I Won A Spaceship

by Harrision Park

  “It must be a nightmare keeping track of all these different metabolisms,” I remarked.

  “It has its moments. Can I get you drinks, Sirs?”

  I ordered water and Honesty-in-Trust some fruit concoction.

  A very large being, at least a foot taller than I and built to match, with dark blue hair and a lemon yellow complexion overlaid with an orange tinge that I suspected owed more to overindulgence than nature, strode over.

  “You are the Lottery Winner, are you not?” he boomed.

  Around us conversations stopped and heads turned in our direction.

  “I am, indeed. And whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

  “Sir Homer Simpission of Zofi-Brennan Intergalaxy.”

  The name rang a bell.

  “Ah, then I have you to thank for my good fortune, Sir.” I bowed low.

  “Ha. At least they teach manners on the fringes of civilisation,” he boomed and strode off.

  “Weird,” I muttered.

  “But powerful,” Honesty-in-Trust murmured back.

  “Do you recognise any faces?” I asked.

  “Most of them. The leader of the Senate, the leaders of the opposition parties with their partners, several industrialists… but it doesn’t matter. You probably won’t meet most of them anyway.”

  “Then why are they here?”

  “To see and be seen. This is a very prestigious event. An invitation is a sign you’re one of the in-crowd.”

  “Or pay bigger bribes,” I said cynically.

  “Quite,” he grinned. “There’s a number here who are known supporters of the President and the Senate.”

  A series of low melodious chimes sounded.

  “Your Holinesses, Sirs and Madams, luncheon will be served shortly,” the fussy little being called. “If you could step forward, you will be escorted to your places.”

  Their Holinesses immediately strode forward. Whether they were very hungry or it was protocol they were seated first, I didn’t know. Probably the latter for the rest hung politely back until they had been safely escorted to their assigned places. The crowd shuffled forward. I hung back and, of course, so did Honesty-in-Trust. I had no idea of the protocol of these occasions and I didn’t want to tread on anyone’s toes, literally or metaphorically. We were practically the last to be seated. For the first time that day we were separated. I had a moment’s panic for I’d become used to Honesty-in-Trust’s steady presence at my shoulder. I told myself I was being silly; that nothing was likely to happen here.

  To my surprise I was led to the top of the table and seated next to a conspicuously empty chair. Everyone sat, solemnly silent.

  “Your Holinesses, Sirs and Madams, by the grace of all the gods, the President of the Capellan Theocracy.”

  The company stood. There was movement behind me and, the next moment, the President took his place at the vacant chair. He wasn’t a large being, he was huge. Everything about him was huge; his hands, his head, his chest, his belly. His skin was sallow and, to my eyes, unhealthy-looking, his hair the colour of lichen, his features large and coarse. To my surprise, he didn’t sit. Instead the whole company, the President included, tilted their heads back and stared at the ceiling. Belatedly I followed suit. After a moment’s silence, one of Their Holinesses began to speak. It took me a moment to realise he was intoning a public prayer.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I thought. ‘Something else no-one saw fit to brief me about.’

  The cleric finished and I realised I hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Another one started. This was even worse for it was a litany. If that wasn't bad enough, there seemed to be physical responses required as well. I could hear the sound of movement and vaguely see arms moving but, with my eyes fixed heavenward, I couldn’t copy the responses. The cleric droned on about how the gods were everywhere and governed all out actions and all our thoughts and all our deeds. Part of me was very glad I’d talked to Dear and Hermes for at least I understood what he was on about. A more cynical part of me thought that, despite their religious names and pious platitudes, I’d come across a depressing number of ungodly beings since I’d arrived.

  The cleric finally finished and we all sat, me last of all as I was muttering imprecations.

  “Did you say something, Sir MacAdam,” the President asked turning his gaze to me.

  I understood, in that instant, why he was President. He wasn't being unfriendly; his expression was carefully neutral, but I quailed under that gaze. An almost physical aura of raw power washed over me. I felt about five feet tall and shrinking. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing emerged. Then, inside me, a small spark of rebellion was kindled. Since I had arrived beings had tried to push me around, bully me, use me and I was heartily tired of it. Although it wasn't intentional, his intimidating presence felt like just another form of harassment. He might be the President but I was the Lottery Winner. Besides, he wasn't my President. I found my courage returning.

  “My apologies, Sir President. I was adding a small private prayer to the proceedings. I didn’t mean to speak aloud.”

  “You are a religious being, then?”

  “In my own way, Sir President.”

  “You do not follow the Way of the Gods on your home world?”

  That was what lawyers termed a leading question. Was he asking out of genuine interest or was he disguising an accusation as a question?

  “I believe that all sentient beings follow it, albeit in different ways.”

  I was having to think on my feet. It was making my head ache.

  “A diplomatic answer,” he said. It seemed he was relaxing somewhat. “Ultimately we all belong to the gods. I understand you come from a system in the Orion Arm.”

  I gave a deprecating laugh. “So I believe. I’m afraid astronomy is not my forte.”

  “But your species know of the galaxy?”

  Another loaded question.

