The L’treth were model operators, their restaurants clean and well-run. They were particularly appreciated by their teenage part-time help, who when back in school could boast of working for aliens off-hours or over the summer—even though the L’treth relied on their human managers and were rarely seen on site. The consequences, of course, were inevitable and easily foreseen. It was only a matter of time before a consortium of ten L’treth applied for several Burger King franchises in the Northeast.
The fad, if that was what it could be called, spread rapidly. Within a year, L’treth could be found owning and operating fast food restaurants, commercial websites, flower shops (they were especially fond of flowers, it developed), shoe stores, candy outlets, dry cleaners, car washes, and all manner of businesses not only in the US, but throughout the world. Naturally, the French held out longest against this new kind of foreign ownership, but when the L’treth began operating within the borders of the EEC, there was nothing the French could legally do to keep them out.
What was the point, anyway? The aliens brought with them injections of fresh capital, created new jobs, and were model operators who invariably (but not always) deferred to the recommendations of their human managers. L’treth-owned businesses contributed to regional charities, sponsored youth football teams, and were assiduous boosters of local chambers-of-commerce. True, they looked funny, but so did those guys from Kalamazoo who operated the biggest chain of auto-parts stores in the eastern US. Really, people were fond of saying, what was the difference between off-shore ownership based in Budapest and off-world ownership based on L’treth?
That’s why the bombing caught everyone by surprise.
It happened in Sydney, of all places. Hardly the city one would pick as a hotbed of economic terrorism. The target was one of a chain of L’treth-owned pharmacies. The bombers called in the details of their plan to a local radio station, in order to give customers and staff of the intended target plenty of time to get out. The warning ended with a clarion cry: “People of Earth—Rise Up Against Your Alien Masters!”
It had a nice, defiant ring to it, but to most people it smacked of anarchy and idiocy. The L’treth were masters of nothing. If anything, they had gone out of their way to be good corporate citizens, in many instances far better than the humans whose financial participation they had supplanted. They had proven on numerous occasions that they could not be bribed, and they were exemplary custodians of the environment.
So what if the L’treth owned a majority share of Gazprom, or Apple, or Shell? Who cared if they made money off Hyundai or BHP? Their profits were inevitably reinvested, to the benefit of the companies they controlled and the employees who worked for them. They were working entirely within the local economic system, without harming it in any way.
Those who complained about nebulous, indefinable “alien influences” were demoted. The L’treth did not even have to fire anyone. Employees who grew too noisy found themselves transferred to remote locations. A few, defiant to the end, quit and moved to the deep woods. Their fellow humans thought them eccentric and harmless, as they always had those of iconoclastic bent.
The L’treth bought car manufacturers and food processors, information distributors and entertainment enterprises. Every purchase was scrupulously studied for antitrust violations, or for violations of local ordinances in whatever country the transaction was taking place. Where competition continued to exist, no one could find grounds for complaint. In point of fact, the L’treth encouraged competition: it was good for business.
Twenty years later, Noble was honored by a surprise visit from J’mard. Through dint of hard work and clever investment, the alien was now the local equivalent of a minor billionaire. Noble welcomed him readily—his association with the L’treth had seen him included very early on in the chain of spiraling profitability.
“What can I do for you, my friend?”
“Nothing, Derrick.” J’mard chose one of the new chairs, plush and expensive, and struggled to raise his closer-to-the-ground-than-human backside up onto it. “I just thought to pay you a friendly visit.”
“You’re always welcome in my office or my home. You know that.” The lawyer proffered an open box of fine Cuban cigars. J’mard took one, neatly bit off the end, chewed, swallowed, and took another bite, content.
Noble closed the box and set it back on his desk. His walking cane rested on the other side, but he disdained it. He was feeling good this morning. “Can I help you make an acquisition, J’mard? Anything new on the agenda?” Not that he needed the money, not anymore. At his age, it was the challenge inherent in the work that continued to excite Noble.
