“That will do. You will accept it?”
“I will accept anything you prefer.” He was speaking literally. His immense potential was subject to her whim. She tried hard not to abuse that power. For one thing, it complicated Sam and Martha’s job of protecting them.
“Then I will stop the Pill. It is time.”
“It is time for Star, too,” Aliena said. “I will tell her.”
This brought Lida up short. “What does Star’s reproductive policy have to do with mine?”
“She needs to have the experience of a baby, as I did.”
“But there is Maple.”
“Maple is mine. She must have her own.”
Lida nodded. “Maybe that’s right.”
Gloaming had waited politely for her dialogue with Aliena to conclude. “Now let’s make love.”
“Your will is mine,” Lida said, laughing. How he had changed, once she had come to love him! But this was good.
He hesitated, then laughed with her. He was beginning to get it.
Two months later it was confirmed: both Lida and Star were pregnant.
“This is new to Star,” Aliena said. “She wants to be with you.”
“Me? She’ll have a bellyful even without me!”
Aliena laughed. She was ahead of the other starfish in this respect, picking up on the literal and figurative meanings. “She wants your emotional guidance, so that she can treat her baby appropriately. This does not come naturally to her. It was difficult for me too. That is why I enlisted the Smythes. They will, of course, help. But you will have a special understanding, being not only in the same condition, but fully human.”
“But what of the danger of having the starfish together? Because if I join Star, Gloaming will come too.”
“I will,” Gloaming agreed.
“The security apparatus has been refined. The public now accepts the starfish. The incident with Jeb helped; in the popular mind the starfish were credited with having the empathy to provide for him. It should be feasible now.”
Lida was satisfied to let the starfish have the credit for her idea; they had done a nice job animating it. Lida had seen Star hardly one minute, yet her presence had been magnetic and her voice spectacular, and Lida liked her. But did she really want to associate with her on a daily basis? It would mean life even more in the limelight, not something she had been accustomed to. But she was now a part of this project; what could she do but lend her further support?
“If Star wants my company, I’ll grant it,” she concluded aloud.
It was promptly accomplished. Star simply moved back to the bunker where she had once lived. The neighbors already knew her, though they confessed to thinking of Aliena when they saw her. She curtailed her global travels, on the valid pretext of her pregnancy. Gloaming also stopped his, because of Lida. Thus the bunker became the grand central base for the starfish.
They did practice community relations. Both Gloaming and Star attended the local nondenominational church and sang both solos and in the choir, not displacing anyone else; it was strictly supportive. The two women went shopping together, and Lida was surprised to receive almost as much attention as Star did, perhaps being considered more approachable. She subtly guided Star, as she did Gloaming, in the nuances of human social interaction, so that the starfish generally made a good impression in the little ways, apart from being world famous. Sam and Martha were always nearby, along with other guards, and no crazy ever got close to the starfish or their companions. They got along, in part because Lida was now experienced in relating to starfish, and Star genuinely appreciated the guidance.
And Star was lonely. She was the center of global attention, one of the world’s most beautiful women, respected by almost all people, with enormous power at her beck and call. She had a husband who loved her. But she was the only starfish in woman form. She had come from another planet and parked her own body to become the brain of an alien host, and had assumed a highly public role. She needed a kindred soul, and Lida, married to a starfish and similarly pregnant from a cross-marriage, was it. Lida could be trusted, and she understood. What could she do but provide that companionship? The story of the millennium was the compatible contact between two completely different sapient species, but beneath it was the simple need of one person for a friend. Empathy came hard to starfish, but Lida had it in abundance, and it bound her to Star.
Their next visit to the space station was together, along with Maple, leaving the husbands behind. The starfish robots were as interested in their pregnancies as the human media were, perhaps for a different reason: they wanted to be sure that there would be no defects in the babies. In Star’s case, that there was no triggering of the immune response that had taken Aliena out. Aliena herself was pleased; Maple was hers, and she wanted Star to have her own. Quincy, knowing that Lida’s child was genetically his, was completely supportive.
Time passed, and the babies were due. Lida bore hers first, by a few hours, and named him Quill, as close as she cared to come to Quincy. Star’s was a girl she let the Smythes name, as she was their granddaughter by blood and Maple’s little sister. They chose Bliss. The news media went into a frenzy of discussion, pictures, and speculation, as if the children were royal. Would they grow up to marry and found a new dynasty? When the two women went out for a public walk with matching prams, one baby in blue, the other in pink, it was as if a new world had been created.
Lida thought this was a lot of foolishness. But she realized that she was satisfied with it. She finally had what she had wanted at the outset: a loving husband, friends, and a child. Only the details differed from her expectations.
Part 2
Alien Host
Quincy woke somewhat blearily. Was it another immune attack? It felt different, but no less strange. Then he remembered: he had volunteered to exchange bodies with an alien creature, because the alternative was death. Lida had agreed, for his sake, though it meant that she would have to be married to the alien. He did not care to dwell on that aspect.
