Short Stories
By Scott Niven
A Mare Imbrium Wink
I’m tired and cramped and I’ve only traveled half the distance to the Earth. My ship smells like rotten zucchini, and my body reeks of food powder and overaged excrement. I can endure this environment for years, but the human in me cannot. The human requires voices and bathing and exercise.
The human requires a break.
The decision to concede to my human wishes comes easy, a comfortable glove of choice that feels more and more natural each time I try it on.
I punch a request into the computer, asking for coordinates of the nearest entertainment. Words wrap across the screen. The Nubi system, the latest system to advertise the existence of a Corndada bar, is only five hours away. Yet I hesitate. The Corndada bars have spread throughout the universe because of their ability to cater to all species. But my species, because of our peculiar habits, are often discouraged from attending such public places. I should be safe, looking as I do, but caution will be required. I adjust my flight path, dim the controls, and prepare to fall into sleep.
My dream is of my own choosing. The human in me can’t understand my ability to choose my dreams. But it’s the way of my people. We encapsulate our most vivid memories, then cycle through them while we sleep. I’ve tried dreaming the way humans do, allowing my cluttered unconscious to pick the patterns and colors for me. It never works. I always end up in complete control. Random dreaming is one thing humans can do that I cannot.
My dream begins.
In a dark place, rows of human bodies float in blackened preservation solution. The bodies bob on the surface like corks in water, limbs stiff, shoulders and toes touching and bouncing against one another. As the bodies drift into the center of the pool, pressurized waterfalls of black liquid push them beneath the solution. Slowly, they return to the surface.
“And this batch,” my teacher says, “comes from among the scientists of Earth. Great men, or, to put it more accurately, great thinking men. Highly valued. I hope at least one of you will show interest in science and choose to polymorph with one of these specimens.”
I gaze down at the swirling masses of flesh. My form is less certain than a human’s. I’m more of an idea, a puzzle of unresolved DNA waiting to happen.
My people obtained these human bodies back when we first discovered man had reached their moon. That one success, coming so early in the human stages of development, awakened a fear inside all of us. A fear that we were witnessing the birth of a new rival, a potential enemy who would rush into the universe and try to tame it with unimagined technologies.
Our fear passed quickly. After the humans set foot on their moon, their interest in cosmic expeditions deteriorated, and they began to regard the openness beyond their planet as nothing more than a strategic location for satellites. To many of my people, the failure of the humans was both a relief and a disappointment. A relief because our people were safe. A disappointment because we watched a young species reach for the stars, then watched them recoil from their success as matters on their home planet took precedence over exploration.
We now know humans have many other weaknesses. They challenge one another constantly, they duel over trivial matters, and they carry too much pride. Without homogeneity, without cooperation, they will never attain the stars.
This thought leads me to a question.
“Teacher?” I ask. “What’s the point of polymorphing with an inferior race?”
“Inferior doesn’t mean useless, Gusta-Feen. While properly motivated, humans were on course to become a great power in the universe. Their failure, due to their own pride and infighting, does not lessen their greatness. I know our people have lost interest in the humans, but at one time in the past, we wanted to be just like them. We wanted their lust and hunger to succeed, their devotion to ideas, their passion for never giving up even when the cause was hopeless. Those are still fine traits to desire in a polymorph. You just have to be aware that the bad comes with the good. Now let’s move on to the next container.”
I linger. I stare and watch bodies pop to the surface of the solution. I’m eight timespans away from sucking alien DNA into my lifestrands to give me shape. After the unification, I’ll retain my personality, but I’ll acquire fragments of the thoughts and memories of the alien. And I’ll forfeit my malleable form forever. But it’ll be worth it. It’s what my people live for.
A scientist rolls into an eddy and spins and spins, knocking into the others around him. What would it be like to be a human scientist? What obstacles must they overcome in their efforts to explore the universe? And how do they react when their efforts succeed or fail, when their life goals are achieved or relinquished?
In this moment filled with questions, I decide what I will polymorph into.