  “We believe we do though how accurate our knowledge is is a moot point. You see, we are not aware of the existence of your amazing Galactic Civilisation.”

  “No knowledge at all?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “None.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I did, too, but I have an idea. We are looking in the wrong place.”

  “You intrigue me.”

  “I’m no expert but I believe we make the assumption that sentient species will broadcast information on certain bands of the electromagnetic spectrum and, as these broadcasts are omni-directional, they will seep out into space. To find another civilisation, then, all we need to do is listen to the electromagnetic spectrum and we’ll be able to detect their broadcasts. The problem is that I don’t think you use the electromagnetic spectrum so we find nothing and believe we are alone in the universe.”

  “That’s certainly an impressive bit of reasoning Sir MacAdam. To tell you the truth, I didn’t understand a word of it.”

  “That would make two of us, Sir President. I confess I was simply parroting an article I read somewhere.”

  He laughed. “A fellow philistine. I have been told you don’t like our climate.”

  “I’m allergic to your sun, I’m afraid.” I paused, wondering if I should lay it on a bit. Politicians tended to have large egos, at least the one’s on Earth did, and, to be President of something the size of the Capellan Theocracy probably demanded an ego larger than most. I decided to take the risk. “I believe a sight-seeing tour had been arranged and I’m devastated not to be able to take it; a civilisation as great as yours must have many marvels to see.” I gave a rueful shrug. “The first Earthman to visit the wondrous planet of Geretimal and all I will see will be the insides of buildings.”

  “Is it really that serious?”

  “Regrettably, fatal.”

  “That bad? That is a great pity for you are right, there are many marvellous things to see… and many more on our other worlds.”

  I saw a possible opening.

  “Forgive me ask
ing, Sir President, but you are not a native of Geretimal?”

  “Quite right. Mraaskiint is my home planet. A beautiful, rugged place with mountains so high they seem to pierce the sky and valleys so deep the sun’s light never reaches their floors and cliffs and rivers and plains… but I go on.”

  “It sounds very impressive,” I said with as much admiration as I could muster. “Mraaskiint. A being mentioned it to me. Something about savage beasts and racing? I confess I didn’t fully understand.”

  “Ah, druunsbak racing. A sport fit for champions. A sport where skill and patience and valour are paramount.”

  “What, exactly, is a druunsbak? I don’t think we have any equivalent on Earth.”

  They say every man has his Achilles heel and druunsbak racing was his. For the next twenty minutes I was treated to an exposition on the history of druunsbak racing, the breeding of druunsbaks, the training of druunsbaks and the great druunsbaks and riders of past and present. Naturally, the President’s own stables featured prominently. I did my best to appear fascinated even though the whole thing sounded as pointless and NASCAR racing, as dangerous as stunt driving and as exciting as darts. The one thing I could say was that he was extremely knowledgeable.

  The only breaks in the flow were for food which he ate with gusto. He didn’t quite shovel it in, he was too much a public figure for that, but he came perilously close. Only someone his size could have got away with it. I also realised what Hermes and Flerrionna had meant about public eating. The President’s first course was a bowl of lumpy things covered in a gelatinous purple sauce. The smell was indescribable, being astringent with putrid undertones. He sniffed at it with obvious relish. Mine transpired to be hard-boiled eggs on some green leaves with Hollandaise sauce.

  At the end of the third course; breast of chicken on a bed of noodles in my case and something that looked similar but smelt like slightly off venison for the President, he broke off.

  “This is where I have to earn my living,” he said and stood.

  Three chimes sounded, conversation died and the President officially welcomed me to the Capellan Theocracy. He was a skilled orator for his speech, given without notes, was as much a party political broadcast as a speech of welcome. I listened with half an ear until he said,

  “Lottery Winners come from all parts of the Galaxy and many have not had the good fortune to be born within our glorious Theocracy. It has become traditional for the fortunate being to personally view some of the wonders of our many and varied planets and witness the benefits of being part of the Capellan Theocracy.” My heart sank. He was about to make some acerbic comment that would lower my stock with the Commission even further.

  “We pride ourselves on our tolerance and it is a fundamental principle of this government that all beings are treated equally, regardless of species or origin. We would be less than generous hosts if we did not extend that tolerance to beings outwith our sphere and, in particular, to the Lottery Winner. The light of Capella warms us and lights our way. It illuminates our lives and symbolises the holy illumination of the guidance of the gods. Just as some beings are unable to appreciate the benefits of our benign religion, so some are unable to tolerate the rays of our sun. Our current Winner is one such being and we extend our sympathies and regret that he will be unable to experience the magnificence that is Geretimal.”

  I managed to keep my expression suitably sober and nodded slowly at his words as if I was desolated. In fact I was the opposite. The tour was officially off with the President’s blessing. Let the Commission put that in their collective pipe and smoke it.

  The applause was mixed. Polite on some areas, enthusiastic in others. The enthusiasts, I assumed, were his supporters. As he sat, the being on the President’s other side managed to capture his attention. I breathed a mental sigh of relief.

  “That was well done,” a low melodious voice on my other side remarked.

