Next up was Xkinth, whose species are known for their knack for linguistics. If anyone could figure out the markings on the obelisk, it would be him.
“I did my best to translate the writing on the obelisk and came to a conclusion that it is nonsense,” said Xkinth to my relief. “The placing pattern and a lack of repeating characters suggest that the builders were trying to evoke an image of an unfamiliar language rather than using a real one to communicate information. Since the writing is fake, I must assume that the entire object is a work of art, created for purely aesthetic purposes and not practical ones. This would explain both its prominent placement and its singular nature.”
“Not bad,” said Professor Quilp, his expression not betraying whether he agreed with this theory or simply found the explanation plausible. It was my turn next.
“I ported around and found a number of structures that do not fit in with anything else we’ve seen on this planet,” I said. “Most of them lack any obvious utility, yet are clearly designed to look visually impressive. Therefore, I would agree with the art hypothesis but build on it to suggest that this entire area is an outdoor museum or an experimental zone of some sort, where natives would come specifically to view the unusual structures as some form of entertainment.”
“I like that you showed initiative by exploring beyond the immediate area,” nodded Professor Quilp. “What else have we got?”
Q’orr, a gray-feathered member of an avian species, was the odds on favorite. He seemed to excel at every class he took, and was the most dangerous rival by far. He confidently laid out his theory.
“There are many clues here to suggest that these aliens lived in a highly commercialized culture,” he said. “As such, I find it difficult to believe they’d produce such large and expensive works of art for aesthetic reasons alone. Financial gain had to play a major role. I found some images and other small artifacts among the ruins to suggest that these people acted out stories and recorded them for entertainment. My solution to this puzzle is that the obelisk and other outlandish structures are merely props that were used in production of these recordings.”
Both of my hearts sunk as we listened to Q’orr outline in detail the facts supporting his theory. My dream of interning for Quilp was slipping away. Q’orr finished laying out his explanation and triumphantly looked down his beak at the rest of the students.
“Your theory matches the conclusions reached by the xenoarchaeologists who discovered this planet,” said Professor Quilp. “In fact, it matches them a little too precisely.”
Professor Quilp reached into his breast pocket. “You’ve done very well on your tests, Q’orr, and while I’d like nothing better than to attribute that to my superior teaching techniques, I grew somewhat suspicious.” He took out a small device which we instantly recognized to be a telepathy detector. Its indicator was flashing yellow, activated by an illicit mind reading.
“You’ve been fishing out the answers from my thoughts, and the thoughts of other professors. We needed you to use telepathy in an area almost entirely devoid of life to prove it, and setting up this field trip presented a perfect opportunity.”
With a terrified squawk, Q’orr dashed away from the group and disappeared into his own portal. I was pretty sure we would not be seeing him again; reading thoughts isn’t just cheating, it is also a serious crime in our culture.
Professor Quilp watched him go, and then turned to the rest of us. “I apologize for the ruse,” he said, “but the truth is, there is no intern position opening in my department at the moment. I will, however, consider your performance as earning you all extra credit toward your grades this semester.” With those words he was gone, undoubtedly to report his findings to the dean.
One by one, the other students ported back to the academy. I stood there a little while longer, and stared at the obelisk. Although Professor Quilp had made it clear that the official explanation of its origins was the one described by Q’orr, I still kind of liked my own theory better. Perhaps I might return to this planet someday and study it in more detail. If I can prove I am right, Professor Quilp will be very impressed.
My tentacles fondled a small metal sign I had picked up while porting around in search for clues. It depicted what must have been a face of a native: large circular ears, a pointy nose, and a big toothy smile. My translation device was able to read its text just fine, and while it did not mean anything to me yet, I thought it might eventually yield some clues.
Someone at the Academy must be able to tell me what a “Disney” was.
This story originally appeared in the In Situ anthology.
“The Field Trip” was one of my earlier published stories. I wrote it before I realized that most editors are somewhat allergic to the “It was Earth all along” trope, because they see entirely too much of it in the slush pile. It’s a good thing, too, because I’m pleased as punch with how this story turned out. I was going for the Douglas Adams style of humor, and you can be the judge as to whether or not I pulled that off.
This was also my first translation sale: it was published in Poland’s Nowa Fantastyka.
SUPERIOR FIREPOWER
Major Vaughn stepped forward to confront the leader of an approaching force. Behind him NATO peacekeepers blocked the path to Mount Megiddo, their M16 rifles aimed squarely at the interlopers.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the chainmail-clad brute. “You are not the enemy we are here to fight.”
“Glad to hear that,” responded Vaughn. “I would just as soon not fight against an eight foot tall guy with a battle axe.”
The giant in front of him looked like he just escaped from a Renaissance fair. No, Vaughn thought, the historic re-enactment folks dress up tidy. This guy looked battle worn, the leather of his boots frayed and cracking, the edge of his axe nicked by contact with other steel, and his bronze shield scraped by what looked like claw marks. Under his left eye there was a deep, recent gash that was just beginning to scar. And standing a bit further back were hundreds more, just like him.
“My name is Major Karl Vaughn. I am the officer in charge of securing this area. Suppose you tell me who you and your friends are, and what you are doing in the restricted zone?”