Shrill whistles wake me from my dream. I’ve arrived at the Corndada bar. Through the viewport, I see that this bar, like the others, twists into a stretched spring of purple-glowing metal, its two free ends tied and connected by a black tunnel shooting through the spring’s center. Thirty-nine different docking bays dot the loops of coil. More entrances can, and will, be added later, as the needs of new species are discovered and implemented into the bar’s design. The Corndada always plan ahead.
The oxygen-gravity entrance is spaced one-third of the way down from the top of the spring, or two-thirds of the way up from the bottom, depending on how you approach. I guide my ship into the bay and wait for permission to disembark.
This is my second visit to a Corndada bar since polymorphing into a human. The memories of that other visit scatter across my mind, confusing my perceptions of what the bar is with what the human part of me believes the bar should be. It’s the Corndada style that irks my human side. You step inside one of the bars, and your skin tingles, and all you see is sparkle. Ivory mirrors, sequined stools, and shiny Idola lovechairs. How do the Corndada keep their establishments clean when none of the bars ever close? Do they launch bacteria into the atmosphere to feed on specific undesirable debris? Or do they hire Chronoples to stop time, so grit and grim can be swept, dusted, and siphoned from beneath the frozen feet of their customers? It’s the not knowing that bothers my human tendencies. Humans need to understand this kind of thing. The knowledge would be worthless to them, but acquiring it is essential.
A Corndada guardian hologram grants me permission to leave my ship. I slide my body out of the steering capsule, orient myself to the ship’s exit, and let myself drop. I land on my feet, but my legs can’t support me. They wobble left and right before giving way and sending me crashing against the metal flooring of the bay. The loss of muscle control takes me by surprise, yet I should have remembered. I learned this lesson already. Extended flights without aerobic activity enfeeble the human body.
I stretch and bend and slap my weakened skin, trying to hasten the return of strength and feeling. When I can stand, I follow the purple neon signs to the bar.
The human in me is overwhelmed. Words, laughter, groans, twitters, ringing, and musical chimes surge through the room, loudening and softening in random pockets of noise. Various oxygen-gravity creatures mingle everywhere, grouped in ones or twos or threes, drinking at the bars or tables, searching for their fun. Above the crowd, the translucent Comm balls glide quietly back and forth, darting between speakers, translating all dialogue into common Langua.
I scan the room with eyes that see two viewpoints. The human in me sees possible companions, creatures with whom I can spend time and exchange stories. But I see differently. I see species that represent danger, and I smell scents that might bring trouble.
The path I choose merges these two viewpoints together. I step away from the entrance, the bar surrounds me with its flavor, and my search for conversation begins.
Several bubble-skinned nomads of Yinka sit at nearby tables, each by himself, each cloaked in long garments that jingle with the slightest movement of the wearer. Beneath the robes are riches beyond some species wildest speculations. But I can’t approach the nomads. I have nothing to barter, so they’d ignore my attempts at conversation.
I penetrate further into the bar. The harsh vapor women of Nebunia float around the Idola lovechairs, teasing the current occupants of the chairs with promises of unending ecstasy. But speaking to the vapor women always costs. The cost is never apparent at first, but in the end, you learn you probably can’t afford it.
An empty table catches my eye and I move toward it. The solitude won’t please my human side, but I don’t see a suitable companion, and my legs are weary of walking.
Pleasing my human desire for companionship, of course, has always been a problem.
Celia and I stroll along the Jersey boardwalk. We’ve spent our gambling money, and we’ve decided to walk outside to enjoy the ocean breeze and the surprisingly warm November night.
We pause at a railing and lean against it. Celia wraps an arm across my back and points a finger upward. Above, a full moon peeks down at us.
“He’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
“Ah,” I say. “You see the moon as a male.”
“Not the moon itself, Gus. The man in the moon.”
I whisper a kiss into Celia’s hair and stare at the sky. The information is waiting, hiding inside me, ready to use. I feel around for the right sense of what to say, for the words that’ll let me express a small portion of my knowledge of the moon in a phrase Celia will understand.
“The moon man favors us tonight,” I say.
“How do you know?”
“Legend says that if it’s misty or cloudy or foggy, the moon man’s turning his face away from the Earth. But tonight he’s in clear view. Everything’s perfect.”