The alien munched daintily on the fragrant, finely rolled tobacco and gestured with one sucker-tipped limb. “I wish you could, Derrick, but there doesn’t seem to be much left to buy.”
The lawyer chuckled. “You don’t own everything, you know. You’ve done well, but you don’t control everything.”
“Enough. The rest will fall into place more slowly, but fall it will.”
Noble blinked. “I’m not sure I follow you, J’mard.”
“Why, the rest of the invasion, of course. You inevitably reach a point where things slow down, but they still proceed. They are proceeding nicely. Well ahead of schedule, really.” He ventured the broad L’treth equivalent of a smile. For some reason, today Noble did not find it engaging.
“What invasion?” The elderly lawyer frowned. “You’re not referring to that hostile takeover of United Biscuits your British subsidiary attempted last month, are you?”
J’mard’s expression rippled. Much like humans, the L’treth possessed an elaborate language of facial expressions. “The subjugation of your world, of course. It is a scenario we have repeated, with consistent success, on a number of worlds. It is always the easiest way to go about it. What is the point of blowing up cities and annihilating populations? What is to be gained, when the radioactive dust has settled?” He bit off another piece of cigar. “Highly counterproductive.”
“You don’t control anything but companies,” Noble pointed out, feeling suddenly uneasy. “Anytime humans wanted, they could rise up and kick you out. I don’t mean to be brusque with an old friend, but that’s the truth.”
The hearing organ fluttered like a tangoing jellyfish. “I’m glad you think of me as a friend. I think of you that way too, Derrick. No one will rise up who has a good job and is afraid of losing it. What is the difference in who one works for, be it L’treth or human? A boss is a boss. And we are good bosses. Everyone prospers under us. We simply like to be in control.”
“But you’re not,” Noble protested. This was not the discussion he’d anticipated having when J’mard’s arrival had been announced. He had thought they would talk about golf.
J’mard admired the marvelous view beyond the office windows. “Do you know how much money we gave to the Republican Party last year? Both to the party, and to individuals running for office? To the Democrats? To the New Tsarists in Russia and the Liberals in Britain? To the resurrected Falun Gong in China? It is standard procedure among human businesses, of course, to contribute to a great many causes, social as well as political. We control what we need to control, and that control is getting stronger every day. There is no shame in it, and no harm. Humans do not care who runs their governments and businesses, so long as they are well run. And as you know, the L’treth are very efficient.”
“You could be exposed any day.” Noble wondered why he was arguing. It was the lawyer in him, he decided. The old debater. “Anyone with determination and knowledge could expose you. I could expose you.”
“Could you, Derrick? You know that we own fifty-five percent of the company that operates this law firm.”
His jaw dropped. “No. No, I didn’t know that.”
“Shadow corporation operating from the Caymans,” the alien explained blithely. “Please, old friend, do not look so alarmed. We have no intention of firing you. Besides, we own large stakes in
many newspaper and magazine and television and internet groups. You would find it a hard time getting your message out. If you succeeded, our media people would act to quickly marginalize it.”
“People would respond. Enough would see through the obfuscation, and understand, and rise up. Humans are devoted to their independence.”
J’mard made a sound indicative of quiet disagreement. “Humans love their jobs, and their vacation time, and their professional sports, and their television and films and tabloid newspapers. When they have these, independence is reduced to a philosophical abstract that holds little meaning for the human on the street.” He fought to edge himself further back into the chair. “We really must play some golf again. A fascinating game, though because of our short stature we are somewhat at a disadvantage compared to you, its inventors.” Pseudopods waved. “But we are excellent putters, are we not?” Giving up on the chair, he slid back to the floor. Noble could do nothing but stare at him.
