Becoming Alien

by Rebecca Ore

  See also Biology, Behavior, Language…

  Oh, I thought, I wasn’t a very significant part of that. I wiped the text, not bothering to print it. Then I transliterated “Earth.”

  Flies not available to this terminal.

  Okay. Instead, I asked for a 20,000-word printout on sapient biology, introduction. Cadets died for this, I thought as I fumbled with the fanfold paper. Gypsum came in, giggled, and showed me how to bind sheets with the console. “Insert here,” he said, shoving the paper into a slot in the console’s lower left side. The machine spat the sheets back bound and trimmed.

  “I tried to get material on my own planet but they told me the files weren’t available on this computer,” I said.

  “I can get around those system locks,” Gypsum said.

  The bird’s bed whispered down the wall rails. “Perhaps you could help me?” the bird asked hoarsely. “I need to find out who manipulates who here.”

  Granite and Gypsum bent large craniums over Granite’s computer while I read that indeed intelligence probably developed to protect awkward, large-skulled animals.

  By sunset, both Granite and I seemed mildly confused, and I went out to eat. Our table display had a note for me—Black Amber would see me that night in my room.

  Before Black Amber arrived, skinny bear-stock guys took our furniture orders. I asked for a wall lamp over my bed, cushioned chairs, and a table for my alcove area. They suggested a desk and two storage chests. And shelves.

  “What will the cost be?” I asked.

  “Free, need any decorations?”

  “Yeah, a huge blown-up photo of Earth showing North America in the center.” Surely they could get that.

  Granite Grit ordered hard cushions, elbow leaning pads, and a low table—bird furniture. A full-length mirror for his wall. And a partition for his alcove.

  “No partitions. When you’ve gotten to know each other, you should talk about the central area.”

  “What about a music disc system with earphones and room speakers?” Gypsum said quickly.

  We agreed to the music system.

  Black Amber stood in the doorway with a little oo on her muzzle. “Red Clay (come). If you’ve finished.” I thanked the furniture guys and followed her out.

  We walked under building lights and the stars, with her headed for something, not just walking. After about a quarter mile, I realized we were near the memorial walls. “I saw Mica’s name on a granite slab.”

  She stopped and turned toward me, her huge eyes looking oiled in Karst’s dusky night. An eddy of air ruffled her head hair, which seemed puffed up. “Ah, Cadet,” she said. We sat down on stones that looked glazed in patches. When I fingered the glaze, she said, “Attack on Karst eight hundred years ago. Easier then.”

  “So you lose cadets now in ones and twos, rather than by hundreds?”

  She leaned against me—bat-sapients have no social distance. “Red-Clay-with-flecks-of-Mica. One of mine.”

  I couldn’t be a Gwyng, I thought. My body stiffened. She said, “Oh,” and stood to stretch slightly. “You were concerned about Rhyodolite when the others held you?”

  “Yes, very,” I answered.

  “The Academy tested him with a bird (I can’t explain, sounds/seems xenophobic). I don’t want Rhyodolite to be demoted. I lost Mica, but you tried to help, against your own.” She touched my chin with the back of her knuckles and oo’ed faintly. We walked on to the memorial walls. With her left hand, she traced Mica’s name, each finger writhing as though scorched by the gold.

  Sapience requires an excess of 10 to the 10th neurons per 70 kg. of body weight, I read. Putting the printout aside, I checked my messages. Rhyodolite left word that I could skip dinner since I was invited to a First Contact Party. Dress in best blacks, be very good for ape eating ape. Rhyodolite 10.

  How am I supposed to behave? Granite Grit, muttering in bird, was soldering his own chips to the console motherboard. When Gypsum came in, I told him about the party.

  “You’re not socially ready for that,” Gypsum said.

  “My friend said, ‘Be very good for ape-eating-ape,’” I told the Ewit before heading out the door to a sapient-behavior discussion.

  After flunking the chemistry placement test for Cosmic Geophysics and Chemistry, I went down to the physical activities building. Being a cadet got you a choice of bathing suits: brief-like, tights-like, or a whole body suit. I chose briefs, wondering what had worn that pair before me, and belly-flopped with the rest of my new de-haired crazy gang.

