by J. J. Green
“I—I’m sorry?” asked Carrie.
“Would you like to sit down?”
She peered to either side of the bug. There didn’t seem to be anyone or anything else there. There was only one conclusion possible: It had to be the ravening monster of her dream speaking.
Carrie took a shaky breath. “But...I am sitting down.”
“Are you?” The bug blinked, a tiny transparent membrane flashing over the surface of each of its eyes. “I always get humans confused with squashpumps. I suppose my proximity is making you uncomfortable, too?”
“Y—Yes, it is, actually. And if you wanted me to take a seat, I’d need a chair.”
The creature scuttled backwards to the centre of the room. Carrie’s rigid muscles eased and she exhaled through pursed lips.
“I apologise,” said the bug. “I am new to this. I would appreciate it if you do not mention anything to my superiors.”
“Umm...no, I won’t. Don’t worry.” She checked around quickly for signs of more massive insects.
“Thank you.” The bug squatted on its ten pairs of legs, their joints rising higher than its body. Its head twisted until it was perpendicular to the floor. “I understand you are here to interview for the position of Transgalactic Intercultural Community Crisis Liaison Officer.”
“No.” Carrie wedged her back into the corner, which seemed the safest place in the circumstances.
“No?” the creature emitted an intricate, musical clicking. “That is incorrect. See, your application is here.”
“Where?”
“Whoops, there I go again. I forgot humans cannot see in that wavelength. I will read it out to you.”
“W4M Carrie, 23 YO.” It paused, clicked, and continued, “New in town, AL, PIS, GSOH, SD, NM, NS, WLTM S VGL man with SI (martial arts and pub quizzes) for FTA poss. LTR.”
Carrie’s flush reached the roots of her hair. “That’s my—my ad on a dating website. How did you get hold of it?”
“You are mistaken. This is not an advertisement. This is an application in transgalactic code. Translated into English it says, I would like to apply for the position of—”
“No it doesn’t.” Carrie leapt to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides. “It doesn’t say anything like that. It’s a lonely hearts ad, and you’ve no business—”
“But how did you correctly find and identify this interview room?”
“I didn’t know it was an interview room. I wasn’t even looking for an interview room. I needed to...I thought it was the—”
“And you bear the wounds of previous encounters in this line of duty.”
“No, I don’t, I...what?” Carrie glanced down at her body, and back at the creature. A hundred bug eyes were swivelled in the direction of her lower leg. She turned her foot to see what the bug was looking at. Toodles’ scratch marks ran down her calf to her ankle. “That was my cat!”
“Cat. A cat is another Earth animal. Am I correct? So you were not engaged in resolving a conflict between species, you were fighting with this animal—”
“No, I wasn’t fighting with her. She’s my pet.”
“Pet. A pet is an animal that lives with a human. So you were fighting with your pet...Why are you living with an animal that attacks you?”
“I told you, I wasn’t fighting with her. You’ve got it completely wrong. Oh...” Carrie grabbed her head in both hands and slumped down to the floor.
The creature made its clicking noise. “I believe you are expressing signs of agitation. Have I done something incorrect or inappropriate? Please do not tell my superiors. This is the third duty I have been assigned to. If I fail in the proper execution of my tasks in this position I will be terminated.” The thing retracted its internal jaws as its head returned to a horizontal position, and drooped.
“But...” Carrie sighed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right. Let’s get it over with.” This dream was becoming weirder and weirder. She wondered if the wine she had drunk had been off. “Let’s do the interview, then.”
The razor jaws popped out again, and Carrie sat upright, but the creature began talking about boring, political stuff and places and warring factions she had never heard of. She relaxed and lay on her side. Resting her elbow on the floor and her head in her hand, she soon zoned out. Occasionally, the bug would ask a question and she would answer yes or no, as the mood took her.
“Are you familiar with the cultural customs of the Inner Sect of Mantrikees?”
“Yes.” Carrie yawned.
