Humans Wanted

by Vivian Caethe (ed. )

“Yes, please.”

  “Defensive or engineering detail?”

  “Uh … both, please.”

  “Please hold.” The agent squished its pinching arm into the control module, pulling a long form onto the holoscreen and angled it toward the customer. “Scan your chip, please.”

  The patron waved its tentacle above the holoscreen and the form refreshed, half-completed with his captain designation, identification, and policy numbers.

  “Start and end dates of the human’s contract?” the agent asked, watching the captain struggle to compensate for the tentacle movement, clearly unaccustomed to the higher pressure of a fully aquatic space station. Spaceships were almost all air-inflated, reinforced water-suits an unfortunate necessity for their passengers to reduce the ship’s weight for takeoff—hardly a problem for a station constructed in orbit. The agent ignored the captain’s struggles, toggling through the form to the next pull-down menu.

  “It came aboard last week and it’ll disembark in three years at the Omega Colonies, where we will pick up a new human if possible,” the captain answered finally, righting itself.

  “You’ll have to file for a new insurance premium for that trip unless your current human extends its contract.”

  “I understand.” The captain shifted impatiently, its tentacles spreading out to maintain its buoyancy when it began to sink past the edge of the desk.

  “Human’s name or identification number?” the agent asked, skipping to the next section.

  “They have names?” the captain asked, jetting itself upwards again.

  “They name everything,” the agent replied. “Carbon age of the human?” it asked, standing taller on its small back claws to see over the control module to maintain eye contact with the constantly moving customer.

  “I don’t know. It’s kind of gray-looking.”

  The agent pinched its mouth sphincter, its small antennae twitching.

  “Male or female human?” it asked, its left eyestalk angling up to glance at the patron again. The captain rubbed a sucker over its large head.

  “Uh … I haven’t asked. They have sexual dimorphism?”

  The agent pulled its pinching claw from the control module to push a box of external drives across its desk.

  “Might I suggest one of our pamphlets, Captain?” it asked, and the captain’s skin slowly shifted pinker.

  “No … thank you. Sorry about that.”

  “You’ll have to get back to me with that information before we finalize your take-off permit. Our office contact numbers will be on the front and last page of your insurance contract addendum.” The agent ran its grasping claw over the top of the toggle board, scrolling down the form to the next chart titled Current Bond Designation. “How long has the human been on the physical premises of the ship?”

  “Not just held the contract?” the captain asked, its eye dilating in surprise.

  “They bond with the objects in their immediate area, Captain,” the agent replied, not looking away from the holoscreen as it entered a few numbers into the spreadsheet.

  “I thought artificial cognizance was still tied up in patent suits. Is human technology so advanced?”

  “No. They don’t require their bond targets to be sentient.”

  “At all?” The captain glanced down at the box of pamphlet chips, but did not take one.

  “Have you never seen them name a ship? Many humans consider it possible to alter pure-chance reactions negatively to not name them,” the agent replied.

  “Deep-space zeppelins and whale ships have a certain level of awareness—”

  “Irrelevant, Captain. Humans have been observed to name their toasters.”

  “Their what?”

  “Low-tech space heaters for bread. A female human named one Fuzzy, though it was not, and cried when its cord got caught in a laser-peeler drawer.”

  “That’s … madness.”

  “Your first human, Captain?” the agent asked, scrolling down the spreadsheet again, skipping questions about scent trails and urine marks designed for other species.

  “New union requirement,” the captain replied. “Is it that obvious?”

  “The toaster reaction is quite typical, Captain. It’s why we offer the best discounts for human crewed vessels. Human captains have been shown to intentionally die with their ship simply to express their commitment to its survival—that they’d have died for it if it would have helped, so they’ll die if it wouldn’t.”

  “With no hope at all? Just … dying?” The captain slowly sank past the edge of the desk again.

  “So you can imagine what they’ll do if there is hope, Captain. Humans asphyxiate while occupied fitting their offspring or invalids with breath masks so often that human air suits play a reminder to secure their own masks before assisting others on repeat until their oxygen levels are stabilized.”

  “Olaf’s ovipositors!” The captain jetted upward.

  “Language, Captain, please!” the agent exclaimed, its eyestalks straightening to glare at the client. The captain’s skin rippled with displeasure, shifting blue.

  “Apologies,” it replied gruffly and squirted back from the desk.

  “Class 4 human bonds—including consistent physical contact, shared battle experience, or offspring, have an eighty-two percent success rate for self-sacrificial actions. They’re like sentient doliolids,” the agent explained, returning to its usual monotone.

  “Are they hive-minded?” the captain asked, subdued.

  “Sort of. Most of their reactions are determined by a colony of gut bacteria operating within a tube beneath their stomach, but each single human body thinks of itself as an individual mind without influence,” the agent replied, pushing the bowl of pamphlets a little closer to the captain.

  “They’re just …bacteria in a tube in a meat suit? But …how did they get into space?”

  “A few more questions, please, to determine the estimated class of pack bond your human will acquire. Has it made physical contact of any nonviolent sort with any of your crew?” the agent asked, ignoring the question.

