by Scott Azmus
“What?”
“You’ve got a live one coming in. ETA fifteen seconds.”
“Stall him.”
Trezise toggled controls beneath his desk’s littered expanse. Office walls and filing cabinets slid out of their recesses and pivoted into place. The lights shifted from red to daylight yellow. He jammed on gloves and picked up a pen, just as his door swung open.
The man was short and raggedly balding. He would have been taller, but his head hung and his shoulders drooped as if in permanent dejection. He scuffed a shoe against the back of his leg and slouched forward.
“Um, hello. I’m Jon-Philip Raghem. Have you read my submission?”
“I’d prefer to conduct all business through the postal system.”
“I was in town…”
Trezise leaned across his desk. “Business?”
Raghem squinted around at the lacquered paneling. “‘Hostage to Another Truth’? Did you read it?”
Trezise studied the man carefully. He had read the story. It was masterful. Such a pity. “I regret that your manuscript does not meet our present editorial requirements—”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Trezise pulled a limp sheaf of twenty pound bond from a red-tabbed folder. The tab read, “Monitor closely.”
“Relax. Your story moves well, but the underlying premise doesn’t wash. The idea that aliens are sampling the slush piles of the publishing industry—”
“Just science fiction.”
“—is ludicrous. I admit I find your conjecture intriguing. However—and I must be blunt—I’ve seen something similar elsewhere.”
“My ideas are my own!”
“Absolutely, absolutely…I’m just saying this is old stuff. This kind of speculation went out in the early Seventies.”
He shuffled to Raghem’s cover letter, thumbed down the margin, and flicked the page. “Here it is. ‘The alien intelligence web reads unpublished stories for comparison with actual events or advanced technology. If correlation is low, the story gets to the real editors. If high, it is rejected.’”
“Or the manuscript completely disappears. Sometimes the author does, too. I can document—”
“Mister Raghem, don’t you see how implausible this sounds? Our subscribers won’t read past the first few lines. Why, these aliens would have to have hundreds of editors in their employ. They would have to have rejection slips from every publisher….”
Raghem laced his fingers and pressed them under his chin. “But this is really happening.”
“Exotic Press is a fiction house, Mister Raghem.”
Raghem’s lips curled with his frown. “I guess I should have listened to my writing instructor. She tried to warn me that no matter how interesting the truth is, if it’s not logical, no one will publish it.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I notice in your cover letter that you also write children’s stories?”
“A few.”
“Good, good. Perhaps you should stick to that.”
“No. I don’t care if I get a hundred rejections. I’m going to keep writing science fiction, no matter what.”
Trezise flashed his front row of bright, angular teeth. “Perhaps, I have been somewhat hasty. Your writing does show some promise.” He pressed the thin manuscript back into the folder. “But, next time, please wait for our reply before visiting.”
“Don’t call us; we’ll call you. Right?”
“Precisely.”
“Well, I’d sure appreciate a second look.” Raghem rubbed a hand down his face and reluctantly—obviously very reluctantly—backed toward the door. “Farewell, Mister Trezise.”
“Good-bye.”
The door sealed and the lights dimmed to a cool red. Trezise tabbed his intercom. “No luck. I couldn’t talk him into changing genres. Pick him up. Make it neat. Usual routine.”
“Family, too? His wife proofreads his stuff.”
Trezise glanced at the cover letter again. “Yes, dammit. I suppose so.”
He silenced the intercom and lifted the latest issue of Galaxy. He studied the cover—a reasonably accurate depiction of his homeworld—and hurled the magazine at the wall.
“Damn! Not again.” He yanked off a glove and strummed his three spidery, tuft knuckled digits. “I’ve got to get funding for more reinforcements!”
Preface: Egging
This story appeared in the Fall/Winter 1998 issue of Greg Meronek’s Little Green Men. I’m not completely sure what inspired the story’s plotline, except to say that I grew up in a lot of extremely small towns without much of anything to do. I actually went to 18 different schools between first grade and high school graduation. I only know that figure because the FBI had to certify as much as part of my clearance package to become a Navy officer. A few times in my teens, there weren’t any adults to be found in any proximity and I was actually even “head of household.”