“Would you mind undertaking missions that may expose you to threats to your personal safety?”
“No.”
As the interview continued the ache in her bladder grew and she tried again to figure out a way to wake up. Her arm began to twinge, and she adjusted her position. She could now see behind the giant bug’s shining bronze carapace. There was something there. It was a handbag, sitting in the middle of the floor. A gorgeous designer handbag. She sat up. “Excuse me, what’s that?”
The creature’s monotonous drone ceased, and its ten pairs of legs scuttled as it turned round to the bag. It hooked a leg through the strap, lifting the bag, and turning back, tossed it so that it landed with a thunk and a jingle at Carrie’s feet. Inside the open bag were strange devices, some of which blinked with tiny electronic lights.
“This is a Transgalactic Intercultural Community Crisis Liaison Officer’s toolbox.”
“Toolbox?”
“Disguised as a portable Earth receptacle so that it may be carried around at all times in case you are assigned to assist in a transgalactic intercultural community crisis when you are not at home.”
Grabbing the handbag in both hands, Carrie lifted it to eye level and gazed at it. The material was thick and expensive and the design was finely stitched. “It’s beautiful. What is it, Louis Vuitton, Dior, Ralph Lauren?” If only she were not dreaming.
The creature clicked, seemingly unsure what to answer.
“So,” said Carrie, “if I do this transgalactic liaison thingy, I get to keep the bag?” There was no harm in asking. She began to hope, crazily, this was not a dream after all.
“The bag’s contents are indispensable to the performance of your duties in the role—”
“I’ll do it.”
“But the interview is not yet concluded.”
“I know, but I really need to...” She crossed her legs and riffled through the strange implements inside the bag. “Anyway, you know, I’d be really good at...whatever it was you were talking about. And...wait a minute, shouldn’t there be a screwdriver thingy?”
“I am unfamiliar with the English vocabulary item, screwdriverthingy.”
“It opens and locks things. Turns stuff on and off. Does whatever you need it for, really.”
“There is an articulated transmitting infrared—”
“Never mind. If I can have the bag, I’ll do it.” The creature’s inner jaws were paused open. “Or,” continued Carrie, waggling a finger, “I might have to have a word with your superiors.”
The bug’s jaws clicked shut. “You also need a uniform.”
“Uniform? Oh, you mean like a costume? Cool.” Carrie imagined herself in something black, with a mask and a cape; a long, flowing cape that billowed out behind her as she flew— “What are they?”
A section of wall had opened behind the bug, revealing a long rack of fluorescent orange jumpsuits ranging from toddler size to what looked like collapsed parachutes. “These are Transgalactic Intercultural Community Crisis Liaison Officer uniforms.”
“But they’re, they’re...Why are they that horrible colour?”
“Transgalactic Intercultural Community Crisis Liaison Officers—”
“Don’t you have a shorter way of saying that?”
“No. Transgalactic Intercultural Community Crisis Liaison Officers must stand out in conflict zones to avoid...”
But Carrie wasn’t listening. She strode over to the jumpsuits and hastily pulled two or t
hree out to hold up against herself. Her bladder nagged. She found a uniform that was about her size. It was a bit small but she was on a diet so she should be thin enough to fit into it within a couple of weeks. She shook her head. What was she thinking? This was a dream, for goodness sake. “Now, where’s the way out?”
“But...” said the bug.
“Or,” said Carrie, drawing her brows into what she hoped was a stern frown, “should I speak to someone about how you began the interview by frightening the life out of me?”
Behind the huge insect, a circle of swirling green mist appeared. Carrie pushed the orange jumpsuit in with the weird devices, put the bag on her shoulder and went towards the mist. The bag felt solid and heavy, as though it were real. “Thank you very much.” The coiling mist began to lift her hair. “What do I have to do in this job?”
“As a neutral, independent, disinterested member of an alien race, it will be your duty to mediate between disaffected populations to solve political and territorial disputes—”
“Like a space detective? Great.”