So he had been taken to the local hospital. He had signed the necessary papers. He had been drugged unconscious. There his memory ended.
“Quincy.” It was an oddly musical voice saying his name. That must have been what woke him.
“Here,” he replied, and that was weird, because he did not do it by exhaling breath and invoking vocal cords. He did it—with his arms. By squirting tiny jets of water. Could that be right? Or was this a weird dream?
“Are you rational?”
What a question! “I’m not sure. Am I?”
“You seem to be. Your human brain was transplanted to an alien, to you, host. You have been recovering, unconscious, for a week. Your synapses should now be connecting, enabling you to operate the body. But it will seem strange, and it will take time for you to get used to it, let alone master it. Do not be dismayed if things do not work well at first.”
“Thank you for that explanation. Who are you?”
“I am Aliena.”
“Aliena! The starfish transplant?”
“The same. Now I am back in my natural body. But I was, for a time, in a human body, and I remember the ways of it. That is why I am best qualified to help you adjust now.”
He assimilated that. “I’m a starfish. You’re a starfish. So you’ll help me get used to it.”
“Yes. And to function as a starfish. But I need to warn you of something.”
“Warn me?”
“Your new body will seem awkward at first, but that will change as you acclimatize. What won’t change is your relative intelligence.”
“So I won’t lose my mind. That’s a relief.”
“Perhaps not. Among humans there is a range of intelligence, as measured by your somewhat arbitrary tests. On a scale of one through ten, roughly, a ten would be a near genius, while a one would be a moron.”
“Got it. Five would be average. I’m about a six.”
“On the human scale,” she agreed. “On
the starfish scale, you will be a one.”
More assimilation. “A moron.”
“Yes. Your participation in our society will be limited.”
This was hard to take. But what choice did he have at this point? “I guess there are jobs for morons, right? Like cleaning out the bilge.”
“Fortunately, you do not have to make it on intellect. You have something we largely lack that makes you equivalent to a genius compared to us. That is emotion.”
“Starfish lack emotion?”
“We do not entirely lack it, but we are supremely rational. We work to ascertain the best course of action, and implement it. Emotion can interfere with that, so we suppress it from childhood on. But when interacting with human beings, we need emotion. You will need to help show us how to stop being emotional morons and start being more like humans. It is not an easy course for us. We here on the space craft were not selected for it, assuming that other sapient species would resemble us in this respect. Now we must overcome that liability.”
“So there is something I can help you with,” he said slowly. “To pay my way.”
“That is correct. I ask you to remember that when you feel stupid, as you often will. Humans do not expect or even value intelligence in their pets; dogs and cats and parrots have other virtues.”
“Woof!”
“I do not understand.”
“That was humor. Wait—humor is emotional. That’s why you don’t get it.”
“Correct. In what manner does making the sound of a dog represent humor?”
“I’m pretending I am a pet dog. Obviously I’m not, so it is laughable.”
“I see,” she said uncertainly.
“Let’s move on. What else do I need to know?”
“You will have to attend Starfish School to learn the nature and history of our species. You will have to learn our language.”
“I will? What am I speaking, then?”
“You are speaking an Earth dialect. I learned it when I was in the human host, so I understand you, and you understand me. We also have automatic translation available. But it will be better for you to learn our language, so that you can function apart from the machines.”
He tried to nod, but it didn’t work. “Then I guess I’d better get on to kindergarten.”
“First you will need practice moving, eating, and elimination.”
“So I won’t poop on the table,” he agreed.
“Actually elimination can be accomplished anywhere; the circulation of the water carries it away, and the ship’s filters remove it in due course. But it is better to understand the process, and control it, so as not to suffer embarrassment. So you are, in essence, correct.”
“But I get the message. I need to know how not to be crude in public.”
“We will start with moving. You will discover that you are not standing upright as you did in your original host. You are spread on the floor, and your feet are myriad, in rows along the base of your arms. You need not be concerned about falling; it is not possible to fall in this environment. But you may discover it awkward to walk when using those myriad feet.”
“Awkward,” he agreed. “So these five points I have are not analogous to my original arms and legs?”
“They are not,” she agreed.
“For that matter, how am I seeing and hearing? I don’t seem to have eyes or ears.”
“You have thousands of tiny light and sound sensitive cells on your surfaces. So you see and hear with your entire skin, and your brain stem, which is that of the host, integrates these to make pictures and sounds that are intelligible to your brain. That is part of what occurred during your week of convalescence. Without that integration, all would be gibberish.”
“Instead I have clear vision and hearing,” he said. “My compliments to your surgeon.”
“The robots are proficient,” she agreed.
“And how am I talking?”
“You are sending signals to the many water cells that power your arms, causing them to eject water while constricting, so that they vibrate to make sounds. The water carries sound well, so you are readily audible, as I am.”
“I’m talking through my feet?”