“Bombs and death-rays—who needs them? Come with me to Florida this weekend, Derrick. N’delk will be there, and we can play through the new Woods-designed course at Sarasota. You’ll like it. It’s owned by the Malaysian branch of one of our newest companies.” Having mastered, like so many other aspects of human society, the culture of the handshake, he extended a forelimb at the end of which there was no hand.
Not really knowing what else to do, not really seeing an alternative, Noble took it. “I don’t care what you say or how you attempt to rationalize it, it all comes down to semantics. No matter what you do, no matter what you try, you’ll never conquer us.”
“Conquer you?” The squat, stocky alien looked up at him out of soft gray eyes. “Why should we want to try and conquer you? Humans are tough, skilled, highly adaptable fighters. We recognized that right away. In a fight, you would be hard to defeat. Even with the kind of advanced technology we have shared with you, a war would be difficult to win.” Had J’mard possessed eyelids, Noble was certain he would have winked.
“Besides, why would we want to damage that which we already own?”
2
The Man Who Knew Too Much
Ray Bradbury, author of Fahrenheit 451, among other wonderful books, once said that the library was his church. Nowadays we have many more ways to worship. eBooks and browsing the internet have changed the way we absorb knowledge.
For many people it wouldn’t matter if all that went away. Most folk are happy to be told what to do and how to do it, and are satisfied with a regular paycheck (see: “Unvasion”). But for the rest of us, it’s not sufficient just to know the minimum necessary. We want to know more. We need to know more, even if that particular knowing has no immediate or even potential usefulness. We crave strings of words that when taken as a whole provide us with information, enlightenment, entertainment.
Why, you’re subject to that affliction right now.…
* * *
“Pssst … wanna buy some real hard stuff?”
Charlie Fellows paused. It was late, he was on his way home, and the alcove the voice emerged from was very dark. Still, he hesitated. Buying stuff on the street was always chancy. You didn’t know if what you were getting was pure and undiluted or just a cheap knock-off from Taipei or Shanghai. The latter might consist of nothing more than a couple of cursory introductions and a table of contents followed by hours of listings scanned from the local telephone books.
Night damp wafting in off the Pacific teased his lips with a chill burning. He clutched the collar of his coat tighter around his neck. It was cold. The familiar throbbing had already started at the back of his head, demanding attention. Demanding to be fed. A quick glance to left and then right revealed that the narrow side street off University was deserted. Not surprising, at this hour. He licked slightly chapped lips and gave in. Telling himself he could resist the urge never worked.
“What—what’ve you got?”
A thin crescent of Cheshire Cat ivory, the ghost of a grin, appeared in the darkness. Nimble fingers brought forth and manipulated a flat, rectangular, maroon-tinged plastic container that resembled a woman’s oversized compact. A single internal LEP illuminated half a dozen rows of neatly aligned chipets. Each was no bigger than his little fingernail. Charlie eyed them hungrily.
“What did I tell you? All uncontaminated, newly pressed, and unabridged. Straight from the relevant authorized sources.”
Charlie’s eyes widened slightly as he leaned forward to inspect the glistening array. They glittered like miniature Christmas ornaments. He could not conceal his eagerness. “Looks good. Clean. Where’d you get ’em?”
It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it as soon as he said it. The case snapped shut with a soft airtight pop. “Sorry, man, I guess I had you scoped wrong. You take care now, and …”
Charlie put out an anxious hand to forestall the younger man’s departure. “No, wait—I’m sorry. That was a dumb thing to say.”
“Yeah, it was.” One hand on the alcove’s dark door, the sallow-faced pusher paused.
“It just slipped out.” Desperately, Charlie mustered his most ingratiating smile. “Let me—can I see the stuff again?”
Still hugging the shadows, the pusher performed his own swift street survey. A quick flick of one fingertip and the case reopened. “What’s your pleasure, citizen? What fires your interest?” Despite the tension inherent in the moment, his words floated on an undertone of mild amusement.
Charlie’s response didn’t disappoint. “Everything.”