Celia’s cheek rubs against my shoulder. “When I was little, daddy used to take me outside to watch eclipses. We would see the face in the moon, and then we wouldn’t, and then we would again. Daddy used to say that when the moon was half-full, it was winking at me, because that’s when its left eye disappears. A Mare Imbrium wink, he called it.”
The story makes her smile, so I’m glad she told it. Her words brought us closer together, and though romance is something foreign to my people, the concept of sharing to create intimacy is not.
We spend the next few hours walking up and down the boardwalk, watching the moon man slip across the sky while his shadow trails him in a path of silver through the ocean. Celia and I kiss sometimes, and other times we hold hands, but mostly we walk and appreciate the night for the gamble it is.
I sit alone in the Corndada bar for as long as possible, nursing a single Tossi crystal until nothing is left in the bowl but green foam. The human in me grows impatient, and begs for companionship, and finally wears me down with persistence. I leave the table and walk toward the Idola lovechairs, knowing the caresses and touches will be illusion, but hoping the experience will soothe my human side into silence.
“Like some loracca, my friend?”
I turn at the voice and find a Flanx staring at me, offering me an unused nose pipe and a sealed bag of loracca. The Flanx, a large boulder of a creature, enormous and wide, sits in a chair, lessening his height, and yet still he peers down at me. Caution warns me off: Flanx can be tricky, and they’re considered one of the most powerful species in existence. They can survive in each of the thirty-nine Corndada barrooms without difficulty. They’re capable of anything.
My caution goes unheeded as the human in me responds to the Flanx without thought to consequence. “I don’t need any loracca, thanks. I’ve had all the brilliant insights I need in my life already.”
“Oh, have you now?” The Flanx grins. “And what species are you, to be so enlightened?”
“Human,” I say.
“Lo and behold, a human. From Earth, right?”
I nod.
The Flanx chuckles. “I don’t think so, my friend. Come. Sit down, have some loracca, and tell me your true story.”
“You don’t acknowledge my humanity?”
“Only because your disguise is ill-timed. Humans haven’t escaped their birth planet and moon, let alone their system.”
“So how can I be here,” I ask, “if we’ve not accomplished what you claim?”
“Because you’re not human,” the Flanx says.
“What do you think I am?”
“I think you’re a Shivver in disguise, and I think the human inside you made you come to this bar.”
“Nonsense.” As I speak the word, I realize I’m throwing myself deeper and deeper into a lie. But fooling this Flanx seems important. A part of me wants to see how perfect a human I can be.
“You pose a thorny problem,” the Flanx says. “A Shivver disguised is no longer a Shivver, or so the saying goes. How can you prove you’re telling the truth?”
“The burden of proof’s on you, not me. I’m what I claim.”
“Spoken like a true scientist. Are you? A man of science?”
Fiery adrenaline spears through me, forcing me to continue this sparring contest of verbal wit and intellect. “You’re good with insights, Flanx. Yes, I’m a scientist.”
The Flanx stands. His rocky bulk towers above me by a full meter. “Please.” He points to the table. “You’ve captured my interest. Take a seat, and let this mystery continue.”
Never trust a Flanx, they say. But I see no harm in this, and he can’t get inside me to prove his theory.
I sit in one chair, he sits in the other.
“I am Grixana,” he says.
“I’m Gus.” Then I remember that humans often use last names. “Gus Landry.”
“So, Gus. You claim to be a scientist.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re good with numbers?”
“Of course.”
Grixana smiles. “Then how about a little wager?”
“Your reputation forces me to decline.”
“Reputation? I had no idea you humans knew of my species.”
“Only rumors,” I say. “Stories of a powerful race that loves to gamble, but that only make bets when they know they’ll win. Go ahead. Explain your wager. But I’ll tell you now, I’m not interested.”
“Very well.” Grixana leans across the table. “I’ll ask you a question. A riddle, one that a human of science and learning should have no trouble deciphering. If you can’t answer my question, I’ll take something of value from you. If you do answer it, you take something of value from me. I’ve got a Silva skin right here, if you want it. Fair?”
The Silva skins of the Flanx are valued throughout the universe for their ability to regrow layer after layer of fur. One of those skins, sold to the right member of my people, would buy me enough time credit to live out the remainder of my life on Earth. I could marry Celia, we could have children, and I could watch my family grow old without worrying about when our time together would end.
