SF Drabble #497: “Cones Of Dunshire”

“Would you like to play?” The Yourian pointed to an open seat.

He looked at the table: L-shaped cards, three types of tokens, small figurines for each player, and several small wooden boxes. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to play…”

The Yourian threw back its enormous head and laughed. “I will teach you. We will play for drink chits. You have drink chits?”

“I think so… but mine say ‘human’, I would want you to poison yourself by—”

“Don’t be silly, the bartender system will exchange them; there are fail-safes. This is a Polixaci ship, no one ever dies.”

SF Drabble #485: “Cultural Ambassador”

“Five minutes”

Greg pulled the brush through the back of her hair one more time, backed up, surveyed his work, looked at her reflected eyes and nodded. She turned to one side and then the other. “Yeah.”

“They’re gonna love you.”

By this point there was usually cheering, chanting, a rolling boil of crowd noise. Outside, in the oddly-shaped venue, the audience of Shchinwhee sat in near-silence in seats recently designed and installed. “Sure.”

“Just like a normal show.”

She locked eyes with her own reflection. Ten years since that mall food court. Poughkeepsie? Maybe Albany? “Like a normal show.”

Jukebox

The music washed over him, soaked into his ears and the corners of his eyes, nudged his lips open and slid across his tongue and down his throat. There were wavering drones and percussive noises and phasing patterns all mixed with field recordings from some alien environment. He’d never heard anything like it. Eventually he realized he was also experiencing strong, but somehow unfamiliar emotions. He pulled one earcup off and said, “Why do I feel… I’m not sure. Like I’m home, and tired, but satisfied?”

“There is a telepathic component.” The alien said. “The specific results depends on compatibility with your nervous system; yours is sufficiently similar to ours that it should translate well. This particular entry is a meditation on Rithk, the ceremonial end of our migratory season.”

“Wonderful.” He pulled the headset off, laid it in his lap. “How much?”

“For the complete Gwainisch library, and six headsets: one hundred Polixaci credits. We also have a selection of add-on libraries from other systems. Thirty credits each.” It held up a long, blue, nail-less finger. “We don’t guarantee compatibility for those.”

It was a small fortune, but his clientele would pay through the nose for this. “Play another.”

SF Drabble #473 “Formula ∞”

It’s a race. No… it’s the race. You want to be a rockstar, out here, where music is a curiosity? You gotta win the race. Or at least, be in the running until the end, or almost the end. I’m the first human to enter, the first ever. My ship is of Yourian make, but nobody cares about that. It’s assumed that the pilots have made extensive personal modifications, and I have.

I think I’ll come at least third. In the money, as they say. Polixaci credits, a fortune by human standards. Richer than old Gates, for twelve minutes’ work.

SF Drabble #460 "The Gourmand"

"My name is Alistair Forsythe, I'm from the UN Bureau of—"

"You're here for the alien?"

"…correct."

"I assume you can cover his bill?"

"How much is it?"

"Well, he ordered one of everything, so I'm afraid it's up there. He's made a hefty dent in our wine list as well. It's been an hour since I ran a new total, but—"

"A new total?"

"Yeah. We're probably into the low five digits by now…"

"Of course we are."

"I'm surprised he's still eating, considering—"

Forsythe fished out the 'company' card. "The Shchinwhee have two stomachs. And they're remarkable elastic."

SF Drabble #459 "And I'll Cry If I Want To"

They caught each others' eye and slipped away from the throng to meet and commiserate in the corner. Lieutenant Kirk whispered, "How long has he been going now?"

Forsythe didn't have to look at his watch again. "Four hours."

In the middle of the room: the Yourian ambassador, surrounded by party-goers, laughing his wide-mouthed laugh, bellowing incomprehensible jokes and stories, naked but for his purse-harness and his downy feathers and his worryingly growing erection.

Forsythe was coming to the realization that his night was only just beginning. "I think he's drunk."

"He's drinking orange juice."

"I don't know his chemistry."

SF Drabble #438 "Lost Girl"

"Excuse me…"

"Busy," the creature grumbled.

"I'm sorry, I just need to find the gate for—"

"Busy, human."