  When I came back, balls half chafed raw, to my room, Granite Grit, perched high, was quizzing Rhyodolite about the computers. Rhyodolite, one leg twisting anxiously, stood in the common square. Both bird and bat were being fantastically polite. I noticed Rhyo’s feet were booted in what looked like Gwyng-fit European bully marching boots.

  “The boots, Rhyodolite? They look like Earth boots.”

  “Yes/but heel re-done. You like?”

  “Weird. What is this party, anyway?” I noticed his dark blue sash with medals and badges.

  “Terribly important people come to see the first-contact people and new aliens. You’ll start your banner,” he said, touching his sash. “Hurry, change.”

  I winced and held my legs apart. He looked at me and tore up a sheet, making me a little loincloth pouch for my genitals. “Hurry. Didn’t someone/Tesseract tell you to watch naked skin against skin?”

  “No,” I said, trying to tie another strip of sheet around my waist.

  “Dust.” He went into my toilet cubicle and came out with a powder, which helped.

  As I put on my dress blacks and shoes, I asked, “So this party’s for those who didn’t end up on the memorial walls?”

  “Red-Clay-fool, don’t. Forget Mortuary Walls.” He looked at me and sniffed. “Your web glands stink.”

  “How do I get deodorant around here?”

  “Ah (don’t worry about that now).” He glanced at the bird. “Show no teeth in facial gesture—can be misunderstood by drunks. Don’t discuss senior guests afterward.”

  We scurried out, Rhyodolite chattering almost too fast for my skull computer to transform, about drugs. Drugs?

  “You know,” I said, “Black Amber almost wants to adopt me now.”

  He stopped short and blinked at me from his wrinkled face, with his own oiled eyes—suddenly very alien. “She is very Gwyng-minded—Gwyng-planet-raised (unlike me/Cadmium). She is allied to live things, against death.”

  We climbed into Rhyodolite’s three-wheeled electric plastic egg and drove up to a two-story stone and timber building with much glass—both plain and crystal cut—the Rector’s lodge, on a hill just inside the Academy grounds.

  This alien party, I realized, wasn’t going to be anything close to a bunch of drunks with a string band.

  Under the main porte cochere a small servant alien took the car away while a terribly nervous pre-cadet checked us off on a terminal.

  A Barcon, only furred in patches but thoroughly groomed, took us through a velvet tubular hall into a large room. He pointed to the food tables. “Any guest can eat these, although they might not digest all the proteins.” The Barcon put a finger up to its ear, listening to a plastic speaker in its ear tube, then left us, saying, “Recreational drugs come in key-out boxes—explain to Red Clay, Rhyodolite.”

  Weird alien sitting instruments filled the room—upholstered body gloves, loft seats with attached ladders, pillows, straw mats on low daises, and couches. Around these, on these, moved crested, naked-skinned, furred, feathered, or wrinkled aliens.

  “Rhyodolite, I don’t know these people. Stay with me.”

  “Wonderful,” Rhyo said, putting a thing like a brown pancake on a plate. “Cadmium and surprises will be here.”

  “What are you eating?” I asked as Rhyo fitted his fingers with tongs like artificial nails. He gave me a taste off the fingertip tongs. Cooked meat juice. My mind went oh. “Fried blood?”

  “Good?�
� Rhyo asked. He began clapping fried blood cake mouthward.

  I wondered if any aliens used forks and found a short curved knife—shorter blade than a butter knife, with a slight spoon to the blade. The fried blood hadn’t been bad, so I dished up some for myself.

  Black Amber and Cadmium walked in, bumping each other gently. She wore a green and gold tunic top with bloomer shorts, and soft slippers. Rhyodolite grabbed her shoulder and sniffed her. Black Amber thumped Rhyo’s right thumb. I had no idea of what sniffing and thumping meant, so, lips pursed into an embarrassed oo, I looked down.

  Black Amber pushed my head up with her knuckles. I thanked her formally for sponsoring me. “Since I’m not used to this kind of party,” I added, “I’d welcome advice. I know no one here except three Gwyngs.”

  “More acquaintances here than you expect,” she replied. “You called up the Yauntry contact account. Perhaps not flattering to rate only a line.” She dropped her hands from my head. “A smile for you.” Her fingers pulled up her mouth comers. “Mechanical, but up-lips for us means something different. But your test was awful.”