For a moment the big guy looked like he was deciding whether or not to challenge the Major’s authority. Vaughn estimated that it would take thirty seconds flat to wipe out the entire lot of the Tolkien rejects, if the situation got out of hand.
The giant relented. “I am called Salaphiel. My army is here to battle Satan’s vile hordes for control of this plane. Take your warriors and retreat, human. You do not want to be here when the hellspawn arrive.”
Years of Sunday school combined with the events of the previous week led Vaughn to an uncomfortable realization. “Are you telling me that you are an archangel, and this is the beginning of Armageddon?”
“Such terminology is used on some of the planes,” affirmed Salaphiel.
Vaughn did not grow up to be a particularly religious man, and Salaphiel sure did not look like an archangel from Bible class. Still, it explained hundreds of extra-large warriors popping out of thin air. And if they really were angels, then that would mean…
“I hate to tell you this,” said Vaughn, “but I think you are a tad late to the party.”
“Explain,” demanded Salaphiel.
“About a week ago, a horde of monsters overran Jezreel Valley in Northern Israel. Thousands of slimy, spiked creatures appeared out of nowhere, mauling people and livestock. They ran rampant for an hour or so, until the Israeli Defense Force troops got there.”
“Where are they now,” demanded Salaphiel. “Which way did they go?”
“Go? They did not go anywhere. The IDF put them down.”
Salaphiel’s eyes widened. “You and your warriors defeated the hellspawn?”
“Yes. Well, no. The Israelis did it. We came in later, as part of an international peacekeeping force. No one knew what those things were. Our a
nalysts thought they were genetically engineered animals, used as a terror weapon. The Israelis blamed the Iranians; the Syrians accused the Americans, and so on—business as usual in the Middle East. Eventually we got called in, to keep the lid on things until tempers cool down.”
“We have fought against the hellspawn countless times,” said Salaphiel gravely. “They are a tenacious and powerful enemy. Often we are victorious, yet sometimes they manage to prevail. I have never witnessed the local tribes defeating demons on their own.”
“I can’t speak to your experiences elsewhere, but it did not seem particularly difficult,” said Vaughn. “IDF hit them with air-to-ground missiles from helicopter gunships, and then had the infantry mop up. The entire incident lasted a couple of hours. There are videos of it on YouTube. Would you like to see them?”
“Yes, I would very much like to see images of your battle,” said the archangel.
Vaughn sent for a laptop. As they waited, a thought had occurred to him. “If the civilians on other worlds are as helpless against the demons as you say they are, why did you give the bad guys a week’s head start?”
“We arrived at the exact time and place preordained for this conflict,” responded Salaphiel firmly. “The hellspawn did what their kind is best at. They cheated.”
“Good thing we handled it, then. So what happens next? I seem to recall reading something about a thousand years of peace. Or is there going to be a Rapture?”
“Our job is to defeat the hellspawn,” Salaphiel sighed. “Once routed, they will not enter this plane of existence again. What happens afterward is up to your own people.
“However,” he continued, “there is a bigger problem. You meddled in the cosmic conflict between Heaven and Hell. You may have killed the demons, but Heaven was deprived of its victory on this plane. My superiors will not be pleased, and they are not known for holding back their anger.”
The archangel’s grim words hung in the air between the two commanders when the laptop arrived. Salaphiel watched in amazement as the record of human missiles and bullets ripping the demon army to shreds played out on the small screen. He asked many questions and watched many more videos—from flamethrowers in the Vietnam jungle to the mushroom cloud rising over Hiroshima.
“With weapons like these we can easily best the hellspawn across all planes,” Salaphiel said, eyeing the images of destruction hungrily. “Will you supply them to us?”
“This is well above my pay grade,” said Vaughn. “Our superiors could discuss this directly. First, we must sort out this misunderstanding. If we become allies, then our victory here could be considered your victory as well.”
Salaphiel smiled. “I am sure Heaven can be persuaded to see it this way. Ally.”
At the base of Mount Megiddo, human and angel shook hands.
This story originally appeared in Bards & Sages Quarterly.
Few of my earliest stories made it into this book, but I’m very fond of “Superior Firepower.” Humans supplying modern weaponry to the angels? Certainly sounds like something I’d write today.
LIFE AT THE LAKE’S SHORE
Fyodor clutched the glass jar pilfered from his mother’s kitchen. She would no doubt notice, and then there’d be hell to pay, but it was going to be worth it. With great care he tied a cord around the jar’s narrow opening, just like his father had taught him. He tested the cord until he was satisfied it would hold, then dipped it partially into the lake and scooped up some water. He watched the bread crumbs bloat and rise from the bottom of the jar.
“That’s a stupid way to catch fish” decreed his friend Kostya, when Fyodor let slip this part of his plan. “A jar is small. You’ll trap useless, tiny fish that are no good for eating, and that’s if you manage to catch anything at all. You should use a rod like everybody else.” Kostya was almost a year Fyodor’s senior and pretty smart, but surely he didn’t know as much as Fyodor’s dad, who’d taught him the jar trick before he went off to war. Besides, it’s not like Fyodor was planning to eat the fish, or hurt it with the sharp hook.
