Jews vs Aliens

by Naomi Alderman

  Over the hours leading up to the promised address, the commentary turned. It seemed that the nations of the world had got over the initial shock and wonder and, as is humanity’s wont, started turning to suspicion. Joshua knew that one quite well. If you wanted something different, then this Zard creature was surely different – a worthy target of suspicion. What did this alien want here? It could be nothing good, surely. Were they going to sweep down in their vast ships and enslave the population, plunder the Earth for its natural resources, something like that?

  Joshua nodded sagely at the screen and then headed out to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He had been watching the television replays so long that he had forgotten to eat, and that was not good at all. He needed to keep his blood sugar up. His stomach was rumbling already, and that was not a good sign. He had to eat. Everybody had to eat. He was humming to himself as he put together the makings and constructed a small tower of food. He placed it carefully on a plate that he could transport back to his small living room and returned to watching what, hopefully, would become an unfolding drama, as they called it.

  ‘Breaking News!’ It scrolled across the bottom of the screen. First translation of Zardian book. So they were calling them Zardians now. The message kept scrolling. Nothing else. They promised an update later in the evening. Meanwhile, the hour of the United Nations address was approaching. Joshua muttered to himself. All these promises, always promises and everything always took so long to happen. He sat watching, chewing on his sandwich, poking at the little pieces that fell from his mouth to his plate with a finger and pushing them into a neat pile.

  Nothing happened for a while, no further updates, so he made himself another sandwich.

  At long last, coverage turned to the promised address by the Zard creature. At the bottom of the screen, the ‘Breaking News!’ banner scrolled on, unchanged. A reporter stood in front of an image of the UN Building, microphone held in front of her body, saying nothing, her finger held to one ear as she listened to something, obviously an instruction – and then quickly the image cut away to the main Assembly Hall with its ranked tables, the little plates telling you which country the delegate came from, and then above, that rounded dome, dark blue with the little lights almost looking like stars. Well, that was appropriate.

  There was a buzz around the space, and then a deep hush as there was some movement from the podium. Joshua leaned forward in anticipation. The pig thing was ushered forward. The silence seemed to go on forever. And then, with a buzz, a sound of static, words emerged in English. They were being piped through some sort of translation box that its clumsy three fingered hand held to its meaty, almost non-existent throat. Joshua shook his head. This Zard thing had to be at least seven feet tall.

  ‘People of Earth,’ it began. ‘We come… to help you. We bring… gifts. You – ’ It swept one hand around the assembled peoples – ‘are members of the galaxy, just like we are. We… wish to welcome you… to the family. We wish… to bring you… a better life.’

  It had to be a ‘he’, thought Joshua, though there was no distinguishing feature to identify whether it was male or female. Who knew? Perhaps it was neither. He shook his head again. Now there would be a thing. What if they were sexless? What if they budded like yeast? Giant pig things splitting down the middle. Joshua shivered at the thought and turned his attention back to the broadcast.

  Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah.

  He peered at the screen. It looked like the thing had hooves on its legs. Big hooves. At first he thought they were boots, but no, they were definitely hooves.

  The alien had finished speaking. The chamber was full of stunned silence. Joshua’s head was full of whys and how comes. Why would they want to do this? Probably the same questions were passing through the minds of those in the hall. Nobody was that benevolent. Nobody. But perhaps he could not call it a body, this Zardian. No thing? No alien? No, he guessed nobody would have to do.

  As it waited for a response, anything from the chamber, the alien seemed to be chewing. It swung its head slowly from side to side. Yes, it was definitely chewing.

  Through an army of translators, various questions made their way to the podium, and haltingly, electronically, the Zard creature responded with a string of noncommittal answers. Eventually, Joshua lost interest. He was hungry again. His thoughts were drifting to Aaron’s deli down the road. But then, something happened to draw his attention back. The ticker at the bottom of the screen had changed. ‘Stay tuned for a Zardian announcement! Breaking News imminent!’ He reached for the control and turned the sound back up.

