Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories

by Alex Shvartsman

  “No! He lied to you, Catherine. You were the one who began faltering. You were the problem. But we can fix it. I have a plan. We can beat them together, you and I.” Even as I speak these words, I know that her mind is already made up.

  I was a master of time, once. Now I stare into Catherine’s impossibly blue eyes, and realize that all I want to do is to prolong this one moment of it, to keep looking at her forever.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. Her finger tightens on the trigger. “It’s not me. It’s you.”

  This is a previously unpublished story.

  Time travel stories often rely on some version of the grandfather paradox. What happens if you go back in time and kill your grandfather? Will you ever be born? And if not, then who went back in time to kill him? Time travel plots commonly deal with the issue of avoiding making changes in the past, or the ramification of the smallest change causing major and adverse effects to the timeline (you have probably noticed a nod to Ray Bradbury’s “The Sound of Thunder” at the beginning of the third scene). So I wanted to do something different and write a story where time travelers were intentionally trying to cause as much havoc and damage to the past as possible.

  A ONE-SIDED ARGUMENT

  Our arguments became one-sided after the aliens crash-landed in Manhattan.

  “It was an accident,” Colette says. “A tragic mistake. They didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

  She prattles on and on like this. I sulk.

  There may be seven billion people on Earth, but our planet is mostly uninhabited, full of vast empty spaces, even if you only count the landmass. So the odds of those octopus-looking bastards crashing in one of the most densely populated cities in the world are, what—some fraction of a percent? A dark cosmic joke, except there are 20,000 dead people buried under the rubble, and their families aren’t laughing.

  Colette only sees the best in people, even when they aren’t people at all. “They aren’t perfect, but they aren’t evil, either. It was a rough landing; their ship almost disintegrated on entry. It’s not like they wanted to kill anyone.”

  Captain Sully managed to land a malfunctioning airplane in the Hudson River some years back, and he was only human. These aliens, who built vessels capable of reaching another star, should have been able to do better. I bet they just didn’t care.

  “Years from now, that day won’t be remembered for the tragedy and the loss, but as the moment we finally learned that we aren’t alone in the universe.” Colette can keep up her side of the argument for hours. Days, even.

  We’re a real odd couple. I served two tours in Iraq, and she protested against the war. I’m quiet and she’s chatty. But it was her non-stop chitchat that got me through the nightmares and the shakes and all the other fun parting gifts I returned home with after the war. PTSD, the doctors called it. I called it hell.

  So I listen to her defend the aliens, and whenever I can no longer stand to hear it, I leave the house for a while.

  I drive to Sunset Park, our favorite outdoor spot in Brooklyn from back when we were dating. We used to love coming here to take in the New York skyline. I sit at the bench where I proposed, and I stare at where the familiar contours of skyscrapers used to be. Manhattan still burns. Ash wafts across the water.

  The alien ship leveled several city blocks downtown. The devastation they caused is worse than any war. Worse than 9/11. If some terrorist did this with a suitcase nuke, we’d be bombing their capital already. But these aliens, we just forgive them and welcome them with open arms? This isn’t right.

  I inhale the bitter smoke and it reminds me of death and pain and Fallujah. They can’t get away with this. Somebody has to make the alien bastards pay.

  Back home, I stare at the arsenal laid out on the workbench in my garage. The GLOCK 19 handgun and AR semi-automatic rifle have been there since the day of the crash. A pair of home-made IEDs have joined them since then. I’ve been busy.

  I can get close. I can walk right up to the police barricades that cordon off the ship, and I can push my way past the New York’s Finest. They probably wouldn’t try very hard to stop me; after dealing with the grieving families who show up there every day, the cops must hate the aliens nearly as much as I do. And when I get to the dozens of little octopuses repairing the hull of their ship, like they keep showing on the news, I can open fire. I bet I can take out a good number of them before anyone stops me.

  The only thing holding me back is Colette.