Yet I hesitate. This is a Flanx. Though they’re honest, trickery is their trademark. The odds of me actually winning the prize he offers are small.
Grixana stares at my face, perhaps reading me, and smiles. “To make the wager more enticing, I concede my half of the bet. You can take the Silva skin now, regardless of the outcome. But if you lose, I still get whatever I want. Here. The skin is yours.”
Grixana shoves one of the brown constantly-growing furs across the table. My fingers swim through its softness. The skin is without price, and as my grip tightens around it, I realize how close I am to accepting the wager.
“What is it you want if I lose?” I ask.
“Of a human? It’ll have to be something a human deems valuable, won’t it? But what is it your people value? Other people, of course, but I don’t want a human. An object then. Something important to you. Something familiar.” Grixana snaps his fingers. The friction crackles toward me. “Yes, I know what I want. Do we have a deal?”
“Not until you tell me what you’ll win.”
“Please.” Grixana waves a hand through the air. “If you’ve truly heard rumors of the Flanx, then you know it’s our custom not to reveal our desires, but to take what we win quietly, without flaunting the winnings in front of the loser. If you win, I tell. Otherwise I stay silent. Deal?”
As long as Grixana doesn’t intend to take a life from Earth, I can abide by his terms. At worst he wants my ship. And the Silva skin can buy me a hundred more just like it.
“All right,” I say. “We’ve got a deal.”
Grixana grins. “Wonderful, my friend.”
His tone of voice makes me pause. Once again, I’ve taken a gamble based on emotion rather than intellect.
“Sorry Gus, but I’m not buying it. You’re about the furthest thing from an alien I’ve ever met. Have you been watching too many alien abduction tv shows?”
I shake my head. Though I anticipated Celia’s doubt, I don’t have a convenient way to alleviate it.
“Many species of aliens have visited this planet,” I tell her, “but none have made their appearance known on a global scale. Your doubt is understandable.”
“Dear, this is a side of you I’ve never seen. Don’t tell me I’ve spent the last four months falling for someone who believes in UFOs.”
I reach forward and caress her cheek. As always, the softness of her skin surprises me. Human females possess an amazing ability to appear both vulnerable and alluring at the same time.
“I can’t easily prove what I say. Once my species polymorphs with a human, the procedure is final. However, if you can take a few days off from work, I’ll show you my ship.”
“Your...ship?”
We spend the next day driving into the Appalachian mountains, then hiking to the location where I’ve hidden my ship. Her reaction is predicable. Once she realizes I spoke the truth, and once she understands and believes what I am, she decides she wants nothing more to do with me.
Over the next several months, I focus on my work, ignoring the sense of loss the human side of me feels for Celia. I made a mistake. I’ll only be on this planet for another six years, and should have kept my secret to myself.
But the situation was unusual. For the first time, both the human in me and the Shivver in me wanted the same thing. We wanted to reveal ourselves to this woman, wanted to establish a bond of trust. Establishing trust, the human side assures me, is essential in all successful human relationships.
Time passes, and my work continues. Then, on a rainy day in June, someone knocks on my door. I open the door to find Celia standing outside, crying.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “You can be an alien from the center of the universe for all I care. It just doesn’t matter.”
I wrap my arms around her and we hug. Then I pull her inside and we talk for the first time in months.
Grixana whistles, and a Corndada rodent appears by his side. The rodent is small and whiskery and peers up at us with black wax eyes.
“A drink, my friend?” Grixana asks in my direction.
“Not for me,” I say. “Not until after the wager.”
“Very well.” Grixana spouts his order. The rodent vanishes, then reappears with a crystal glass of sand. Grixana takes hold of the glass and tilts it, and I watch the grains of white and brown disappear in a sifting stream down his chasm throat. The sight reminds my human side of an hourglass, of time rushing away to someplace else.
“When you’re ready,” Grixana says, “we’ll begin.”
I turn my thoughts to science. Calculus equations, chemistry formulas, and physics symbols dance through my head, parading in swift lines of numerical knowledge. The human mind enjoys this type of workout. It wraps itself around trivial facts, squeezes them into its cerebrum, and never lets them go.