  ‘And live from the UN, reporter Kirsty MacLeod has an announcement. Hello, Kirsty.’

  ‘Hello, Chuck. As I stand here outside the UN Building, news has just come through about the Zardian book. Reports are telling us that they have made a breakthrough with initial translation of the book that was removed from the Zardian ship. The finest minds and encryption programs have been working on a solution for the alien text and now, here, exclusively we are in a position to reveal those first breakthrough words.’

  ‘So, Kirsty, can you give us any more?’

  ‘Sure, Chuck. Apparently they have been able to make out at least the title of the book. Our scientific experts are telling us that the title is To Serve Humanity.’

  ‘Well, Kirsty, that’s important news. This sheds a whole new light on the Zardian visit, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, Chuck. Indeed it does. Word of that translation has circulated among all of the delegates assembled here at the United Nations and I can fairly say that the entire world is buzzing with the news.’

  ‘Thank you, Kirsty. We now cut to our leading scientific expert on alien affairs, Doctor Carl Sterner. Doctor Sterner, what do you make of –’

  Joshua had already killed the sound. How could they have a scientific expert on alien affairs? He snorted to himself. Still, the translation certainly did put a new light on things.

  And then came the phone call.

  ‘Professor Seidner? Professor Joshua Seidner? Ah, good. This is Walter Love at the UN.’

  Love? His name could really be Love?

  ‘We would like you to join a panel engaged on the Zardian issue. We are gathering a conclave of the leading religious minds in the country to address the moral issues surrounding the Zardian arrival. As one of the most eminent Jewish scholars, we would be honoured if you could…’

  Joshua’s attention had faded away. All he had heard was ‘most eminent’.

  ‘We will send a car around to pick you up.’

  The voice was back.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said.

  Finally, finally, he was going to get what he deserved. His heart still in his throat, he scurried around his small apartment making ready. Of course, Professor Seidner. How true, Professor Seidner. Such wisdom!

  He was smiling to himself as the car arrived at the front and he made his way out to the street.

  Over the next few days, further details about the alien promises filtered through. Unlimited power, a cure for cancer and for the common cold, an environmentally friendly fuel source, an atmosphere scrubber, the list went on. They had even started booking trips to the alien homeworld. They called it a cultural exchange. And the collected scholars all ruminated on their import, Joshua among them. The morality of accepting this seeming benevolence. Were the aliens capable of sin or charity? Did the nature of right and wrong apply to these beings? Unfortunately, thought Joshua, his was but one voice among the many. Though the debate was often vociferous, Joshua began to tune out. In fact, he had almost lost interest completely by the time, back home after another full day of debate, the knock came at his door.

  Joshua rarely got visitors, not that he particularly wanted them. He far preferred to pass his conversational time at the local coffee shop or down at the deli. Much more civilised. He frowned to himself and headed to answer the door, muttering. He opened it slowly, and his gaze travelled up from hooves
, to silver-clad legs, to a large silver paunch and chest and then… the pig face! No, no, it could not be!

  ‘Hello,’ came the mechanical voice.

  ‘I, I… what are you doing here?’

  ‘This is a… random visitation… to… increase our cultural… understanding.’

  ‘But, nobody said anything!’

  ‘We… are… pleased to… meet you.’

  Joshua closed his mouth and ran to the kitchen window. Outside on the street stood one of those silvery landing craft, cracked open, the door lying flat across the sidewalk. He rushed back. The pig thing could barely fit through the door. He could hardly invite him in.

  ‘W-w-why me?’

  The alien stood chewing for several moments as if weighing up its answer, though Joshua could only presume. He could hardly read expressions on that unwholesome visage.

  ‘You are… part of this… group? These… thinkers. We wanted…. to see… some of the… “special” people. We… understand… you have a special… diet. You are… a member of…’

  This wasn’t quite the recognition that Joshua had been seeking.