She looked around: there were other beings nearby, but they were all in motion or in conversation, difficult to interrupt, and there were no spaceport employees anywhere to be seen. She wore her most pathetic face, hoping the alien could even read human expressions. "I'm really sorry…"

"What gate."

"I'm not sure, there's just this symbol…"

"That is a Polixaci trade glyph. If you travel on liners, should learn to read them. That way, three gates down."

"Thank you so—"

"Just go."

SF Drabble #404 "Comfort Food"

The waiter, a Yourian, waddled over to our table; through the translator disc, she asked, "What can I get for you today?"

The menu was printed in the Polixaci trade koiné: symbols and wavy lines and color gradients. The pictures were no more helpful. I sputtered, "Uh… what's good?"

"We're known for our boiled shwill. And our fundlebrack. And the crottled greeps are fresh." She watched us try to look those dishes up in our travel guides, and sighed. "You're humans, right? We have meat loaf."

"What's the meat?"

"Something called a 'cattle'. I've never tried it."

"We'll take two."

SF Drabble #395 "The Cinnamon Challenge"

The actives and pledges gathered around the little furry alien, holding their half-full red or blue Solo cups. The chanting subsided and Mede looked up at them. "Now, what do I do?"

The one calling himself 'Flounder' said: "You just eat it."

"The powder, but not the spoon?"

Several of them laughed, but were quickly shushed. Flounder affirmed: "Yup."

They'd given him a teaspoon instead of a tablespoon, on account of his diminutive size. He put it in his mouth, withdrew the empty spoon; he let the powder sit, swished it around. After a while, he swallowed. "What happens next?"

Dalanzadgad

They sat without talking in the café on the concourse by the gate; she distracted herself by people-watching while he studied — for the hundredth time, it seemed to her — the extensive 'Employee Guidelines (Human)' on his Pad.

"Everybody's human," she observed. The café staff, the security guards, even the ticket agents at the Polixaci Trade Authority counter had been human. "Where are all the aliens?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's a spaceport."

"Sure, but they employ locals to run it."

"If they're locals, shouldn't they be Chinese? Or Mongolian, or whatever?" Outside the plate-glass concourse window, the Gobi desert stretched away like the Martian plain. If only there was a window on the other side, looking towards the immense silver lander: that was another thing she wanted to see in person, at least once.

He chuckled; "Everything's relative."

"You can still back out, you know." She said it conversationally, trying not to betray the emotions churning her stomach.

He looked up from his Pad, he turned it off. "I really can't."

"They said. You won't have committed to anything until you actually get on the lander. Right? They said."

"Eight months isn't so long."

"Eight months is forever. Eight months with no face, no mail, nothing."

"In an emergency, I could—"

"So I get to hear from you when you're dead, great. Meanwhile, you'll miss everything." Her hand was on her stomach, just below her stomach, where there was as yet no appreciable bulge.

"Come on. You're exaggerating."

"Oh, okay, I'm exaggerating."

"Your father did, what, three tours in the middle east back when he was our age? Weren't you born while he was deployed?"

"That's different. He could call. He could write. He was still on Earth."

"I'll make enough money working this one circuit to start a real business, Jan; with enough left over for a nice house where we can raise our kids. It's just eight months."

She was silent a long time. She knew he was right. She didn't have to like it.

"Look, there's one." He gestured with his head.

"What?"

"Look."

It wasn't a Polixaci; something else. She'd seen one of these on the news, once. Lignol? They were rare, even near the embassy in New York. It plodded down the concourse, carrying a small silver case. "It's going home?"

"Probably. Change liners at Friktik. He'll have to wait there for the connection, though, maybe six months? They don't always line up the way you want." He'd done his research. He said, pointedly, "Eleven stops, each with a layover. I'll be back here before he's home."

"You don't have to go"

He switched his Pad back on. "I want to go."

Not Being Michael Collins

It was a dream, or it was like a dream. Alone, on Intrepid, with Mars spinning below him and the immense cylinder of the alien ship hanging above him, everything in his field of view defied the understanding of the most primitive parts of his brain. It left Rothmeyer mildly and continuously unnerved.

Below, on the planet, Heinz and Meade were packed like sardines in the MEM – the Mars Lander – watching the Polixaci building their embassy. They were the first and second men to walk on Mars, respectively. Gerald Rothmeyer, on the other hand, stayed on Intrepid.