“I’m ready,” I say. “Ask your riddle.”
The last of the sand vanishes into Grixana with a loud gurgle. He wipes a hand across his lips, then booms his question toward me in strong baritone. “Tell me, Gus. What follows next in this sequence: seven, fifteen, thirty-three, fifty-one.”
Algebraic equations whiz through my head. Patterns of even numbers and odd numbers, prime and non-prime, squares, roots, multiples. Base two, base eight, base ten.
Five minutes pass and I haven’t guessed the answer. I move my thoughts in a different direction. Atomic weights. Freezing points, boiling points. Angles of polygons. Theorems and proofs.
Grixana stares at me with the hungry yet patient look of a black hole that can wait for all of eternity before swallowing the stars.
I close my eyes and watch historical data tumble through my mind. Dates of major discoveries, times of mathematical note, years of major scientific revolutions.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.
“Grixana, you’ve given me an unfair riddle.”
The Flanx looks to the ceiling and laughs. “No, the riddle isn’t unfair. You’re merely blind to the solution. Do you give up?”
“No.” Street addresses, Morse code, phone numbers, and sports scores circle through me, twirling among the numbers seven, fifteen, thirty-three, and fifty-one. Nothing fits. I review mathematical formulas for a second time. A third.
Fifty minutes pass.
“When will you admit you’ve lost?” Grixana asks.
“You know I’ll never admit that.”
“I also know you’ll never guess the answer. Already your human traits have shown themselves, and yet other traits that should be present aren’t so apparent. You’re a Shivver, and I’ve won our bet.”
DNA structures, leap year formulas, life spans of mammals. So much information hidden inside me, yet none of it assembled in a manner that’ll help.
Seventy-five minutes pass.
One hundred.
Grixana stands. “I can’t wait forever to hear you acknowledge defeat. But you did lose, and I’ll take what I claimed in the bet.”
“Wait.” I jump to my feet. “Tell me the answer. I need to know.”
“That’s the problem. You should know. The riddle should be easy for a human scientist to solve.”
I stand in front of Grixana and block his path. He can hurl me into another system if he decides he wants to move me. I do not possess the strength to stop him.
“You’re persistent.” Grixana sighs. “Very well. Let us sit, my Shivver friend. The scent of your urgency and desire for knowledge is attracting the harsh vapor women of Nebunia. I can handle them, but can you?”
I look where he points and realize the potential problem. I slide back into my chair, Grixana slides into his, and the vapor women grow bored and turn away from our table.
“The solution,” Grixana says, “is easy to explain. Are you familiar with the method humans use to organize their elements?”
“The periodic table? Of course.”
“And are you aware of the precise arrangement of this table?”
“Yes.” I feel a trap closing around me, but the trap’s made of invisible wiring, and I can’t step around it.
“Then tell me, Gus. How’s this table arranged?”
“Rows and columns of elements organized by atomic weight. But I considered atomic weights, and–”
“And if you look at this periodic table, and if you draw a vertical line that starts with the seventh element, then runs into the fifteenth, then the thirty-third and the fifty-first, what’s the next element the line will touch?”
The periodic table, extracted from human memory, appears in my mind. I follow the path Grixana describes, and discover the next element in the series.
“Eighty-three,” I say. “The answer is eighty-three.”
“I would’ve accepted bismuth as well,” Grixana says. “But you gave me neither answer, so you’ve lost the bet. The Silva skin, however, is yours.”
I rub my lips together, searching for something to say.
“You wonder what prevented you from solving the puzzle, don’t you?” Grixana laughs. “My friend, think about what you are, then think about what you wish to become. The reason for your failure is obvious.”
The spin he puts on my fate teases my curiosity. “Explain yourself, Grixana.”
“You wanted to fool me, right? You wanted me to believe you were human.”
“But I am human. I’ve become human.”
“No. You have the body of a human, and you have the mind and pride and intellect of a human, and you even have chunks of a previous human’s life experience. But the problem is, despite all the human in you, you still think like a Shivver. You couldn’t make the creative leap in logic required to see the periodic table for what it was: a piece of a larger puzzle; a puzzle of patterns and numbers.”