  “I knew I flunked it. How did you find out so soon?”

  “Computer.”

  Boy, those computers. I hadn’t realized how closely the computer let her monitor me—what I read, tests, reports from lecture leaders, gym.

  “The Yauntra report was scandalous,” she said, handing me a grayish brown sash. “But you must give him (Yauntry) this as he gives you yours.”

  “What?” My bowels lurched as two Barcons marched up with a Yauntry between them.

  Edwir Hargun.

  He stood gray-faced with a black sash in his hands, dressed in brown Academy-style clothes. I raised his sash while he looked down and moved his arms stiffly so I could fit it over his shoulder.

  “Your Federation knew only one Yauntry,” he said in stumbling Karst I, “to call out by name. Our Encorals, leaders, made me go.”

  I bowed my head and let him put the black sash over my shoulder. Then Hargun turned to Black Amber and the other Gwyngs. “I was brought to Karst. A hostage, perhaps?” he half asked. “I am terribly sorry about Xenon.”

  I looked away from all of them, as I thought about Xenon trying to be friends with Rhyodolite. Why was Rhyo so rude? Because birds with wings ate bats once, I said slowly, “We feared you would shoot us, also,’ and looked up at Hargun.

  He caught my eyes then for a second. I looked at his round jaw and short blobby nose, almost like a cartoon character’s face, but I couldn’t remember the cartoon. Then I had to look away. He’s so afraid.

  Hargun found a plate and one of the short knives and dabbled up bits of alien food. Standing beside me, he groped for vocabulary. “You seemed…so angry.” He rubbed small folds at the outsides of his eyes. Ah, that’s what makes his eyes look so round. Obviously wanting to say more, he said, “No one here really knows my language.”

  “Why did you let us go?” I wondered if the Yauntry version differed from the Karst version.

  “No weapons on you. Other ships did not hurt, but sent electric pictures.” He sighed, frustrated with his minuscule Karst. “And you…so young, despite the strange s’kos face.” He smiled faintly at me and said, “Satellite stealer.”

  Rhyo cocked his head and said, “Ah, the flesh-eating apes can talk to each other, but don’t translate that, Red Mud, or I’ll imitate vampire tonight.” He buzzed a visual through the computer—little bat with a human face and fangs like miniature tusks.

  “The one who spoke was the one your people captured with me,” I told Hargun.

  Hargun turned to Rhyodolite and said, “Your Federation is an enormous thing to fight. An intimidating alliance of mammals and birds.”

  Black Amber looked sharply at Hargun. The Yauntry smiled back as though his face had turned almost to glass.

  Rhyo pulled Cadmium aside and talked some Gwyng language to him that my skull computer couldn’t work out. Cadmium, annoyed, bobbed his head, bounced his pied body against Rhyo, and plunged off into the crowd. Wrinkles deepening, Rhyo looked wistfully after him.

  Black Amber extended her fingertips to Hargun as she moved her body forward in a fluid roll. He started to touch her palm with his, but she only allowed her long, furred fingers to brush his, knuckle to knuckle. “Please explain,” she said to me, “that Gwyngs are more sparing of friendly hand gestures than former brachiators/tree creatures.”

  I added that he shouldn’t nod at Gwyngs either, since they tended to do that when they were annoyed. Rhyodolite nodded slightly and tried to edge Black Amber away from us. She arched her body at him and raised her brow fur. Both went off into the crowd and left me with Hargun.

  “Are they angry with me?” Hargun asked.

  “No.” I looked around and noticed lots more Barcons than I’d been aware of—all blended into the background. The two who’d brought Hargun up to me stood behind us, observing, not socializing.

  “Wonderful at your age,” Hargun tried to say, “to know about strange…people.” He stared down at his shoes as if he’d run completely out of vocabulary.

  Why did the Gwyngs leave? I wondered.

  The room noise choked off as the old bird Rector Karriaagzh entered, yellow hawk eyes with fierce bone ridges swaying over the rest of us.

  Hargun turned and stared at the Rector. Man, Karriaagzh was one truly impressive and alien, alien for a space novice to see. Hargun murmured, “Your regulator?”

  “More or less.”

  “Birds regulate you? Now I understand…a bird’s death.” His voice trailed off as Karriaagzh stalked closer, dressed in russet with real gold worked through the cloth.