  “No.”

  “Engaged in battle or endured any high-death-probability situations alongside any member of your crew?”

  “We’re a transport vessel …” the captain murmured.

  “Please answer the questions directly,” the agent replied, its eyes focused on the different charts it scrolled past.

  “No.”

  “Has it ever eaten food from the serving of another crew member?”

  “My first mate gave it a cricket cup once, but the human tossed it out half-eaten later,” the captain replied, wrapping one of its tentacles around the desk leg to pull itself closer.

  “Only the one time?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. One point there then …” the agent murmured, its claw squeezing at the toggles until the holoscreen switched to another form. “Has it shown copulation interest in any of your crew?”

  “We’re mostly cephaloids.”

  “I … see.” The agent flicked an eyestalk at the captain and glanced away.

  “Any relatives of the human on board?” it asked.

  “Still cephaloids …” the captain drawled.

  “Please answer the questions directly. Does it refer to any of the crew by shortened, disfigured, or unassigned designation names or labels?”

  “It calls my first mate O Captain Puffy, My Puffy.”

  “Does it show any affinity toward them?”

  “As a reproductive mate?”

  “For example,” the agent replied, pulling open the desk drawer and digging inside it with two of its side legs until it hauled out a memo stone to shove across the coral desk. “Does your human show any of these signs of courtship for allies or mating partners?”

  The cephaloid captain jerked closer to the memo stone in a short burst from its muscular siphon and clipped its beak against the hard table top. It backed up, pink again.

  “Does it
continually seek out an individual crew member with which to complain about the other crew members?” the captain read aloud, glancing up at the agent as if to check that the memo stone was not a prank. The agent stared back, waiting for an answer.

  “How would I know that? Wouldn’t it be complaining about me?”

  “It’s important to keep tabs on the conversation of your human crew members for insurance purposes, Captain. Most human bonding rituals occur in spoken dialogue,” the agent replied seriously. The captain returned to the memo stone.

  “Does it directly insult another crew member without any expectation that the crew member will be insulted? What does that mean?” the captain asked and the agent closed the desk drawer with a loud bang.

  “We get that question every time. Skip that one. It’s probably a misprint,” it replied and the captain’s eye glanced back at the memo.

  “No. None of these. Still … it’s possible a mating interest may develop. Can I update the premium if that occurs?” the captain asked, getting redder.

  “Yes, certainly. We can prorate any options you take from the date of copulation,” the agent replied, toggling the answers into the spreadsheet. It looked up finally and pulled a new chart up onto the holoscreen. “Optimum Insurance can only offer you a Class 1 Bonding Designation—which offers no premium benefits for the first three weeks.”

  “None? But the human costs 1,300,000 pezel credits a month!” the captain protested, ink bulging in its side sacks and painting its front black.

  “You could delay your insurance benefits until the thirtieth,” the agent suggested, its grasping claw hovering over the toggle board. “After that point, there will be a graduated benefit plan which can be upgraded at any evidence of increased emotional ties.”

  “Impossible! We enter deep space on Friday. This is why unions should not have a say in hiring decisions!” the captain growled, its serrated beak flashing in the low-fusion light. The insurance agent ignored its complaint and skittered across the hard floor to the other side of the small office to unlock one of the filing cabinets lining the back wall.

  “A class three designation will take an extra 600,000 pezels off your monthly premium, if you’d like to try to upgrade your human integration program,” it said, extracting a few data chips from the drawer, delicately clamped in its pinching claw, and making its way back toward its desk, dodging the fake kelp plant in the corner. It pushed the chips into the control module and pulled up a sample insurance addendum.

  “That doesn’t even cover the cost of the human’s contract!” the captain protested.

  “It is the best we can offer, captain. A new human does not offer increased ship protection until after that initial bonding period is complete,” it ordered and the captain pulled a sucker over its head again.

  “What does a class two bond require?”

  “If I may, Captain, we offer multiple human integration programs.”

  “Well, the contract is already signed. Might as well throw good money after bad.”

  “Humans can be invaluable, Captain. There’s no alien you’d want more in a crisis. For the quickest bonding experience I would suggest you arrange a battle in which the human takes a decisive action to the benefit of its crew—they can bond by habit on occasion—and what they’ve done once they’re likely to repeat,” the agent replied calmly, pulling a brochure up on the holoscreen. A video hologram of a human pulling a group of promons from a burning engine room played on repeat.

  “We’re a transport vessel traveling between two of the most regulated black hole ports in the known universe. It’s not likely,” the captain commented dryly.

  “May I suggest your ship gets hit by an oddly-untraceable asteroid and requires a dangerous repair mission to save the life of everyone on board, to which your human is randomly assigned if it does not volunteer? We offer the full program on CDEcho-three and sixteen li-years off Andromeda, both on your way. The Adamantium Package includes a publicity bulletin sent to other humans to reinforce the hero self-image of your human. That will earn you six points and you can get a discount on your security premium, as the package includes certification in hull-breach alarm responses if you buy within twenty four hours of registering for Optimum Insurance. With four more points it would pay for itself.”

