In keeping with the sample submission you sent, my submission is not simultaneous with anyone in this system. The story length is only 34,295 words. I believe the pace fits with your current system of ideology. Should you decide to publish it, I will be glad to give you the publishing rights, as your mode of monetary exchange is not useful to me here.
My elucidator and I eagerly await your acceptance.
Eagerly,
Torthan Volbiss
1625.22 ABR, Asimov IV
Dear Mike,
As you can see I have been demoted an entire planet because of your criticisms! I did not know the science fiction world could be so harsh! You are not equipped to judge my story on a scientific basis, because you have obviously not read Benford II’s History of the Terran Interdiction, or Baxter IV’s Once Slimed, Always Slimed. If you had, you would realize that I have been accurate to the n’teenth degree! Terra I has been under interdiction for cents!
I realize now that all your questions about your physique
If you do not know your own history I cannot explain it to you!
You have used me shamefully and I will explain all of this to the board of reparations before they cull me!
Sincerely (still!),
Torthan Volbiss
1625.48 ABR, Asimov III
Dear Mike,
I am in very big trouble because of your continued refusal to make a promotion of my story. As you can see, I have been further demoted because of your insistence that my writing “does not exhibit a deep understanding of human culture.” Now there is talk of demoting me to feline studies. It is impossible, everyone knows felines do not bond in family groups as do canines and sapients. You of all esteemed personages should know this.
I am sorry to tell you that I have filed a brief with the board of castigation which lays the blame for my present position entirely at your lower appendages
Your ignorance of Elkhorn’s thesis on the demise of Terra I shows a lack of study habits that was probably inherited from your ancestors. There is no doubt that alligators throve
(Forgive me if I thumb my nasal passages at your ancestors with this intolerant remark, but we have not shared genus and I do not know your chromatic history.)
This is all well-known to any civilized culture!
If you cannot publish the story yourself, at least you could submit it to Analog the Magazine of Science Fiction and Fact! Once it is accepted, I can return to Asimov V and continue my studies!
I am disappointed in you, Mike. I thought we were allies.
Disappointingly,
Torthan V.
1625.5 ABR, Ender I
Dear Mike,
I have decided to terminate interaction for the meantime while I prepare for my judgment
I am still hoping you will publish my story in any anthology, or will at least present a datamail I may take to the board which will admit your complete responsibility for this situation. The lack of adequate training I received from you is obviously largely to blame in this humiliation. Although such remedies are rarely considered, my castigants
Please provide me with a clear, concise description of why you cannot present my chronicle, also explain how you could have prepared me better, and save me!
Mike, I come to you on curled
Your old friend,
Sincerely,
Tor
1625.96 ABR, Penitence II
Dear Mike,
Well, thanks for nothing as you would say, though
why anyone would thank another sentient for the absence of anything is nontranslatable to me.
I have not been harvested, obviously, since the reviewers determined that I had been led astray by your false promises. It did not hurt that, being totally unfamiliar with your own history, and unwilling to believe a truthful account of that history, you were judged mentally unfit.
Do not ever think of visiting me, as you will be culled the moment you set chroma on any civilized planet. It is in the records now!
Instead, I am sent to Penitence II, which is one pace
Further use of the MicroMac is, of course, not part of the inquiry
Of course, I assume that anyone who treats a fellow sapient in the manner you have treated me will embezzle my ideas for his own use, but there is nothing I can do about it from here.
Please do not attempt to contact me as we have nothing to speak about.
Torthan Volbiss
1628.93 ABR, Penitence IV
Dear Mike,
I am permitted to hurl this final datamail in order to complete my penitence.
As a portion of my reeducation, I am ordered to forge amendments
I apologize for my remarks about your reptilian ancestry. It was uncalled for, and prejudicial toward the inhabitants of Campbell II.
I am also apologetic for any reference I may have made to the apneate habits of your wive(s). I did not realize that in your backward culture, discussing another being’s bedroom habits might give offense.
I am sorry for stating that you could never star in a holivision commercial. It may be that someday they will be looking for a being of your genotype, whose RNA is not culturally recommended but who is capable of destroying entire lives with his shoddy, unwarranted criticisms. If that is the case, it will certainly star you.
Finally, I am apologetic for thumbing my nasal passages at you. I should have merely expelled my nose in your direction and hoped for the best.
As a last comment, in response to the datamail you kindly provided the court, which stated that I was “about as aware of human emotions as a bullfrog,” and accusing me of “a complete inability to understand human nature, human behavior, or human passion”— Mike, what in galaxies made you think I was human?