There was little to do besides sit and watch the comings and goings above. Smaller subsidiary vessels – freight landers, themselves larger than an oceangoing aircraft carrier – would approach from below and dock for loading, then detach and drop towards the planet. It had been going on for two days, since just after the MEM touched down and the invitation to join them had gone up.

Rothmeyer slept a lot. It was quiet, peaceful, on Intrepid. The only noise was the whine of the air system. Quite a change from the weeks in transit, bumping elbows and knees with the other two men. When they had slid down into the MEM and detached for their de-orbit burn, he'd been too relieved to be jealous.

There had been a handshake meeting down there, performed in suits on the open surface. They'd gotten up close and personal with the Polixaci, the first to do so besides the old ISS crew. They were talking. They were in the Rollabout driving around the periphery of the building site while aliens in mech-suits built the temporary facility they would live in while they built the main embassy dome. He was jealous now.

During the weeks in transit, with Earth shrinking behind them, Meade had taken to calling him 'Collins'. Good-natured ribbing between comrades. Friendly. Michael Collins had stayed behind in orbit while Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the moon, and become the answer to a trivia question. It didn't bother him. Not really.

He was asleep when Captain Heinz's voice erupted from the comm system. “Intrepid, Hellas Base.”

“Intrepid here, go ahead Hellas.”

“Intrepid, we're going to try something here, we're hooked up our comms to the Polixaci communications system, we've been talking to Mission Control real-time. They want to talk to you, we're going to patch it through our system. You should hear Mission Control next, over.”

Real-time... instead of an half hour round-trip light-speed delay. “Roger, Hellas Base. Ready, over.”

There was nearly a minute of dead air, and then came, “Intrepid, this is Mission Control, do you read, over?”

“Mission Control, Intrepid. I read you five by five. Go ahead.”

“Rothmeyer, Houseguest is asking if you want to visit Mother. You'd EVA, they'd come pick you up and then bring you back. What do you think, over.”

'Houseguest' was the robotic Polixaci representative secretly observing the mission from NASA. 'Mother' was the liner; the immense alien ship hanging in orbit just above him. “Mission Control, Intrepid.” He couldn't formulate a response. “Mission Control... Intrepid. No one would be on duty on the flight deck, over.”

There was a pause, and then: “Intrepid, Mission Control. The consensus here is that it's acceptable under the circumstances. The P... Houseguest says Mother will bring you back to Intrepid if there's any problem. Bill's call is that it's up to you. Over.”

He studied the alien ship; it was more than a kilometer long, a series of cylinders – some overlapping – around a central spine, with a tapered spike at one end and a bulbous projection at the other. There were reportedly tens of thousands of beings aboard, from hundreds of different races. There was unimaginably advanced technology; Somewhere inside that cylinder was the secret to super-luminal travel.

How could he say no?

The Captain's voice replaced Mission Control. “Jerry, we're on private now: we're agreed down here, you should definitely go. The Polixaci guarantee a ride back if anything goes wrong with Intrepid. That was my condition. What do you think?”

He was exhilarated and terrified all at once. “I guess I'm game.”

“I'll tell Mission Control, and Houseguest will tell Mother. I'd expect company pretty soon. Over.”

“Roger, Hellas, Intrepid out.”

By the time he had his suit on, an elongated black egg the size of a two-story house had appeared outside the viewport, close aboard. He made his way to the lock and cycled through.

Mostly for the log, he spoke. “This is Rothmeyer. I'm leaving the spacecraft for my rendezvous with the Polixaci support craft. If I'm not back in an hour, send Flash Gordon.”

It wasn't his first EVA. He'd been engineer on one of the first second-generation shuttle missions. The new suits were thinner, though, tighter, more form-fitting and. This was as naked to the vacuum of space as he'd ever felt. He willed his muscles to pull the rest of his body out into the speckled darkness.

There was an oddly-shaped figure standing on the hull of the alien craft. The Captain's description of their suits as 'mechas' was apt. Rothmeyer resisted the urge to wave.