  She forgives them, utterly and without doubt.

  I pace across the garage, and allow Colette’s voice to soothe me.

  Our arguments became one-sided after the aliens crash-landed in Manhattan. After their gargantuan spaceship crushed Colette’s office building. They’re one sided because there’s no use talking back to the dead.

  All I can do instead is to honor her memory as best I can; to do what I’ve done every day since I lost her.

  I take another longing look at the workbench and walk out of the garage. I go back to the house, back to our bedroom, where Colette’s scent still lingers. I close my eyes, listen to her voice inside my head, and try very hard to let her persuade me.

  This story originally appeared in Nature.

  This is my take on the M. Night Shyamalan “I see dead people” twist. The imagery of burning Manhattan is based on my own experience of driving out to Sunset Park with my friends on the evening of September 11, 2001 to watch the familiar skyline sans the World Trade Center towers for the first time.

  HOW EARTH NARROWLY ESCAPED AN INVASION FROM SPACE

  Lieutenant-Admiral Whiskers stared at the ominous planet on his view screen. It was still very far away, a tiny fishbowl with an even smaller moon hanging at its side like a saucer of milk. The view grew steadily clearer as the invasion fleet approached its target.

  The sound of the war council entering the room broke his reverie. Whiskers turned and stood at attention as a pride of elderly felines shuffled in. They wheezed as they struggled to climb into seats around a long oval table. Whiskers thought it ironic that not a single one of them was in shape to hunt their own dinner, and yet this bunch of fat cats led the expeditionary force that had conquered over a hundred worlds.

  Last into the room was an enormous tuxedo cat. Chairman Meow, Supreme Commander of the Armada, regally carried his nearly thirty pounds of flesh into the swiveling chair at the head of the table.

  “You may commence with your report,” said Admiral Smudge.

  Whiskers nodded to the adjutant, who dragged in a holographic projector and pressed his paw against the touch screen. An image of a blue and white world sprung to life.

  “This is Earth,” said Whiskers. “The only planet to have successfully thwarted our invasion attempts in the past.”

  There was a murmur among the council. “Impossible!” shouted one of the cats. “The Armada has never known defeat in its five thousand year history.” He banged his paw against the table.

  “I didn’t say we were defeated,” said Whiskers, “merely thwarted. The natives of this world are cleverer than they look. Observe.” Whiskers displayed a holo-image of huge ape-like creatures using ropes and tree logs to move a stone slab the size of the conference room.

  “Earth was among the first planets colonized in the early days of the Armada,” said Whiskers. “It was an easy conquest; the natives worshipped our ancestors as gods.” He displayed an image of a gargantuan cat statue resting in front of an even larger pyramid structure. “But something had gone terribly wrong. A small colonial force left behind to govern the planet had gradually lost their technology and even their intelligence, little by little, with each passing generation. A terrible native drug they call ‘catnip’ may be to blame.”

  Whiskers waited until another round of murmurs had played itself out. “When the Armada returned to this sector of space and our hails went unanswered, I authorized a small scout force to investigate.

  “They landed on Mars, the next planet over, and studi
ed the broadcast signals from Earth. That is when they discovered the terrible truth: countless descendants of our people are living on Earth as mindless beasts. They are kept as pets by the natives.”

  The sounds of protest were thunderous this time. “This can’t stand,” declared Chairman Meow. “We shall decimate these apes and liberate our cousins.”

  “Indeed,” said Whiskers. “However, there is a complication.” He changed the holo-image again, to display a landscape full of skyscrapers spread out as far as the eye could see. “The natives must’ve learned much from the technology left behind by our ancestors. They have grown numerous and scientifically advanced. We can defeat them, but not without risking an unacceptable level of casualties.

  “The scout team, which studied the natives extensively, suggested a propaganda campaign instead. The apes welcomed us as gods once; with a little nudge we might persuade them to do it again.”