  The captain groaned.

  “We can offer you a class four bonding option, which will take 1,200,000 pezels off your premium,” the agent announced, switching the hologram to another display of charts. The captain’s ink sacks began to drain, returning it to its natural green color. “Just make sure it has reached a class two bond before the program’s start date.”

  “All right. What do I have to do?” the captain asked, its tentacles dangling limply.

  “Humans will do most of their pack bonding left to their own devices, but there are tried-and-true ways to speed the process up. Will it eat with your crew or on its own?” the agent asked, pushing away from the control module to focus on the captain again.

  “At the same shift designation or—”

  “Physical premises, captain. The closer the better, up to a distance of one half human arm-length measured from the shoulder. Beyond that, the human becomes territorial,” the agent answered.

  “We’ll measure its arms when it comes aboard,” the captain promised and the agent nodded swiftly.

  “Will it be sleeping with or near any of the crew?”

  “… Yes?” the captain guessed and the agent clicked its pinchers together in a slow applause. The captain reached out a tentacle to take a pamphlet chip from the offered bowl. The agent bobbed its eyestalks, pleased, and the captain quietly pulled another chip from the bowl.

  “For my first mate,” it murmured.

  “O Captain Puffy, My Puffy,” the agent commented dryly, pushing its pincher back into the control module with a squelch. “So the human will join the transport ship expecting a pleasant, safe journey across the galaxy with its luggage. Adversity can be quite bonding; captains often arrange for luggage and room tickets to be misplaced for up to three days, forcing a small group of humans to suffer without their effects together. The results are quite promising,” the agent related, dragging the displaced bowl of external drives back to its spot.

  “All right. It’ll lose its luggage and spend three days on a bed net in the air deck. I have a few promon aboard; they can join it,” the captain agreed easily, pulling a seaweed roll and pen from its satchel. It unrolled the seaweed to an empty page and began scratching notes.

  “Excellent. Make sure the human works near those promon, with an air-voice translator. Is O Captain Puffy, My Puffy very furred?”

  “Excuse me?” the captain asked and the agent waved its small grasping claw, dismissing the protest.

  “Humans will bond and initiate physical contact with strangers proportionate to the length of carotin in their skin follicles,” the agent explained.

  “Fuzziness?’ the captain asked and the agent bobbed its eyestalks again. “Uh …yes, O’Captain—That is … my first mate is fuzzy.”

  “Excellent. You said you were applying for engineering detail?” the agent asked.

  The captain waved a tentacle back and forth indecisively, its skin undulating again. “What precisely does that mean?” it asked and the agent let out a heavy release of bubbles.

  “Humans are incredibly innovative, Captain. It’s a direct result of their insanity. If your human has been educated in deep space communications or electromagnetic propulsion systems, you will be able to register for a research grant for any travel expenses beyond 2,000,000 li’years from charted space. Optimum Insurance has allied with the Federation’s programs in research and development and we offer a two-month free premium for that same sector, covering up to 200,000,000 pezel credits of property damage and 1,000,000 pezel credits of life insurance.”

  “That’s a worthless amount of life insurance,” the captain complained.

  “It won’t be needed, Captain. Not with a
human on board.”

  “Why is deep space travel subsidized?”

  “Only with a human,” the agent insisted.

  “Because they self-sacrifice?”

  “No, Captain. Because if anything goes wrong, your human will get you home. And your human will get you home in an entirely new way.”

  “They’re bacteria in a meat suit!” the captain exclaimed, flapping its front tentacles erratically.

  “They breathe a flammable gas and contain some of alien life’s strongest acids in their stomach. They eat asteroids, Captain, and they mapped tetraquarks before their first extraspecies contact. Don’t underestimate them. This is a species that visited its moon before developing external computation with no intent to gather any consumable resources there. Nothing but a few chunks of it to ‘prove they’d done it’—seemingly to themselves. Your human will get you where you’re going. Are you interested in taking advantage of the scenic route to the Omega Colonies?”

  “Free insurance, you said?” the captain asked, slowly rising toward the top of the room.

  “For two months, Captain. And that grant includes fuel.”

  “Oh, eggsacks. It’s the only way we’ll turn a profit with these requirements,” the captain admitted, turning to squish itself back toward the floor. “With these insurance options every idiot and their ectoplasm will be traveling through deep space, keel-hauling their token human.”

  “It’ll mark a revolution in space exploration. Your human might be the first alien to discover inorganic life!” the agent replied, waving its claws in enthusiasm.

  “And by the sound of it, it’ll proceed to hug it to death,” the captain growled.

  “Inorganic life is very unlikely to be fuzzy in any way,” the agent protested, and the captain groaned. “Their curiosity is valuable, Captain. It could save your life.”

  “I’m a transport vessel captain!” it repeated, throwing its tentacles up around its beak again.

  “You’re going into deep space, now,” the agent pointed out, scratching at the back of its carapace with its large pinching claw.

  “Because of the flopping human!” the captain shouted, and the agent bobbed its eyestalks.