It was waiting to see what he would do. Fine. “I'm moving away from Intrepid now.” He activated his suit's maneuvering system and slowly, carefully, traversed the distance between the two vessels. When he was close enough, the alien reached out and grabbed him by a carabiner on his suit. Rothmeyer was passive as the alien pushed him with practiced ease down into his craft.

First human to set foot on an alien spacecraft. None of the ISS boys did that. “Aboard the alien support craft now. Roomy inside. Laid out pretty much like ours; form follows function, I guess. Chairs are different.”

The alien wasn't a Polixaci. It was a bit smaller than a man, and heavily furred, with a mouth and nose out of a horror film. Rothmeyer spent the last few minutes of the ride up to the liner trying to get a good high-def photo of its photo with his suit camera.

The unidentified alien never took off his suit, and so neither did Rothmeyer. They docked. The alien gestured towards the airlock, which was already in the process of opening to him when he looked over at it. His pilot stayed behind. “I'm moving from the support craft into the liner now.”

There was gravity without spin. He pulled himself awkwardly into it, and stood up. There were dozens of them, mostly Polixaci, but others also.

The compartment was large, and there were observation galleries above. Both spaces were brimming with aliens, all fixated on Rothmeyer. He was the only one wearing a pressure suit. He knew the Polixaci breathed a mix close enough to an Earth-normal atmosphere; he reached up and unfastened his helmet. “I'm inside. I'm on board the liner.” He allowed himself the luxury of wondering how jealous of him Heinz and Meade were right now, knowing that he'd always be the first human to board an alien starship.

What was walking on Mars next to that? Mars wasn't going anywhere...

SF Drabble #387 “Still On Vacation”

We went from Friktik to Ri’ on the mail-runner, not wanting to wait three weeks for the next liner.

I guess something about the Liner, maybe its size, minimizes the physiological effects of the Polixaci drive, because when the mail-runner left normal space, we both got dizzy and fell out of our chairs. The crew apologized: they thought we knew. They wouldn’t say why it doesn’t happen on the liners, though. We got the impression they weren’t supposed to.

Ri’ is beautiful. Mostly forest, these immense trees that sing in the wind. Worth it, so glad for those extra weeks.

SF Drabble #379 “Recognition”

“What is that?”

Forsythe glanced up from his Pad long enough to follow the driver’s outstretched finger. “That is a Yourian female. Don’t point.”

“Sorry.”

“The little ones are her kids? Her… young?”

“No, in fact the smaller Yourians are males. One is probably her husband and the others are in her husband’s employ. Or hers, for that matter, though given the sexism in Yourian society that’s less likely.”

“Oh.” The driver ruminated. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“One learns on the job. I’ve been at it quite some time.” Forsythe laughed. “So long it almost seems normal.”

SF Drabble #378 “Airlock”

“What’s through there? My disc won’t open this door…”

The Polixaci crewman glanced at the hatch, and answered through his translator, “Your Ident Disc is functioning correctly: the hatch you indicate leads to a section of compartments optimized for methane-breathers. Do you have some business within?”

“No, no. Just exploring the ship. You know, playing tourist.”

“If you entered that area, your lungs would be destroyed and you would die.”

“Oh.”

The crewman moved to leave, but paused and added, “Additionally, Some hatches lead to the vacuum of space. If your disc restricts access, it is for safety reasons.”

“Gotcha.”

Search and Rescue

The gentleman who answered the door had neck tattoos and a foul expression.

 

"Ah, good morning; my name is Alistair Forsythe, and I work for the United Nations. I believe an acquaintance of mine is currently a guest in your home and I was wondering if I could come in and speak to him."

 

The tattooed man's gaze was directed past Forsythe's shoulder, and he was clearly beginning to panic.

 

"I can assure you I have no interest in any illegal drugs or other illicit activity that may be occurring within. I'm only interested in speaking to my friend. I believe you know to whom I refer? That way it won't be necessary to involve... well, anyone else." Forsythe smiled as the man's eyes went from him to the numerous police vehicles and SWAT team members assembled on the street and back again.

 

"Uh. Yeah, all right. Come on in." The man unlocked and opened the security door, and backed out of the way.

 

"Excellent, thank you," Forsythe said as he stepped inside. "And where..."

 

"Kitchen. Hey homes, are they really not gonna come in?" The tattooed man gestured nervously to the front door.

