt every hair on her body. I think her people are hairier than mine, as well as shorter, and they have no depilatory practices apart from cropping the black hair on their heads. To Merro, my own fastidious hairlessness, the common thing on Olympia where I was born, was a little scandalous, as if she were fornicating with a boy
.
She often held me thus, but this morning I thought I felt a new intensity, even desperation. I asked, “What is it?”
She rolled away as if going back to sleep. “Never mind, Tithonos,” came her lucid, bitter voice. “I’m just worried about the transport standards.”
“I think the Committee will – “
She interrupted me. “No need. Go home.”
It was understood that I was not to intrude into her concerns. I might share her bed, but Merro set limits on what else I might share. I had always thought that these rules suited me, but on this particular morning I found that I wanted to know more of her thoughts. I did not ask.
Merro never called herself my mistress; it is not a word her people understand. In the language of Kern, the closest synonym is thief. Discovery by those who sent her to Bower would mean revocation of her commission and disgrace, at least in theory. In practice, it would take some thirty-nine standard years for news of an infraction to reach the Designee of Kern. By then, Merro’s replacement would already have arrived; presumably her relief was sent while she was still in transit, as mine was. Still, to her the risk of shame was real.
Our liaison began two years before, while we served together on the Subcommittee on Precious Metals. Kern mines gold, cobalt, and silver, while Olympia, lacking easy access to these elements, fashions sculptures from them, so that our legislative interests were technically adverse. But as was often the case in the Parliament of the Confederation of Inhabited Worlds (the “Tortoise Parliament,” as Merro called it without humor), we discovered much common ground when we began to discuss points of policy. We would sit later than the other delegates in the sumptuous committee workroom, sometimes long into the evening.
We had a cultural misunderstanding. Merro’s burning stare I took for erotic curiosity, while she thought my polite compliments of her face and voice were attempts at seduction. It irritated her, which increased the beautiful ferocity of her gaze, which prompted me to compliment her more frequently – an ascending spiral, dizzy and unsteady. Then one night she rose, said “I can’t stand this,” pulled me out of my chair, and kissed me.