“No, not remotely like a space—”
“Okay, bye, thanks,” Carrie called as the mist took her.
Chapter Four – Dave
Carrie rubbed her eyes and yawned as she entered her kitchen the following morning. Though she had taken Rogue for his morning walk, the fresh air hadn’t fully woken her. Toodles wound herself around Carrie’s legs, meowing. Rogue thumped his tail on the floor and drooled.
“All right, all right, wait a minute.” She went to the cupboard that held Toodles’ and Rogue’s food, but stopped midway across the room. Something was out of place. She pivoted on one foot to look more closely at her kitchen table. After pushing her knuckles into her eyes again, she blinked hard. On the table sat a gorgeous designer handbag, half open. A bright orange jumpsuit trailed from it and there were strange, electronic devices visible inside.
Carrie staggered a few steps and gripped the counter top. Her dream. It was the bag from her dream. But if it was really here, then...? Her eyes turned to her under-sink cupboard. She squatted and tugged the handle. The door was still stuck fast. No green glow, no mist, but the handbag was here, and there was no other explanation for it nor for the weird objects it contained.
Standing and looking through her kitchen window, she saw that outside the world seemed pretty much as she remembered it. The sky was grey and the day drizzly. Three floors below, cars and buses were passing and children were trudging to school. Two huge dogs were taking their owner for a walk. Could there really be inhabited planets and alien races and spaceships and all that stuff?
She shivered and rubbed her arms. If that giant bug and everything it talked about did exist she was not going to have anything to do with it. What was it the creature had said the job was? Space detective, that was it. She would probably have to go among aliens like that insect. No way. She was going to start work today as a...a call centre...thingy, and be normal. She was also bent on making a success of her new job. She was nearly twenty, and much too old to be drifting from one temporary position to another. This time, she was going to forge a career.
She gasped. She had forgotten she was starting work today. She looked at the clock. It was half past eight and she had to be there by nine. Grabbing tins of pet food, she hastily opened them and spooned the contents into Toodles’ and Rogue’s bowls. After rinsing the tins she threw them in her recycling box and turned to leave, but on the tabletop the gorgeous bag seemed to be tempting her. Why not? She thought. She doubted the alien bug could come after her for it. The space under her sink was far too small. It would never fit through, and she had travelled through the mist to reach the bug. Aliens were probably forbidden by some galactic treaty from coming to Earth and scaring people.
Tipping the bag’s strange contents onto the table, she quickly transferred the essentials from her old handbag into it. “Bye, Toodles, bye, Rogue,” she called as she closed the door to her flat.
***
“Nice bag.”
Carrie was passing through the cubicles on her way to her new desk when the good-looking guy spoke to her. He was sitting in the same place, headphone and mic on. Carrie grinned at him and hoisted the bag higher up her shoulder. He was right. It was a nice bag. A very nice bag. She smiled at the other workers, but they ignored her. Her smile fell. Oh well, it would take time to get to know everyone.
“So, this is where you sit.” Ms. Bass motioned towards a clean, bare cubicle at the back of the room. It looked fresh and new, as if no one had stayed in it very long or made it into a personal space. Carrie sat down and was unable to resist swiveling her chair right around, catching hold of her desk to stop herself as she completed her circle.
Ms. Bass’ eyebrows rose higher. She plonked down the large file she was carrying. “Your main responsibility is to deal with customer issues and complaints. All the procedures are in here.” She tapped the file with a long, French-manicured fingernail. “You must become thoroughly acquainted with them. Luckily for you, Friday mornings are usually quiet, so you should have time to familiarise yourself a little with the necessary information before the first complaint comes in.”
Carrie looked from the thick file to Ms. Bass. “That’s all I have to do? Deal with complaints?”
“You must address the customers’ issues according to the manual. To the letter. Do you understand?”
Carrie frowned. “Do you get a lot of complaints?”