 

"Not unless there's a problem."

 

He held up his hands to indicate he was compliant. "Ain't gonna be no problem, man. We've been real friendly to... your friend. You too, homes. We're all real chill."

 

"Excellent, thank you. I'll just proceed into the kitchen then."

 

The house was Forsythe's first drug den, and so far — other than the barred security door — was confounding his expectations: it was relatively clean, and the few people present seemed more interested in a football game on the television than maintaining a high. He proceeded into the kitchen, where he found the Shchinwhee Ambassador's son sitting at a small Formica table. The alien's eye stalks swung around and fixed on the doorway as he entered. "Ah, Forsythe! The beetles told you where to find me? Ah, yes, they did. The Ident discs, you see, they're tracers as well. Isn't cocaine wonderful?"

 

"I can't say that I've ever had the pleasure. May I sit?"

 

"Of course, of course. Teo let you in, yes? Teo, come have some cocaine, my friend!"

 

From the other room came, "Naw, man, that's cool, I'm all good, homes."

 

The alien continued, while cutting lines on the Formica table surface, "They call the Polixaci 'beetles', did you know that? 'El Escarabajo'. I had to look them up, beetles, but it's so perfect, isn't it? The antennae, the carapace..."

 

"Tyndagoloh, your father is concerned. He called from Mars to make sure we found you and brought you back to—"

 

"But I'm having so much fun, Forsythe. Your planet is so much more interesting when one is immersed in it!"

 

"May I ask, how did you get here?"

 

"On the liner, of course... Forsythe, you met us at the lander—"

 

"Not to Earth, Tyndagoloh; here, to this house."

 

"I decided to have a look around. I mean, a reallook around, not the tour in your bulletproof vans and a fully secured perimeter. It's so boring, Forsythe. I sneaked out of the Natural History Museum while the guide was describing the life cycle of Mamenchisaurus, and walked out into the city. I talked to people. I had dinner with a family last night, they were wonderful. They have a son, DeJohn, but he doesn't live with them because he has a problem about drugs?"

 

"He has a drug problem—"

 

"Yes, that's it, a 'drug problem'. So I asked around. DeJohn is upstairs with a 'prostitute'. They ingest the cocaine and then mate; apparently the pleasure is heightened. Which I have no trouble believing." He snorted another line with a disturbingly agile nasal proboscis. "They're not that hard to find, the drugs. They're wonderful. Well, cocaine is. I didn't like 'pot'. It's the inhalation of smoke, it was uncomfortable."

 

"From what I understand it can be baked into brownies."

 

The alien stopped what he was doing and regarded Forsythe. "Canit?" He called to the other room, "Teo! Teo, my friend, do you know how to bake brownies?"

 

The tattooed man answered, "Naw man, but Rosita does. She'll be home at ten, man, if you wanna wait."

 

Forsythe pressed, "You don't need pot brownies, Tyndagoloh. You need to come back to the Embassy and let the Polixaci doctors have a thorough look at you."

 

"Why?"

 

"Well, because cocaine is verybad for you. It's very bad for humans, in large amounts like this, and we have no idea what the cumulative effect would be for someone of your race."

 

"Teo didn't say anything about any of that—"

 

"He's a drug dealer, Tyndagoloh."

 

"Oh, I know. Apparently he's very well regarded in the area. I gave him what DeJohn said was a very large amount of local currency, and in return I can have as much cocaine as I want. I'm enjoying it verymuch so far."

 

"Drug dealers are not exactly trustworthy, Tyndagoloh. I wouldn't have set foot in here without having half the NYPD right outside. You're not safe here even without all the drugs which, if you continue to ingest them at this rate, may cause one of your hearts to explode."

 

The alien paused, his eye stalks regarding the mountain of white powder on the table. "Oh, dear. That could be serious. Especially if it were the bottom one, it's closer to the brain—"

 

"Yes, exactly. So, if we can go to the Embassy, we can make sure that doesn't become a problem."

 

"Well, if you say so." The alien put down his straw, got up, and strode from the kitchen into the living room, leaving Forsythe to scramble after him.

 

"Teo! Teo, my friend, I must go..." By the time Forsythe made it into the living room, the alien had thrown his triple-jointed arms around the tattooed man and was genially squeezing him.