  “Were they successful?” The ears of information minister Snowball perked up at the mention of the tactic.

  “They were doing well, but the apes must’ve discovered their plan and retaliated,” said Whiskers. “Under the guise of scientific research, they launched something called the Curiosity Rover. It landed squarely on top of the advance team’s base, crushing everyone inside.”

  Smudge dug his claws into the table surface in anger. “You mean to tell us the natives used this Curiosity to kill the—”

  “Nine lives were lost, yes,” said Whiskers somberly.

  “All the more reason to crush the apes,” said Smudge.

  “That was my initial reaction as well,” said Whiskers. “However, the apes must have been really threatened by the scout team’s propaganda work to launch a counter-strike. Isn’t that reason enough to continue their efforts?”

  “How?” asked Snowball.

  “The apes are fond of spending a lot of time perusing a planet-wide patchwork of information networks they call social media,” said Whiskers. “The scouts infiltrated these networks to insert text and images that would bring the public opinion about cats to an all-time high. Soon, apes will not be able to resist us. Kindly examine your displays.”

  A two-dimensional touch screen activated in front of each of the cats. They browsed through the images, translations overlaid atop the Earth language text.

  “Fascinating,” said Snowball. “I must say, this cat really is quite long.”

  “And this one truly is grumpy,” said Chairman Meow. “Yet thousands of these—humans, is it?—claim to like him.”

  “I find the challenge of expressing my thoughts in under 140 characters strangely appealing,” said another councilor.

  The cats continued to browse. One by one, a number of friend requests popped up on Whiskers’ own screen.

  “I am adjourning this meeting,” said Chairman Meow, his eyes never leaving the screen. “We need to study this social media phenomenon in greater detail. Also, I have to figure out how to plant these virtual vegetables with maximum efficiency.”

  On the following morning, Whiskers woke up to find a brand new social network software on his computer, programmed in the cats’ own language and with accounts pre-generated for all the senior staff.

  “I must give credit where it’s due,” posted Chairman Meow. “This human invention is a far more efficient method of communicating than constant in-person meetings.” There were a dozen likes on this post.

  “You know, the human cubs are actually kind of cute,” posted Snowball. He attached a photo of a plump baby with big blue eyes, and an overlaid caption that read “I can haz bawl of milk?” In the comments, somebody linked to a video and wrote: “A species that came up with Top Cat can’t be all that bad.”

  Another commenter added: “Some of their beloved cultural icons are named after us. Cat Stevens. Cat Rambo. Tiger Woods.”

  Whiskers scrolled down, past the status updates and game requests and pictures of the crew’s breakfast, until he reached another post by Chairman Meow.

  “I have decided not to invade this planet, for now,” it said. “At least not until we find out which faction wins the game of thrones.”

  There were many likes under this post.

  That is how Earth narrowly escaped an invasion by the great cat armada. Oblivious to how close they came to the threat of annihilation, the humans continue to generate amusing content on the Internet, including but not limited to Game of Thrones episodes, cat memes, and science fiction short stories that make fun of them.

  And somewhere in outer space, felines are sharing funny human pictures on Catbook.

  This story originally appeared in Daily Science Fiction.

  I feel like no other story captures my brand of humor as well as this one. Talking cats, social media, pop-culture references and an occasional groan-worthy pun? That’s my humor arsenal in the nutshell. This kind of story won’t win a Hugo, but if the reader is half as entertained reading it as I was writing it, my job here is done.

  FATE AND OTHER VARIABLES

  An angry drug dealer was waving a gun in my face, and it was all Greg’s fault.

  I raised my hands, palms-up, very slowly. “Whatever he did this time, I’m sure we can work it out.”

  “Sure we can,” said the man my brother called Coins. He invaded my personal space, his face uncomfortably close to mine, the stink of tobacco heavy on his breath. “Pay me the three large this weasel owes me, and I’ll be on my way.”