Fyodor cast the jar as deep as he dared into the lake and waited.
Fyodor was born on October 25, 1917. While a midwife ministered to Fyodor’s sweat-drenched mother, a ship called Aurora fired its cannon in faraway St. Petersburg to launch the assault on the Winter Palace and herald the Bolshevik revolution. His parents learned of the coincidence years later when a small troupe of soldiers calling themselves a part of the Red Army came to their village.
Fyodor was only four years old at the time and didn’t remember much, but he did remember their leader. The man had steely, unkind eyes and the brusque manner of a gendarme. He spoke with great passion about the plight of the poor, quoting from thick books and painting a rosy picture of a communist future where everyone would be equal and no one would be hungry. Many in the village were swayed. Fyodor’s father, who was hardly considered an equal by anyone and who knew hunger all too well, became an instant convert.
The Red Army men shot the richest farmer in the village and badly beat up the priest. They redistributed the land and set up a committee to run things on behalf of the new government. There was some talk of Fyodor’s father being appointed, but in the end he wasn’t. Instead, he and a few other men were recruited into the Red Army. The soldiers left to fight their enemies, and Fyodor’s father left with them. He’d been gone for an entire year now.
Every night, as Fyodor was getting ready for bed, he asked his mother for any news. She sighed and told him that his father was going to come home very soon with a chest full of medals befitting a war hero. She then leafed through a dog-eared book of Pushkin’s fairy tales, her prized possession, and read to Fyodor from it until he fell asleep.
Fyodor’s favorite was “The Tale of the Fisherman and the Fish.” It was a story about a kindly old fisherman who caught a magical golden fish in his net. The fish could talk and it begged for its life, promising the fisherman any reward he wanted in exchange for its freedom. Unwilling to harm such a being, the fisherman let it go asking for nothing in return. His wife was not so charitable—she jeered the fisherman and nagged at him until he agreed to go out to sea and ask the golden fish for a new washboard. His wish was granted, but the fishwife’s greed was not easily satiated. She kept asking for greater miracles, until finally the golden fish had had enough and withdrew all of her gifts, leaving the old couple where they started—with nothing at all.
Fyodor thought he was smarter than the fishwife. When he managed to catch the golden fish, he would not ask for riches and titles. He would not pester it with unreasonable requests. He wanted but one simple miracle.
The trick to trapping the fish, his father had taught him, was to yank the jar out of the water quickly. Once it swam into the jar to feed on the bread crumbs, the fish would not find an exit fast enough and would itself become dinner.
Fyodor pulled the cord with both hands, in a smooth motion he’d spent a few days practicing. The jar emerged, splashing some cool lake water on Fyodor’s shirt. He balanced the jar and lifted it, staring into the mix of water, bread crumbs and dirt. His heart skipped—there it was; a small fish, perhaps the size of his index finger, trapped inside.
He set the jar gently on the ground and waited for the dirt to settle so he could see the fish more clearly. He was disappointed that it wasn’t golden—but of a regular fish color. It was the lake, he told himself, and not the sea. Magical fish are different here. When he stared especially hard at the fish, he thought he spied little golden specks reflecting from its scales.
“Hello, magical fish,” he addressed the jar. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to hurt you. Honest.” He sidled up to the jar and whispered into the water. “I caught you fair and square and when I let you go, you have to fulfill my wish. I want my dad to come back home. Send him home, please?” And with that he tipped the jar over the lake’s edge, slowly spilling the water.
The fish did not have to be asked twice. It dove into the lake and disap
peared without as much as a word of thanks. Fyodor stared at the lake for a while longer, for the first time experiencing some doubt. His mother was going to punish him severely for taking the jar, and now it didn’t look as though he’d have anything to show for it.
Fyodor walked home slowly, trying to come up with some great excuse that might get him out of trouble. When he got home, the jar was the furthest thing from his mother’s mind; his father had returned.
For years, Fyodor had avoided the lake. He grew into a young man, discarding the naïve notions of Pushkin’s fairy tales along the way, but he could never discount his experience on that summer day of ‘22 as a coincidence. The malevolent power that he’d somehow tapped into exacted a steep price in exchange for fulfilling his wish.
His father had returned home a broken man. He had lost both legs on the battlefield, which in itself was a tragedy Fyodor could cope with. Worse yet, his father seemed to have lost his soul. The man who returned wasn’t at all the same person whom Fyodor remembered. He became short-tempered and crude, perpetually angry at the world. In his eyes, anyone else’s happiness was a personal affront. He drowned his sorrows in moonshine when he could afford it and settled for shouting abuse at his family when he couldn’t. Although Fyodor felt deeply ashamed at the thought, he sometimes dreamt of a better life where his father had never returned at all.
It was the fish’s fault. It must have taken offense at being captured by something as crude as a glass jar. It resented his demand for a miracle. It found a way to mock him, to give him what he had asked for in an evil and underhanded way. So he kept away from the lake and swore off any more wishes. He thought that he could never want anything in life badly enough to risk paying the sort of price the fish would exact.
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