  ‘What do you mean “special’ people?”’ Joshua said.

  ‘You… are… Jewish?’

  ‘Yes, I am Jewish. So?’

  ‘We thought… a special diet… might… change.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Zardian. It paused, chewing more. Suddenly the alien turned around, walking back down the front steps and heading back out onto the street and towards its ship. It was as if someone had communicated something to it. Joshua shook his head and ran back to the kitchen window. He didn’t want to be any closer to the thing than he needed to be. Slowly, slowly, the alien craft’s door elevated and closed the ship, the Zardian securely inside. Joshua stood glued to his window. Gently, the craft rose from the ground, showing no visible means of propulsion. Slowly, slowly, it rose, then tilted slightly. It lifted higher and –

  ‘Watch out!’ Joshua cried out despite himself. The craft was heading straight for the power lines.

  In the next moment, it connected, tangled, broke, arcing sparks exploded outwards, playing all over the ship’s surface. It seemed to last for an age, and then it fell back to the street, erupting in fire and cracking open like an egg.

  Joshua just didn’t understand it, and then he did. With a technology as advanced as theirs, with their unlimited power sources, with everything they had, why would they need power lines? Why would they even know about them? And then he stopped thinking, because there was a smell, a delicious scent drifting in through the open front door from the street. He knew that smell, that delightfully forbidden smell. It was bacon. That’s what it smelled like: cooking bacon.

  He rushed out of his kitchen and into the street. Yes! It was definitely bacon, and it was coming from the burning craft. Joshua loved that smell, the forbidden taste. Bacon. His mouth was watering despite himself. He looked around nervously. What if they thought he was involved somehow? Everyone was out on the street now. Guiltily, he started back towards his front door, trying not to attract any more attention than necessary. But on the way back, he couldn’t help but think about the alien’s words. What could they have meant? A special diet? The smell of bacon was filling his senses. A special diet would change… change what?

  He locked himself away and turned to the news. It was at least another hour and a half before the item about the alien crash in the middle of suburbia hit the airwaves. He looked around guiltily despite himself. He’d seen it happen, knew how it had occurred. Should he tell anyone? No, no. He knew better. Much better not to be involved. But what if they knew that the alien was coming to visit him? That hooved, pig-faced, cud-chewing alien. No, no. They had to be able to work it out.

  Still, the smell of bacon lingered in the air.

  The authorities were outside now. They would be starting door-to-door soon, he was sure of it.

  The news report was saying that there was no apparent explanation for the alien craft’s accident. But Joshua knew; Joshua knew.

  All thought of everything was broken by a bright flashing image on his television screen.

  News Flash!

  It was certainly flashing.

  The words were replaced by a newsman’s face.

  ‘We have breaking news, ladies and gentlemen and we fear that it is grave news. The scientists and experts have made progress with the translation of the Zardian book. Experts are convinced that it is… and I hesitate to say this… that the book retrieved from the alien ship is, in fact, a recipe book – a cook book. To Serve Humanity is a cook book. Experts are gathering now, looking for a defence against this alien menace. The leaders of the world’s nations have urged calm while the best minds work on a solution to this problem. It goes without saying that the challenge of their incredibly advanced technology is one that will require the combined efforts of all of the world’s nations working together.’

  A cook book! So that’s what the pig thing had meant. A special diet changes what, how the meat tastes? Well, Joshua would show them. He knew. He knew exactly how they had to be dealt with. And another idea was forming too, as he thought of the hooves, the chewing of the cud, the smell of bacon. Oh, yes. He could tell the authorities exactly what they needed to know.

  But first he had to talk to Aaron.

  Six months later and the ships were still coming. Six months later, and humanity was still dealing with them, but Joshua’s arrangement with the authorities was working out well. He didn’t know how long it was going to last, but in the meantime, it was a good thing. Nothing lasted for ever.