  I was too awed by Karriaagzh and didn’t catch until later the implications of what Hargun said.

  The Rector’s uniform was undone to show some of his ridged breastbone—his comment, perhaps, to us mammals that he was different. Disdaining entourages, alone, he moved with backward knee strides through the crowd.

  Slowly, talking his way from alien to alien, he made his way to us. “Red Clay Tom, you aren’t such a xenophobe as Black Amber feared. Edwir Hargun, shiwi-la, hum, u Federation-bhlu. I hope my Yauntro is not too impossible.”

  Hargun’s eyes went hugely round, almost like balls, and Karriaagzh eased back and bent his knees, to make himself less tall. The bird gave us his whole attention—neither eyelids nor nictitating membranes moved. Karriaagzh breathed in rhythm with Hargun, first quickly. When the bird breathed slower, Hargun’s breaths slowed, too, as though the bird’d hypnotized him.

  My mouth opened a little. Karriaagzh moved his facial feathers and said, “I would like both of you to be at the tale-telling later.”

  As the bird moved on, Hargun’s eyes tracked him. “I know people who spoke for…a…people.”

  “Diplomat?” I suggested. “Representative.”

  “Bird-like things should not be able to speak Yauntro. And I didn’t come with full…not my idea. But I know a master. This…grasping for words fools me. Difficult to seem sapient without proper words.”

  Karriaagzh, having gone through the crowd like a master politician, stepped up on a dais and said, “First contact takes courage and initiative on both sides. We honor our guests tonight.”

  Hargun trembled slightly—xeno reaction, I thought. His Barcons eased him up against a wall, so aliens couldn’t crowd in on all sides as they came over to congratulate us.

  “Stay with him,” one of the Barcons told me. “You know him from the contact.”

  “And you have so many amino acids in common,” the other added.

  Hargun braced his body against the wall, tense, ready to fight if necessary. Where was Tesseract and his calming teas? I’d thought of Tesseract when I saw another Ahram enter the room, with a Gwyng, both dressed in handspun tweedy clothes. The alien crowd whispered, “History Committee.”

  Black Amber suddenly appeared by my elbow and moved me toward the slow chatty path they took through the crowd.

  �
�Is this?” the other Gwyng said to Black Amber, indicating me.

  “Mica’s legacy, Red Clay. Red Clay, this is History Committee Member for the Gwyngs Wy’um.”

  “History Committee Member, I am honored to be here tonight…” What should I say to this bipedal bat whose hand was sliding up and down Black Amber’s stomach? I didn’t know what the History Committee was, but these guys arrived late and grabbed more attention than Karriaagzh.

  The other History Committee Member, the Ahram, with reddish skull crest skin, smiled. “Cadet Red Clay, I’m History Committee Member Warst Runnel, of the Ahrams, like Tesseract, no?”

  Wy’um sniffed the air delicately. Black Amber blinked slowly and showed Wy’um a little glass capsule. I felt tension in the air, as if some illegal drug was in that vial, ready to spin brains when cracked and sniffed. He oo’ed. The Ahram’s crest skin flushed even redder, and he looked at Black Amber as though she were a whore.

  Black Amber stared me into silence and thanked them, saying she’d see them both later.

  Then the History Committee aliens moved on.

  “Who,” I asked Amber, “were they?”

  “History Committee determines Karst and Federation policies, holds us together with good history. Wy’um S’fee I’e is the first male Gwyng to hold the position.” She raised her brow hair slightly and twitched her lips, then headed over with her rolling gait to the food table.

  Look, I told myself as Black Amber eased away, you speak the language—mingle. So what if the Barcons wanted me to stay with Hargun. He made me nervous.

  I looked for other cadets, but black suits were scarce. Finally, I spotted a young female ape-type, with multi-colored head hair, like a punk tri-colored collie. Why not, I decided as I went toward her, she’s shorter than me.

  Funny chin, no dent between it and the bottom lip, even if it’s not rounded like Hargun’s, I thought. Her face and nose-angles were a bit broad, but the eyes were okay, getting quizzical as I stared. “I guess we’re two of the youngest winners,” I managed to get out. “I’m Red Clay.”

  “Topaz 17. I understand your species is new here. First contact and first contacting, all so suddenly.”