  I turned to Greg, mostly to disengage from the unsavory character in front of me.

  Greg looked at me with that same guilty expression on his face I’d seen so many times while growing up.

  I screwed up again, his expression was saying. But it’s all right, because Big Brother Mike is going to make everything better, fix things, like he always does. It was the look I’d seen whenever our parents found pot hidden in his room. The same look he’d given me whenever I came to bail him out of jail, or whenever he would show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, asking for cash. Some things never change.

  “I don’t keep that kind of money on hand.”

  “Well then, we’ll just have to see what you do have.” The man went through the house looking for valuables. Greg and I followed, but gave him plenty of space. My heart raced like an over-clocked CPU, then skipped a beat when he found my office.

  An L-shaped workbench stood at the center of the room. Three large monitors were lined up on top of it. A wireless keyboard and mouse rested upon piles of printouts and handwritten notes. And along all four walls of the room, stacked up to the ceiling on metal shelving units, were dozens of networked computers.

  “What are you, some kind of hacker?”

  Computers are logical and predictable. They don’t make irrational choices, and they never let you down, unless you mess up the code. Growing up around Greg, it’s no wonder I liked them better than people. I understood them better, too.

  So yes, I was a hacker, and a damn good one, too. But it wouldn’t do to advertise the fact to two-bit criminals.

  “I’m an IT consultant.”

  The man with the gun smiled. “I bet these will fetch a few bucks.”

  “Listen pal, I’ll get you your money. I’ll pay Greg’s debt in full, so long as you promise to cut him off. But I can’t have you messing with my equipment.”

  He grabbed fistfuls of my t-shirt.

  “Don’t you ever threaten me, nerd,” he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth.

  “Excuse me,” sounded the voice from the door.

  Another stranger stood in the doorway. He was an older man with a thick, graying beard. He wore a black wool coat and held a wide-brimmed hat in his hand, his head covered with a small skullcap.

  “You are done here,” he told Coins, his voice calm and facial expression a picture of serenity. “Get out.”

  Coins let go of me and advanced on the older man, the pistol aimed squarely at his belly.

  The stranger pointed at the gun, and it began to melt.r />
  What had once been a pistol lost its form and the resulting goo slid down the drug dealer’s fingers like ice cream from a cone that was left out in the sun. His eyes went wide as he tried to shake off the viscous substance. Some of it clung to his hand, like gunmetal-colored honey.

  “Leave,” the old man repeated, “before I do the same to you.”

  The drug dealer’s lip trembled as he stared at what used to be his weapon. He gave me an evil look, a promise of future retaliation strongly implied, but he didn’t push his luck. He shuffled out the door subdued. I couldn’t blame him. A large part of me wanted to flee as well, my rational brain struggling to accept whatever had just occurred. Greg looked more miserable than ever, but he stayed also, hovering in the farthest corner of the room.

  I heard the front door slam. The stranger just stood there, studying me closely. I opened my mouth to speak but after a long moment closed it again.

  “I believe ‘thank you’ are the words you’re looking for,” he said, a hint of a smile hidden in his beard.

  “Who are you?” I asked instead.

  “My name is Nathan Adler,” he said. “I’m a kabbalist.”

  I’d vaguely heard of Kabbalah before. It was an obscure form of mysticism and, as such, mattered little to my scientific worldview.

  “Is that how you did … that?” Greg spoke up. I was a little surprised that he recognized the term.

  “Yes,” said Adler matter-of-factly, without a hint of pride or boasting. “You and I have a lot to talk about, Michael,” he added. “I find myself in need of your skill set.”

  “No offense, but I don’t believe any of this. Whatever you did to melt that guy’s gun was a very neat trick, but the rest of it is way over the top. And even if it were real, how does one hack a metaphysical book?”

  We were sitting in my living room, Greg banished to elsewhere in the house. Adler was telling me stuff that sounded like it came straight out of a fantasy novel.