  He finished wiping down the counter and nodded to Aaron before stepping outside.

  He looked up at the painted sign above the shop door. It still looked new.

  Aaron and Joshua’s Zardian Deli it proclaimed.

  And the people kept coming. Now, that was recognition.

  The smell of bacon was simply delicious.

  THE FARM

  ELANA GOMEL

  When he saw the cherry blossoms, he reached for his gun.

  The wind threw a handful of pink petals into his face. He rubbed then away but they stuck to his kinky hair. His leather jacket was so worn that some patches became fuzzy and these, too, accumulated pink ornaments. It looked as if his red-star badge was spawning.

  The farm lay below him, in the hollow between the hills. Everything about it was tidy: the whitewashed main house with the tiled roof, the sturdy barns, and the clean-swept yard, empty in the predawn light. Beyond it, the fields were shadowy with a heavy harvest. And the cherry trees cradling the hollow, the treacherous trees with their unseasonable blossoms.

  His horse shied and trembled, and he struggled to keep it calm. He was not good with animals. The milky smell of cattle wafting from the barn doors made him want to puke. He was a town boy, wary and contemptuous of the countryside. It was in cities that the new world would be born. But now he had learned the hard lesson of hunger: if the battle for food is lost, all the other battles don’t count. The Eaters had taught him the value of the land.

  His stomach rumbled. He thought of tightening his belt but there was no time to drill an additional hole, even though his khaki trousers threatened to slide down to his skinny hips.

  An indistinct figure separated itself from the shadows at the main house’s porch and ran up the dandelion-fringed path toward him. He waited, trying to calm the horse, to calm himself, and failing at both.

  The figure was small and slight, nimbly scurrying up the slope.

  His finger caressed the trigger of his Mauser.

  It looked like a girl.

  He fired.

  The heavy bullet slummed into the girl and made her stumble backwards, almost lifting her off the path. The second shot span her like a dreidel. And then she flopped down and was still, a rivulet of blood snaking away from the crumpled heap of embroidered clothes and tangled braids.

  Yakov cursed himself in
the coarse words he had learned from his peasant comrades-in-arms and tried to use frequently. His fear got the better of him. He did not come here to shoot Eaters: they bred faster that bullets could fly. He came for victory.

  The horse neighed and pranced, foam dropping from its nostrils. It was not a trained cavalry steed – most of those had been eaten. It was a scraggy yearling, unused to the sight of blood.

  Blood?

  Yakov’s frown deepened as he looked down at the prostrate body. The girl’s embroidered shirt was stained the colour of his badge. This was unexpected. In his previous encounters with the Enemy he had seen all kinds of unclean ichor, but never this bright, honest red.

  He dismounted and the horse bolted. It did not matter; whether successful or not, he would not need it to retreat. Retreat was not an option.

  He bent over the girl, who seemed to challenge him with her glazed eyes and slackened features. The shot had gone through her heart, killing her instantly, which was not supposed to happen. And yet here she was, dead. He had seen enough corpses on various battlefields to be an expert on mortality. But these had been human corpses…

  Could he have made a mistake? He had heard rumours about a new strategy whereby the Enemy tried stealth and sabotage, seducing those who could not stand the hunger away from their communities with promises of bread. Of course, one would need to be half-witted to succumb to the blandishments of the Eaters, but Yakov had no illusions about the intelligence of his cadres.

  Small but buxom, she lay on her back, spread-eagled like a starfish: in addition to her flung-out arms, her ribbon-tied braids also fanned out on both sides of her body. They were very long, probably falling down to her knees when she stood up. Peasants went into raptures over these ropes of hair that unmarried girl wound around their heads and decorated with paper flowers. Yakov found them repellent, redolent of lice and sweat. He kept his tastes to himself, vaguely ashamed of his fastidiousness. On the other hand, the fact that he did not share their appetites made shooting rapists, looters, and drinkers so much easier.