“No one would’ve guessed that. It’s a trick question.”
“You’re wrong. The human scientists would’ve known the answer, because to get where they are, they had to train their minds to think in all directions at once: analytically, historically, and creatively. You can’t do that. You don’t have the ability.”
“But I’ve studied Earth for decades. And I’ve lived there five years.”
“Historical and analytical details are fine, but can you take what you know and bend it in directions you haven’t already tried? No, you can’t. Shivvers steal, and adapt, and learn; humans try, and fail, and try again, this time in a new way, until they find a solution. Oh, I’m sure on Earth you’ll do fine, and become a very successful scientist. But all your work will deal with concrete evidence. You’ll never make the leaps of accidental creativity that cause a human to be great.”
I lower my eyes and stare at the table and wait for the truths to end.
“Goodbye, my friend,” Grixana sings in my ear. “Don’t feel bad. You’ve got everything it takes to mimic a human: the lust, the desires, the pride, the intellect. But you’ll never have the ability to think like one.”
Grixana’s shadow vanishes from the table. Alone, I think back to my last night with Celia, and wonder what my failed gamble might cost us.
“When will you be back?”
It’s not Celia’s question that makes me pause; it’s the temperature of her voice. She’s a woman, a human woman, and hearing the stirrings of emotion at our parting touches both the human and the Shivver within me.
“The trip will take two months,” I say. “Then I’ll return and resume my research job here in Charleston.”
Two months will be enough. In that amount of time, I can visit the Shivver homeworld, deliver my mid-term report to my superiors, and make the return trip to Earth for my final five years of research.
Celia says nothing aloud, but moves closer to me beneath the blankets. It’s a clear September night. We lie on her balcony, our bodies entwined, our relationship more comfortable, more familiar, than it was months ago when I revealed my identity to her.
We make love.
After our joining is complete, I wrap an arm about her waist and hug her against my side. Together, we gaze up at the sky. After my trip, I’ll have five uninterrupted years on Earth. Five years to be a human, to live with Celia and to explore the world with her.
Then my time on Earth will end, and I’ll be forced to leave this planet forever, taking only my research – and my memories – with me into space.
The wood planks of the bench jab at my collarbone, needling me out of my huddled position. I pull the Silva skin close against my body to ward off the strengthening wind. The skin doesn’t keep me warm.
Nothing can keep me warm.
I turn onto my side and stare through a crack in the bench. Below, a cockroach struts in a diagonal line, heading toward the nearest street. Where does he think he’s going? Does he believe there’s anyone nearby he can pester?
The roach walks several steps further, then stops. I notice a black ooze seeping from his body. Even this creature, as small as he is, suffered injury due to my error. For the hundredth time, I review the last couple of hours.
After leaving the Corndada bar, I slept through the return voyage to Earth, then awoke to find my ship hovering above a demolished forest. The walk into Charleston revealed similar destruction: upside-down vehicles, scattered power lines, and crushed buildings. I puzzled over the damage for almost an hour, walking the empty blocks near Celia’s flattened house, before asking one of the wandering survivors for an explanation. The man didn’t respond. He pointed at the night sky, whispered to himself, then limped away. I hiked several blocks further before realizing what he’d tried to tell me.
The moon was gone.
Grixana stole the moon.
Mildewed wood groans as I push myself upright. I watch a second roach discover his dead companion beside the bench. After a brief circle around his twin, he continues on, marching toward the street.
I watch the roach until he’s out of sight. He’s like me in some ways, discovering something unpleasant and yet forcing himself to move on. The results of my wager, though painful, are fair. I know that. And Grixana only did what his nature directed him to do. How can I fault him when it’s my deepest desire to someday be ruled by my own human nature?
My feet hurt and my head aches and the Silva skin is heavy upon my shoulders as I step away from the bench. Celia’s work causes her to travel. She might have been out of town. She might still be alive.
I’ll cover the ground of my new homeworld in search of her, and I’ll continue the search until I find her, or until I find proof that she no longer lives.
The search won’t make me human. But it’ll make me feel like a human.
For now, and perhaps forever, that’ll have to be enough.
End
Continue...