Nodding, the pusher’s finger traced the air over the shimmering chipets, as if by so doing he could command them to rise from their holding sockets and perform a teasing little dance in midair. He was deliberately making Charlie wait, enjoying the other man’s impatience. “Well now, I got here some natural science, some high-energy physics, a little general geology—but I prefer to specialize, you know? Mostly soft stuff tonight: American Lit, some archetypical anthropological Australian dreamtime studies, collections of arcane Melanesian oral traditions. Also a couple odds and ends.” His hovering finger drifted over one corner of the case. “Maintenance manuals for Harley-Davidson models 1945-2005, the Complete Julia Childs’ French Chef, Frescoes of the Northern Italian Renaissance.” His knowing gaze bored into Charlie. “That last one’s discontinued.”
Charlie nodded eagerly, unable to take his eyes off the magical, gleaming little squares. No gem dealer in a back-alley Jaipur bazaar ever gazed with greater avarice upon an open handkerchief laden with jewels. “You said American Lit. You got Twain, Melville, Hawthorne?”
“Irving, Ferber, Poe—all the biggies. They’re all here.” Withdrawing specialized non-ferrous tweezers from a shirt pocket, he delicately plucked one chip from among the dozens and held it out toward his potential customer. “Have a look. First-class manufacture. Exactly what an authorized prof would use for broadcast.”
Extracting the folding loupe he carried in one pocket, Charlie examined the chipet as best he could in the dim light. The miniscule factory identification markings looked genuine, but could he trust the provenance? His head throbbed. He’d been paid two days ago. He decided to take a chance.
Commerce concluded, the pusher vanished into the night. Charlie made no effort to see which way he went. Already, the freshly minted chipet was burning a hole in his pocket. Fired with expectation, he brushed past a few startled pedestrians on his way home, hardly seeing them. Had they taken the time to study his face, they might have recognized the eager, focused stare of an addict.
Once inside his apartment, the door safely bolted against the outside world, he changed into the terrycloth bathrobe rendered smooth by endless washings, made coffee, and readied himself. Out from its hidden compartment in the wall behind the Vienna Kunstmuseum poster came the eSnood. Working carefully, sensuously, he eased the lightweight plastic helmet with its embedded network of wires and transducers over his head, meticulously fine-tuning the fit. Worn too loose and he might miss whole short stories
. Fastened too tight and it would squeeze his ears.
Though the illegal chipet was immediately accepted by the receptacle in the handset controller, he didn’t relax until the familiar warmth began to steal over his thoughts. The pounding at the back of his head eased. The pusher had been as good as his word, as good as Charlie’s money. This was the real thing. Snugging down into the crushed depths of the easy chair, sipping coffee by rote, Charlie lapsed easily and effortlessly into the contented semi-coma of someone soaking up hundreds of mental units via direct induction.
He didn’t quit, he couldn’t quit, until four in the morning, by which time he had absorbed the complete works of every great and numerous minor American fiction writer of the 18th and 19th centuries. Sated, exhausted, he wrestled his head out of the eSnood, staggered to the bedroom, and slept right through until suppertime. It cost him a day at work, but he didn’t care. When queried by his superior, he would claim that illness had laid him low—which was not entirely untrue. It had been a near-perfect assimilation, smooth and virtually painless except for a persistent cramping in his right thigh. He felt the usual exhilaration, the classic thrill, the unmatchable mental high. Of becoming smarter, more erudite.
He had Gained Knowledge.
At work the following day his boss bawled him out good. Illness or no illness, he was told, he should have called in so his division could at least have brought in a temp for the day. Adrift in remembrances of works as diverse yet enthralling as A Voyage to the South Seas, The Headless Horseman, Omoo, and much, much more, Charlie didn’t care. He took note of the stern tongue-lashing with half a mind. The remainder was still luxuriating in the memory of the effortless absorption of knowledge. The glow lasted all week.
The Flavors of Other Worlds Page 2