Sincerely,
Torthan Volbiss
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RESIDENT ALIEN by Barbara Delaplace
I
DREAMED OF HOME again last night. I was swimming with my family. It was so vivid I could almost taste the tang of the ocean, feel the blood-warm water against my skin, hear the surging of the waves against the rocky beach of the cove, where my clan has lived for generation upon generation. We swim against the lithe currents, hthe as the water ourselves.
It was a happy occasion, the celebration of the birth of new life. After we swam, we feasted, and then as it grew dark, we kindled the flames and danced for joy. I remember hearing the voices of the clan seniors, the laugh
ter of my siblings, as we teased the new parents. They had done well—twins! Multiple births are extremely rare, and the Mother Supreme was very pleased with them. As were we all—they have brought honor to the clan.
My disappointment was bitter when I awoke and realized where I truly was. I envy the natives here their ability to release unhappiness in what they call “crying.”
Perhaps my scholarship advisers were correct about me. They felt I was too full of myself, particularly when I tried to turn down this assignment. It was unheard of, they told me sternly, for a candidate at my scholarship level to turn down two possible planet assignments, let alone three. My Supervisor was blunt: “May I remind you, Student Candidate, that you’ve already turned down the first two species offered to you for study? I would certainly have serious reservations about continuing as your Supervisor if you were to turn this down for reasons as frivolous as your previous excuses.”
Frivolous! I had gritted my teeth, raging inwardly at that. Spending the next tenth of my life in a protective atmospheric suit to study a possibly emergent intelligent life-form at the bottom of an ammonia sea had not struck me as worthwhile, no matter how many hardships those in my chosen profession have endured over the slow eons of accumulation of knowledge. I had exercised my option and turned down the first assignment.
The second offering was even worse. Granted, the species lived in an oxygen atmosphere, though the overall planetary climate was uncomfortably warm to my people. But the Tsaavii had been studied to death already. While I could undoubtedly contribute to the already large scholarly literature written about the race, it wouldn’t be the ground-breaking work I knew I was capable of, that was expected of me. I wanted— indeed, needed—to make a splash, capture scholarly awards for advancing the understanding of the development of technological society. Justify my parents’ faith in me, my clan’s financial investment in my education, the expectations of my sibs and cohort.
Refusing a third planet without an excellent reason— by which they meant a sun-about-to-go-nova type of reason—and I’d have a serious problem continuing my work in cultural anthropology; indeed, I might even be expelled.
They didn’t consider my reason excellent enough.
“A survey was performed there eight hundred primary rotations ago. No civilization is going to change drastically in so short a time. There is no evidence whatsoever to indicate that this species is developing technologically at a greater rate than any previously known technology-using species.”
Just who did I think I was, questioning the accepted wisdom of my field—me, a mere student, of limited experience. What made me think that this new species was so different from the dozens of other known, thoroughly-studied species?
Somehow, “gut instinct” hadn’t seemed a particularly politic answer at that moment.
It’s cold comfort to me now to know that my fears were absolutely justified—the preliminary survey was even more out of date than I had feared. The rate of change of this society is staggering. It’s grim satisfaction to know that, in learning this, I’ve already made a significant discovery—and I haven’t even begun my initial research. I plan on saying a very loud (and most scientifically phrased) “I told you so” when I face my final exam board.
I am woefully unprepared. The trinkets and toys I’m equipped with, suitable for a pre-mechanized society, are totally unsuitable for a culture at this level of development. Instead of early explorations into metal smelting, these people are essaying their first steps into molecular-level manipulation of biotechnology. My gadgets are useless—simple devices intended to startle and amaze a hostile group just long enough to allow me to escape, or to lure a timid folk from hiding, nothing more. Such things are as out of place here as a medicine woman with her healing broths and spirit chants would be in one of this city’s hospitals.
And I don’t like my body. It’s weak and clumsy now. I have to be so careful when I move in this awkward, heavy gravity. And only two hands! It amazes me the natives were able to develop any sort of technology at all. At least they have opposable digits on both hands.
My Supervisor isn’t particularly sympathetic to my situation. “I would think you’d be delighted, Student Candidate. This is the opportunity you said you were waiting for, a chance to make a significant contribution to our field. You have an entire world’s worth of development at your feet. A tenth-span certainly will not be long enough”—I clench the communication Link in my hand—”but it will serve as a beginning. You had best make the very most of your every moment there. Communication ending.”
Communication is expensive and must be kept brief. Perhaps it’s just as well. One does not gain honor by being disrespectful to one’s Supervisor. And I must not forget, I am representing my species at the prestigious institute of learning I attend. The Mother Supreme pointed this out to me during my audience with her just before I left.