 

Teo, frozen, gathered enough composure to say, "Hey, all right, no problem, homes."

 

"And give Rosita my love!"

 

"...Yeah, yeah, all right, I'll be sure and do that, homes."

 

Tyndagoloh released the drug dealer and headed for the front door, while Forsythe added, "The United Nations thanks you for your co-operation."

 

"Yeah, anytime, bro."

 

Outside, the heavily armored police had visibly relaxed once the Shchinwhee visitor had emerged unharmed. He was being ushered into a bullet-proof UN van for transport back to the Polixaci Embassy.

 

"Any problems," one of the cops asked Forsythe as he stepped from the lawn onto the sidewalk.

 

"None. Very cooperative. Model citizen, in fact, Sergeant. Very 'Better Homes & Gardens' in there."

 

"Yeah, sure. Should we take them down anyway, while we're here?"

 

"I think tomorrow will be soon enough, Sergeant. Especially as the United Nations gave its word—"

 

"To a drug dealer."

 

"Nevertheless. One does want one's word to mean something, especially in this day and age. Had the... homeowner... not believed me, the Ambassador's son might have been in real danger."

 

The officer shrugged. "Whatever you say, Mister Forsythe. My orders are to defer to you." He signaled to the others, and yelled, "Mount up! Back to base!"

 

Forsythe climbed into the van with Tyndagoloh, who was fast asleep. "Unbelievable."

SF Drabble #360 “Criteria”

On the ride up to the Liner in the lander, they sat her next to a ten-foot-tall being with vaguely reptilian features that smelled like strawberries. She wondered if it was a natural scent or some sort of perfume, but decided there was no way to politely ask an alien, “Why do you smell like that?”

He was very polite. He had enjoyed visiting earth, apparently. A lot of good food, and he loved the very tall buildings. He wanted to know where she was going. “Gwolb? No, no, go not Gwolb. Live underground, the Gwolbang. No tall buildings. Boring.”

SF Drabble #354 “No Reservations”

The diner had fallen silent. The hostess turned around, looked up, and almost jumped out of her skin.

The alien said, “I would like to eat at your establishment.” It held up a debit card between three furry fingers. “I have local currency.”

“Umm… okay.” She led the creature to an empty booth, and handed him a menu. She asked, “Can you read? English, I mean?”

“Unfortunately no. If it is read aloud my Ident disc will translate. It might be more convenient for your kitchen to prepare a tasting menu.”

“Okay. Umm… let me see if we do that…”

SF Drabble #347 “Exceptionalism”

“What’s that?” We were in orbit of Shchinwhay, a month and a half out from Earth on a Liner that would eventually take us into the Polixaci core worlds. I pointed through the immense observation deck window to a sliver of light moving across the frost-covered pole of the planet. At this range, it must have been immense, larger even than the liner.

“A warship, Pressing Grievance, on practice maneuvers.” The Polixaci crewman answered. “We are not permitted to discuss it further than this basic information.”

“But it’s yours? Polixaci?”

It chittered profusely: peals of laughter. “Of course it is.”

SF Drabble #344 “Friktik On A Thousand Credits A Day”

“Where’s the guide? What was his name… Squifth? He was supposed to be here by second tenth.”

An alien multitude streamed past within the boundaries of brightly colored pairs of lines he had come to think of as the ‘sidewalk’, while vehicles of all sorts whizzed by only scant meters overhead. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if one of them lost power; the pedestrians didn’t seem to consider it a possibility.

“There does seem to be more traffic today. Maybe he got held up.”

“For what we’re paying, he should have brought us breakfast in bed.”

SF Drabble #343 “Assurances”

“Mr. Forsythe?” The Mayor stepped away from the lectern, and I settled in behind it.

“Good afternoon. As Mr. Reed said, My name is Alistair Forsythe, and work for the U.N. Specifically, I am Undersecretary for Alien Affairs, which means I work directly under the Secretary.”

There was some whispering from the assembled residents, and even a stifled laugh from a youngster.

“Now, what that means is, our alien visitors are my specialty. I am an expert in the field. So I can guarantee to a certainty that the alien — ‘Ricky’ — is not going to eat your children.”