At the time, my brother and sister and I also had a lot of different quasi-stepfather and -stepmother figures in our lives…few of whom showed tons of moral fiber. While I do not recall any “incidents” involving aliens from outer space, I do remember hearing about similar “egging” events, but with rotting apples (Sebastopol, California) and cow pies (Petaluma, California).
Greg Meronek needed a story with alien visitors. He didn’t need one with cow pies.
Egging
I was halfway to the row of busted gas pumps, when one of the shadows broke off and waddled forward. His skin was finely pebbled except around the many joints where it was smooth and papery like used-up sandpaper. He had plump, powerful-looking thighs and big, snowshoe feet. He might have reminded me of a kangaroo or a really big rabbit if it weren’t for the four hands. Just looking at them made me feel creepy inside. They were all black and leathery like a monkey’s hands, only with eight thin fingers. Each hand looked like a big, nasty tarantula with each “leg” coming to a cruel, black point like the business end of a freshly-sharpened pencil.
I wanted to look away. I wanted to run. I tried to get my feet moving, but they weren’t listening. I guess that was a good thing, though; because if Dan was ever going to be my friend again, I couldn’t afford to let him down.
“Bro’der?” the alien sort of hummed.
That almost got my feet moving. Even after all the science fiction I’d read, I hadn’t really expected him to say anything. Nothing I’d understand anyway. When I realized that he might have meant “brother,” I just about freaked. Dan was my big brother.
Are you reading my mind? What do you want? Why are you here?
That’s when I got the feeling he was thinking the same stuff about me. Somewhere behind those grape-green eyes, he was wondering if he should run, too. I held out the old VCR Dan and I’d scrounged. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. Promise.”
Bunny ears swiveled to the truck and his arms flexed like a set of enchanted garden hoses. As his nails brushed over the battered chassis, they made little chalkboard shrieks. Goosebumps raced up my arms.
“Tangss,” he said while stroking a row of tiny LEDs. “Lige deess.” His breath smelled tart like green bananas or mom’s yogurt.
“You’re...um, you’re welcome.” He really liked it. I could feel it.
After I’d delivered the radio, the popcorn popper, and an old microwave without a door or cord, he asked, “No eggss deess dime?”
Eggs this time? I nodded. I smiled. “Oh, yeah. Lots. I’ll get them.”
When I got back to the truck, Berg propped an elbow on Kiefer’s shoulder. “You’re welcome? You told that thing it was welcome?”
“So?”
“Idiot.”
I was about to say something original like, “Takes one to know one,” when Dan dropped from the tailgate and shot me a warning look. While he stacked the egg flats, Kiefer waddled the gutter, snaking his arms up and down. “Thangs, earthlig,” he said, all nasal-like. “Tage me to your leader. Tage me or I’ll gill, grush, destroy!”
Berg laughed so hard, I thought he’d choke when he pulled a pint bottle from his pocket and drank like I guess he thought an alien would. When he was through, he offered the bottle around. Kiefer drank thirstily, but Dan didn’t look interested. That was good. Before Berg got his truck—an ancient Toyota longbed, big deal—Dan and I used to be best friends. After the truck, he started acting like he was too good, too “mature,” to notice me. It was nice to see that he wasn’t completely lost to peer pressure. Besides, dad drank the same brand and we both had the scars to prove it.
After depositing the last egg flat, Dan came over and nodded past a dangling Self-Serve sign. “Remember that meteor shower couple’a weeks back? The one you were so jazzed about? That was the first night we saw ‘em.”
“How many?”
“Ten, twenty, who knows? Call themselves ‘Bresla.’”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Even in the darkness, I caught his shrug. I hated him for it. Loyalty to his friends was one thing, but he knew I loved aliens. I’d covered half our room with science fiction posters. My bunk, plastered all around with watercolors of my favorites, was practically a shrine. LeGuin’s Athsheans, Butler’s Oankali, Piper’s Fuzzies....
He should have told me. “And they like eggs?” I asked.