“Very few of us have ventured off-planet. Do not forget that you are an ambassador, even though you do not bear the formal title. For many—indeed, perhaps most—of the species you come into contact with, you will be the first of our kind they have ever met. Conduct yourself with dignity and bring us honor.”
I bowed before her and backed out of her presence, grateful that protocol did not permit me to speak.
My Supervisor is of the school of thought that believes in interaction with a species, provided there is no interference with the society. Thus, I underwent extensive—though reversible—surgery to adapt my body to the conditions on this world, so that I may breathe and move unassisted. Surgery that also changes my appearance so that I blend in with the species I’m studying.
Of course such surgery is costly—as will be the procedure to restore my natural form. Be sure my parents made this clear to me.
“We’re having to borrow heavily against our Family shares to pay for this,” grumbled my father. “I don’t see why you need to be operated on in the first place. Don’t most cultural anthropologists use skin projectors?”
I patiently explain, yet again. “My Supervisor feels it’s vital to her technique of close study of other peoples. ‘There’s no substitute for real interaction,’ she keeps saying.”
“Sounds like a typical scholar to me. No head for finance ... no experience of the real world ...” His grumbles die away.
“She’s one of the foremost experts in the field,” I say. “I’m extremely lucky that she agreed to accept me.” My parents, concerned but supportive after my first refusal—my clan is known for its indulgence of its young—had been gravely displeased after my second refusal, so there really was no choice left for me.
“Yes, and an extremely high Supervisor’s Fee she charges, too. You’d damned well better win some of those academic awards you talk about and bring us honor.”
“Of course he will,” says my mother soothingly. “He’s our son. He’s always lived up to our expectations and beyond.” She beams proudly. “And he will again.”
Yes, I will. I will be a dutiful child and do well. My father complains about expense but it’s pure ritual. I’m expected eventually to make good on all the loans and fees that are paid out on my behalf. Duty and obligation, over and over, the watch-words of my culture.
Maybe that’s why I went into this field of study— to learn about other societies and see if they’re any freer. The crushing burden I owe my parents and my clan . . .
These are unworthy thoughts and I’m glad my family is not privy to them. I should not be having such selfish feelings. A mature individual is able to school his feelings, focus on his duties, and take satisfaction from fulfilling his obligations. Obviously I have a long way to go to reach maturity.
This culture is as unlike my own as any storyteller could imagine. Chaotic, noisy, the natives rush frenetically about, ever busy, even at night—the lights of the city drown out the stars overhead. I spend hours, too many of them, by the ocean—this is a seaport—when I should be in the libraries and museums, learning about
these creatures. But I find the frantic pace they live at overwhelming. The sea brings me a measure of peace as I watch it ebb and flow and crash and murmur. It reminds me of home, even the natives swimming—they call it swimming, at least; to me it is clumsy thrashing, fighting the water rather than being one with it.
I take out the Link and stare at it. Among the decorative elements on its surface there is one stud that is meant for Recall, in case of such unforeseen and serious emergencies such as civil unrest, natural catastrophe, or war. Definitely not for use by homesick scholars.
We were originally a seafaring culture. Perhaps because the sea is so vast, and accidents are so random and sudden, my kind developed a formal and structured society: every situation noted, every situation with its appropriate actions, every situation accounted for.
I know in my heart I don’t fit in very well. I liked to test myself against the sea too often. This was a sorrow to my family. When I should have been attending to my share of the clan duties, I was inattentive, my mind on the waters.
I am ashamed of this. I owe my family much, for they have supported me in the study of other cultures, a study I love. Many clans decide the paths their youthful members should tread, without taking personal preferences into account. But I am fortunate, for my clan is different. Our Mother Supreme is very old and very wise, and feels that children work harder and more willingly—and thus are more likely to do well—when they work at something they enjoy. So she indulges us. I owe it to her and to my parents to repay their trust and confidence in me.
I’m beginning to feel smothered under the weight of all these obligations and expectations.
I was daring today. The waves were high, crashing on the shore. I longed so much for the feel of the sea that I dared to venture into the water, yes, into the water in this temporary form I wear. I swam.
I attempted to swim, rather. Oh, but it is a feeble reed, this body. Clumsy, awkward in the water, un-streamlined, no harmony with the currents. Worst of all, no way to stay below the surface for more than seconds at a time—as I discovered, choking and spluttering. Of course, no water-breathing structures. Why didn’t they warn me against this?
I, Alien Page 9