  I hadn’t paid much attention to my other dining companion, well the President had sort of monopolised my attention, so I turned to look at her. A very tall, slender, rather gaunt woman of mature years was smiling at me. She was of the same race as Homer Simpission having dark blue hair piled up on her head in an elaborate style at least a foot high and a lemon complexion. It looked better on her, though.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I was well briefed.”

  “Obviously. What do you make of our President?”

  “That is what we call a loaded question,” I said with a short laugh. “I don’t think I’m qualified to answer it. He certainly knows his druunsbaks, though.”

  She shuddered. “Stupid, barbaric sport.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “No. Do you have similar pastimes on your world?”

  “Nothing quite like that but we have sports that many consider equally futile.”

  She laughed. “How diplomatic.”

  “I’m learning fast.”

  “I overheard you say your species believes it is alone in the galaxy?”

  “Yes. The idea that there are several tens of millions of sentient beings in the galaxy would come as a shock to many.”

  “But not to you?”

  “Madam, I’ve been in a state of shock since the moment the Lottery representative knocked on my door.”

  She laughed again. She had a pleasant laugh. “Forgive me, Sir, but for someone who comes from a reputedly backward system, you seem remarkably… well adapted.”

  “Yes. I’ve been wondering about that myself. It seems very odd but, despite the fact that your technology is millennia ahead of ours, the way your society is put together is similar to ours. You have airports, and highways and cities and shops and hotels just like we have, and governments and bureaucracies and commercial organisations and religious bodies. I haven’t seen any but I assume you have houses and schools and hospitals and offices and factories too.”

  “How remarkable.”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, normally, societies on the fringes of civilisation, if you’ll forgive the term, tend to be either bucolic or, if technological, have developed in ways at variance with ours. In fact I can’t think of one off-hand where technological and social development have mirrored ours.”

  “I believe many of my species could fit in here relatively easily. Of course they would lack the necessary skills to make a living but, other than that…”

  “I would very much like to visit your world.”

  “Without wishing to be offensive, you would have to be heavily disguised.”

  “Are you a uniform species, then?”

  “Quite the reverse. Our skins can vary from, well, paler than mine to…” I looked around the table and spotted a man with vaguely Negroid features, “…that Sir over there with the dark brown skin. We don’t tend to be quite as… colourful as many species here are, though.”

  “It might be worth it, just the same.”

  “You have an interest in primitive cultures?”

  “I’m a social anthropologist by training.”

  “To quote an old chat-up line… what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  She laughed again. “I also happen to be the spouse of Homer Simpission.”

  She broke off and nodded over my shoulder. I turned to find the President had finished his conversation.

  “Five minutes and you are seducing the wife of our leading industrialist,” he said but he was smiling broadly.

  “Hardly, Sir President. Madam Simpission has but a professional interest in primitive beings.”

  Both of them seemed to find this amusing.

  “So. Tell us a bit about your world, Sir MacAdam.”

  For the next quarter of an hour I tried to describe what I knew about my planet. It was necessarily shallow, superficial and incomplete: I’m neither a pedagogue nor a savant. Still, they seemed to be interested and I noticed that several of our nearer dining companions also stopped to listen. I felt someone kick my ankle lightly a
nd I realised it was Madam Simpission. She made a facial gesture which I eventually twigged as meaning I should shut up.

  I wound down and made a self-deprecating gesture. “Forgive me, Sir President. I have been told I tend to talk too much. You have been very patient.”

  He made an expansive gesture. “Not at all. It is refreshing to speak with a being who talks frankly.” He looked at me askance. “Perhaps I should employ you to be my ‘honest voice’ and tell me the truths my officials are too scared to utter.”

  An image of a mediaeval court jester flashed through my mind. “We have a saying, Sir President: never bite the hand that feeds you.”

  A look of annoyance flashed across his face then he realised what I meant.

  “Hmm, well, perhaps you are right.”

  Without any signal that I could see, their Holinesses rose to their feet followed hastily by the rest of the assembly. My eyes sought the scrollwork of the ceiling again as the sonorous drone of the prayer filled the room. I didn’t even pretend to follow the litany this time. We remained standing as the clerics filed out. The President turned to me.

  “I have never met a Lottery Winner before. It has been more entertaining than I anticipated.”

  “And I have never met a President before.” I hesitated then added. “The feeling is mutual.”

  The President roared with laughter. I bowed deeply.

  “Why do you do that?” he asked.

  “As a mark of respect, Sir.”

  “Hmm. You are an interesting being.”

  He turned and strode off.

  The company began to leave. I fell back onto my seat and sighed deeply. I was exhausted.

  “I know how you feel,” Madam Simpission said sympathetically.

  Her husband approached. I started to scramble to my feet but he waved me down.

  “I think we should invite Sir MacAdam for a visit, dear,” Madam Simpission said to her husband.

  “Hmm? I suppose anyone who can amuse the President for an hour has to be a good table companion.”

  “I was thinking of a bit longer than dinner.” Her husband gave her an enquiring look. “Sir MacAdam comes from a most fascinating planet. I would like to find out more about it.”