Berg spiked the bottle to the pavement and cut in front of Dan. Alcohol fumes shimmered between us as he spoke. “Course they do. They love eggs.”
I could tell he was messing with me, but how? I mean, did the “Bresla” eat the eggs? Maybe they implanted them with their young? Or maybe they worshipped—
Kiefer elbowed me in the ribs and pushed a half flat of grade A’s at me. “Better load up.”
“Damn straight,” Berg said. “It’s show time!” He curled his fingers around an egg, cocked it back to his ear, and lifted his other arm toward the Bresla.
Dan licked a fingertip and held it as if checking wind direction. “Look at it this way; the Bresla must need all that junk for something. Why else would he let us do this?”
My guts went all watery, then knotted. The Bresla hadn’t done anything to us. And I’d promised. “You can’t. It’s wrong! I mean, Jeez Louise, he’s like a guest here. You know what mom says about treating guests right. Why not just give him what he needs?”
“Shut up!” Berg snarled as he and Kiefer hurled their first eggs. Dan just shrugged, turned, and sped his first egg to target.
The eggs hit hard and blew into gushing swaths of yellow muck. Berg quickly got the Bresla’s range and, rapid-fire, stayed on him. Kiefer lobbed his eggs high and whistled as they came down. He wasn’t too accurate, but seemed to enjoy the sound effects. Dan wound up each throw like a major-league pitcher. His first change-up caught the Bresla full in the face. The shell burst with a sickening crunch and globs of mucousy ooze spattered the gas pumps. Silver strands drifted like filaments of molten glass.
When he connected again, I realized that the Bresla was screaming. Not out loud, but deep inside. Every impact brought a renewed cry. I could feel it. It was horrible.
“Dan!” I grabbed him. “Stop!”
He shoved me back. “Stop screwin’ with my aim! And throw, will you? I told you, we paid for this!” He reloaded and quickly began emptying his hands. “Fastball, inside corner. Steee’rike! The count moves to oh and two. Runners tag. Catcher calls for Weber’s fork ball....”
I staggered back until I came up against the truck. What was wrong with Dan? There was a pull to the Bresla he had to feel. It was the same yearning I felt when I gazed up at the stars. They never failed to stir a certain awesome respect. It was the same with the Bresla. He tore at my heart; I wanted to know more.
I watched Dan throw again and saw a familiar look cross his face. He couldn’t be like dad, could he? We’d always promised each other that we wouldn’t be like him. Wouldn’t grow up mean and get our kicks from slapping people around.
But what about that grin? If he was going to be like dad, what about me?
Tears rushed at me. Waves of shame surged out from somewhere inside. Dan and dad and all the Bergs in the world were going to ruin everything. I dropped my eggs in the gutter and stomped them. I stomped them, and all the other eggs, until I couldn’t see them any more. Until I couldn’t feel their shells crunching under my feet.
When Berg’s last egg finally hit and the Bresla moved off, a heavy loneliness settled on me. Like a real bad case of homesickness. Like I hadn’t seen mom, or even Dan, in a really long time.
I was about to call out an apology, when Berg’s grasp closed on my throat. He lifted me to the Toyota’s hood and shoved a dripping egg flat in my face. “Bad enough you don’t want to throw; you didn’t have to ruin the rest of the eggs! What is it with you? Too damn good for us?”
“Yeah, I’m insulted,” Kiefer laughed. “Real let down.”
“Damn right,” Berg said with a laugh that explained why he’d agreed to let me tag along.
“Come on, Berg, lay off,” Dan said. “He didn’t know.”
Berg’s face lit up like he’d actually had an original thought. He pushed me aside and advanced on Dan. “That’s right. He’s your stinking baby brother. You talked us into bringing him along.”
“Look, Berg, I’m sorry.”
I rolled off the hood. “Dan, don’t kiss up to this jerk!”
Dan stared at Berg’s fist. His hands came part-way up and he took a step back. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll even—”
Berg’s flashing backhand cut him off. Blood gushed from his mouth. He weaved, but stayed up as Berg hit him again. “Not bad, Weber.” He shook a set of brass knuckles. “Want another?”