“Your arms are your feet. They do make the sounds of speech.”
“So let’s see how I walk.” Quincy tried, and got nowhere. All that happened was that the tip of an arm lifted.
“You may be trying to walk the human way,” Aliena said. “By moving one entire arm at a time. This will not be effective.”
“What will be effective?” he asked, suppressing his annoyance.
“Direct controlled sounds to all your arms.”
He tried that, and lifted up off the sea floor slightly before dropping down again. “Oops!”
“Now do that while angling your tubelets back.”
Quincy discovered that he could do that. When he did, he drifted, what he thought, was forward slightly. Strictly speaking, or squirting, he did not have a front or back; he was the same in all directions. But it was controlled movement, of a sort. He tried again, and moved farther forward, with more power. He was starting to get the knack of it. Angled mini-jets were enabling him to travel, and to sing, as it were, as he did so. A moving starfish was audible.
“Practice that until you can move without focusing on it,” Aliena said. “Tomorrow we’ll start you in a language class.”
“But with the translators, do I need it?”
“If you depend on the translators you will always be subject to the machine. It is better to do as much for yourself as you can. That was why I learned Earth speech when I was in a human host.”
That made sense. “I will learn your language.”
“Good.” She extended an arm tip and touched the tip of one of his arms. There was an electric twinge that amounted to a small jolt of pleasure. Then she moved away at a pace he could not even attempt to match. The sound of her motion was lovely.
Which was another lesson. The physical touch of a starfish could evoke pleasure—and surely discomfort, if made negative. He wanted her positive attention, as she was his only contact with his own kind, however indirectly.
He practiced moving. He discovered that the host body had automatic circuits, just as the human body did, so that instead of directing the angling and squirting himself, he could invoke a motion circuit and have it done for him. He could move better when simply willing it, not thinking about it.
Now that he could move, he explored his environment. He was in a kind of chamber formed by vertical stakes set in the sand of the sea floor, like a baby’s playpen. That analogy made him pause thoughtfully. Effectively, he was a baby in a pen; the stakes were there to dissuade him from wandering into danger.
Was there danger here? Probably not physical. But suppose he wandered into some activity the regular starfish were performing? He would be in the way at best, and in trouble at worst. The pen might even be marked to keep others away, so he could practice without being laughable for his clumsiness.
He saw a metal device in one corner of his pen. It reminded him of a food dispenser. He made his way to it, curious about its actual nature. There were several bars under what looked like spouts. He pushed against one bar with a director arm tip. It gave way slightly. Then there was a wash of brownish water from the spout that soaked him in its essence. He recoiled, thinking of mud, before realizing that it tasted more like chocolate. Chocolate mud. It was food! His receptors, intakes, or whatever were absorbing it and nourishing him, before it drifted on out of range.
This thing was a food dispenser. He didn’t have a mouth or teeth as such, but he could drink in sustenance that came his way.
He pushed another bar, and received another jet, this one red. It tasted like blood and strawberry and was delicious.
A third one was like green wine and oysters, also surprisingly good. His starfish body evidently had different taste preferences than his human body did. That was fine.
Then he felt an urg
e, and yielded to it. A whitish cloud appeared around him and drifted away in the slight current. It did not taste good. In fact it reminded him of a toilet. That was piss or poop or both! He was discovering how to go potty.
Aliena returned. Quincy was embarrassed; had she seen him pooping? Or, worse, tasted it in the water?
“You have discovered the feeder,” she said. “Good; I was about to explain it for you. Now I think you have had enough practice for the day. You need to sleep, and resume learning tomorrow.”
The region was slowly darkening: simulated night. “Starfish do sleep?”
“We do, for similar reasons humans sleep: to assimilate the events of the day and allow our brains to cleanse themselves physically and intellectually. Now you will want company for this.”
“I will?”
She paused. “Perhaps not. It is necessary for starfish, but not for humans. I am not sure which governs in your case.”
“You can’t sleep alone?”
“It is a species reflex. We conjecture that in our evolutionary childhood we discovered that safety lay in numbers. Even today there are predators who will attack a sleeping starfish, but will not attack two that are linked. Because if one starfish is injured, the other will fight back and probably injure or kill the predator. So we normally sleep linked in chains of two, three, or more. We are unable to sleep alone.”
“I—can sleep alone,” Quincy said. “But I would prefer to sleep linked with you. However, if you have business elsewhere—”
“A significant part of my business is you. We promised your wife that you would live. Also, you are maintaining the host body; if your brain died, that body might be lost, and the starfish you exchanged brains with would be unable ever to return.”
“Might be lost?”
“If we were aware of the problem in time, we could put it in stasis and thus save it. But we don’t want to lose you, regardless.”
Quincy was relieved. “Then lead me to the bedroom.”
“We have no designated sleeping places. We can do it here.”
“Just out on the sea floor?”
“Where else?”
Aliena Too Page 6