Ms. Bass rolled her eyes, and left.
Swivelling her chair around again, Carrie noticed a young woman watching her as she spoke into a mic. Carrie smiled and waved, but the woman turned to her screen. Carrie sighed and pulled herself closer to her desk. She opened the file. The contents page was all but incomprehensible. She flicked through the thick wad of paper. In the event of a faulty T-flange, one page read, complete form 167F. Include the date of purchase and the date the customer first noticed the fault. Tick the relevant boxes. Listed below were a range of noises a faulty T-flange might make, including whining, grinding, squeaking, and clunking. Carrie’s shoulders sagged as she turned more pages. They were all similar: extremely long, detailed forms to complete and complex procedures to follow. What on Earth did this company sell?
Carrie gradually became aware of someone standing on the edge of her vision. The young woman who had caught her eye earlier was nearby, her jaws working on a piece of chewing gum.
Holding out her hand, Carrie said, “Hi, I’m—”
“Complaint, line five.” The woman turned on her heel and walked away. Carrie’s hand flopped to her side. A complaint? She had to get on it right away and make a good impression on her first day at work. She scanned her desk, but she had no telephone or headset and mic like everyone else. How was she supposed to...? She saw the woman had returned to her desk and was idly holding up a receiver while chatting with her colleague in the next cubicle. Hefting the complaints procedures file into her arms, Carrie went over.
“So I said to her,” the woman said to her colleague in the next cubicle as Carrie took the receiver from her, “do all the teachers get fined when they go on strike, then, and I have to take time off work to look after Eddie because he can’t go to school?”
Carrie held the receiver to her ear. Handel’s Messiah was cut short as the woman pressed a button on her keyboard.
“Hello?” said Carrie. A stream of loud curses spewed from the receiver, and she jerked her head away. When the stream slowed to a trickle, she tried again. “Can I help—?” More curses followed, some of which were new to Carrie. She attempted to make eye contact with her work colleague in hope of some information or advice, but the woman was deep in conversation about the pros and cons of taking children out of school during term time. Cradling the receiver between her shoulder and neck, Carrie opened her file and scanned the pages while listening for a mention of something even vaguely familiar in the customer’s rant, but she couldn’t recognise anything. She tried once more to int
errupt, but the man was so irate she couldn’t break into the flow of words.
Carrie’s heart sank. She wanted to do a good job, but how was she supposed to help if the customers wouldn’t listen to her? And the instructions in the file were complete gobbledygook. It didn’t take long for her to grow frustrated and bored. “Thank you, sir. We’ll deal with that at the earliest opportunity,” she said, and slammed the receiver down.
Her colleague paused in her conversation. “I don’t think you’re supposed to—” But Carrie was already returning to her desk.
***
By ten, Carrie had dealt with four complaints in a similar way. Maybe she was not exactly following procedure, but when she had more time to learn the ropes she would improve, she was sure. This job is a piece of cake, she thought, and as she had that thought, she noticed that cake was being shared around the office. Everyone had put their customers on hold and they were all chatting and eating.
No one had brought her any cake. Carrie swivelled her chair round to face her desk and buried her head in her file, trying to pretend she hadn’t noticed what was happening.
“It’s Jerry’s birthday today,” said a male voice. “I thought you might like some cake.” Carrie looked up. It was Mr. Handsome, plate and fork in hand, smiling at her.
“I’d love some,” said Carrie, accepting the plate and immediately forking a piece of rich chocolate cake into her mouth. “Oh, this is delicious,” she said, spitting crumbs.
“Yes, Mary made it. She does a lot of baking.”
“It’s wonderful.” That was so nice of him to bring me some cake, she thought. He must have seen I was left out. The man propped himself on her desk, and her heart lifted.
“How are you getting on?” he asked.
“Oh, fine.” Carrie paused. She chewed and swallowed. “Well, actually, I tell the customers we’ll do something soon and hang up.”