I rushed Berg from behind, but Kiefer threw a solid leg block at me. Next thing I knew, my head was ringing and my spine was up against one of the gas pumps.
Dan wasn’t doing much better. By backpedaling he’d mostly stayed ahead of Berg’s jabs, but he was out of running room. As Dan crowded the Unleaded pump, Berg grinned, big time. He grabbed Dan’s shirt, snugged the brass knuckles and cocked his fist back.
Violent jangling and an angry, tomcat sort of wail came out of the darkness. Berg’s arm froze in mid-punch. The wail got louder and louder.
“Hell with this,” Berg said. He pushed Dan at me and made a break for the Toyota. After struggling into the driver’s seat, he flashed on the single headlight, then the brights.
Behind the nearby chain-link fence—torn apart like so much wiry lace—stood the Bresla. Not just the one we’d egged, but hundreds. All sizes. They yanked the fence back and forth like they were trying to rip it out of the ground.
Berg hammered the horn and the engine roared. Kiefer dove through the open passenger window.
“What about Dan?”
“Screw him!”
The transmission shrieked, bald Michelins spun, and the rear end fishtailed toward us. I dropped into the space between the pumps, but there wasn’t anywhere for Dan to go. The tailgate slapped him against the pump, then—Wham!—sent him flying as it followed through.
Smack-grind! Sparks riddled me like a zillion bee stings as the fender gouged across the pump. I couldn’t see Dan through the cloud of exhaust and burnt rubber, but I heard his face smack the pavement. It sounded like Bo Jackson ripping an overripe melon for extra bases.
When I got to him, he didn’t look good. Part of that might have been an effect of the station’s yellowed fluorescents, but not much. His face was covered with blood and his eyes were swelling shut. His jaw just sort of hung there, all crooked.
“Dan? Hey, Dan.”
The only sound was the thump-thunk-thump of moths beating their brains against the lights. After deciding he was breathing okay and done bleeding, I snagged an empty box, crumpled it into a wedge, and tucked it under his head.
“Dan?”
He gave a low whimper, but then folded his legs up to his belly.
That wasn’t right. He was supposed to open his eyes and tell me what a sorry sight I was or something
. He didn’t even blink.
Now what? I checked the Timex grandpa gave me when he died. The crystal was smashed and the band was scoured all silver. It read 1:08 a.m., but the seconds digits flashed, 14, 14, 14…
Somewhere in all those fourteens, the breeze shifted from the stench of rotting tires to the tart smell of the Bresla. It was coming from somewhere beyond the chain-link.
I looked at Dan again. Or tried to. Instead, I found myself crumpling the cardboard and bending the flaps so I wouldn’t have to. Looking at him made me feel like it was my face that was smashed. My world that was probably ruined. I mean, people weren’t going to treat him like a real person anymore. They’d ignore him, pretend they didn’t see him. The same way they’d ignored grandpa after his stroke.
Out of the darkness I heard, “Bro’der,” and, “Sspejel?”
I never thought of Dan as “special,” but I wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Hello? I could really use some help here.”
“Bro’der?” the voice repeated.
“Yeah, brother. He’s hurt.”
I didn’t even wait to wonder why the Bresla might help us after what we did. Instead I trotted to the fence and listened.
“Bro’der.”
My eyes weren’t used to the dark yet, but I had to be close. Careful not to hit my aching ribs, I laced my fingers in the torn mesh and ducked through. Bad idea. I weaved dizzily and had to brace myself, hands on knees.
When I looked up, I was staring into what had to be the Bresla camp. There were more Bresla than I could count, drifting silently against themselves. It was weird to see them, because they were all doing people stuff. Some were welding our microwave to a huge football-shaped thing that reminded me of mom’s old Christmas ornaments. Others washed clothes in big steel drums. A few cranked a roasting spit over a hissing fire. It smelled great, but after realizing what the city’s nearest “game” might be, I wasn’t interested.
Off to the side, I even saw a couple Bresla chasing little bushy things that had to be their kids. When one of them noticed me, everything stopped at once. Everything. Even the braids of smoke from their fire seemed to hang against the stars.