by Amir Naaman
She wondered whether that document was fabricated propaganda. How can she be sure humans never appreciated the beauty of their world?
Ona thought of the lessons she received at the fundament before departing to sector 2047. Most travelling to the sector for work, including Ur, didn’t bother going on such courses, but she wanted to learn about the place she would have to call home for a while.
Amongst the things they debated at the fundament was the question whether humans had a civilisation. This question cropped up regularly and was hotly contested. She can still remember her professor explaining that whilst humans themselves thought they, or some of them at least, had a civilisation or (more bizarrely) a series of civilizations separated by time and/or geography, this did not actually mean they were right. Just because native beings think something is true does not make it so, the professor explained. After all, their art was repetitive, their science laughably limited and they had very little respect for one another and, least of all, to the world in which they lived. No, the professor argued, you can call it what you like but civilization it was not. Yet Ona was troubled that some of these implied failings were also present in her sector and yet every time she raised the point, she was told that human failings were of much greater magnitude and moral repugnancy.
The decision to invade, taken by the elders of sectors 1 to 3, was not made lightly, she was constantly assured, and there was ample documentation for her to pour through if she wanted to reassure herself about the reasoning behind it. But every time she tried to go through the countless reports and hearings, she found herself falling asleep due to the dryness of the material.
What was surprising is that humans failed to grasp the inevitability of their defeat, the professor said. They actually put up a fight. This didn’t happen immediately, because when the Alliance forces first arrived they picked Centre Point as their first base, which took many by surprise.
Centre Point was a city that humans referred to as Baggy-Dad or a sound similar to that, at any rate. Humans in the elite Western and Eastern parts of sector 2047 were particularly surprised, indeed insulted, that it was not one of their own cities that had been occupied first. They had always imagined—through their so-called art—hat this would be the case in the eventuality of what they called a ‘space invasion’. And their ‘intellectuals’ speculated wildly why Baggy-Dad was picked above cities such as Newey Pork or Lindon or Beige-in. Was it location? Climate? Geography? Or the fact that Baggy-Dad was already war-torn and its inhabitants weary of fighting that attracted the ‘aliens’ to it?
Ona remembered her professor digressing: ‘It’s funny what words humans use to refer to us. In one of their dominant languages they describe us as ‘aliens’, a horrid term. Whereas humans in Centre Point who speak Arabaic, call us ‘ka-in-at-fatha-i-ya’ or something similar sounding, which means space creatures, an arguably more neutral term. Of course what they should call us, based on logic if nothing else, is their betters. I mean how hard is it to work out that if we have crossed all that vast distance to get to their sector, we would be technologically superior and, therefore, their betters? But then humans were never that good at logic’.
Something about that argument struck Ona as suspect, but before she had time to think about it further the professor had moved on to the next point.
When Baggy-Dad was first colonised, the rest of sector 2047 were alarmed but not to the point of taking decisive action. But soon they learnt that unlike a virus outbreak or a rampaging fanatical armed group, this threat could not be ignored for very long. Baggy-Dad proved to be an excellent base for the Alliance from which to spread north, south, east and west, and conquer in relatively little time the entirety of sector 2047. What was odd, the professor pointed out, is that humans eventually did this thing which they called resistance. It was the only time that all flavours of humans: white, pink, black, brown and yellow, united for a common purpose. This flicker of brilliance came too late, however, and in the end it was possible to defeat humans by making deals with some of their more powerful members. It is rumoured that a select few who collaborated with the Alliance were spared slavery and subjugation.
It is not clear where these exceptions are living now. Some say they were teleported to the caves of sector 30789345647898765490867543456789456784125679034.
Ur was also lost in thought, but he wasn’t contemplating the history of sector 2047. He was thinking about his job, instead. Sorting clerks such as himself were needed after the liquidation to catalogue everything. Throw out the useless, keep what was relevant to the Alliance and, most importantly, destroy all remnants of so-called human culture that can give rise to resistance. It is amazing, Ur thought, how one can carry out as complex a task as the invasion of an entire sector with the absolute minimum of knowledge.
Ur consulted databases that gave him the information he needed to catalogue but he rarely had to dig deep into details. There simply was no time to be thorough considering the volume of work. Occasionally, the databases had some missing information and Ur would have to activate protocol 7 in order to investigate the item he was cataloguing, using information that humans themselves had kept about it. This was generally discouraged and a sorting clerk could not activate protocol 7 more than 3 times in any given work cycle, otherwise alarms would sound with the upperups.
Once Ur had come across a book made out of something called paper. It carried a drawing on the front of a bald human with a huge white collar, looking apprehensively at the viewer. The information on this particular human was very sketchy and nowhere near as detailed as say the entries on anatomy books that were of particular interests to cooks working for the Alliance. Ur was able to find out that this male wrote words that humans kept repeating for centuries, often on a stage, for the ‘entertainment’ of other humans. This illustrated handsomely the point often made about the limitation of human art and its inherently repetitive nature.
Yet as Ur went through the book, he found the stories oddly compelling despite their often preposterous and primitive plots made, perhaps, more intriguingly opaque by the fog of a double translation (Ur was deciphering the book, which had been translated into Arabiac from its original language, with the aid of an interpretation device). Yet despite the language barriers, he found himself laughing at a macabre joke in one of those stories about a human trying to avenge the murder of the male that gave rise to him, but failing to do so in odd and elaborate ways.
Everyone in the sorting chamber where Ur was working turned to look at him with surprise and concern as he struggled to stifle his laughter. To stop the situation from escalating further, Ur forced himself to think about how humans had failed to work out the laws of nature required for making intergalactic travel possible, and so was able to overcome his momentary fascination with the book and tap into his old feelings of revulsion towards this inferior species. And it is only when he could viscerally feel his own superiority to them that balance to his psyche was restored.
Such a crisis never happened again after that and Ur made excellent progress in his work. What he now wanted more than anything was to be promoted to head of filing. Tonight was his chance to further himself if he could only make the right contacts. This is what his mind was focused on.
As the lift continued descending, the fish finally caught his eyes. Their colours and beauty slowly managed to break through his self-centred thoughts. He looked over at Ona and wondered about the cause of their unhappiness. What if he were to be promoted? What then? Well, they could make more credit and return to sector 3 sooner. Will their return bring back happy times? Their relationship was crumbling and he was failing to grasp the reason. All he knew was that it was causing him and Ona tremendous pain.
The platform reached level seven-eighths. The guests walked through a dimly lit and wide corridor which opened onto the vast arena of the inferno hall. Everyone made their way to the front. At the far end of the hall was a stage. Loud music was playing and light effects were illuminat
ing the ensuing action.
Ur and Ona were seated at a table along with several other guests, all couples. Ur realised they were in an exclusive part of the hall, as everyone around looked very snazzy. Of course this would be the case, he thought, as the tickets belonged to his boss who was constantly socialising to further his career. Models were parading the latest winter collection on stage including a coat made out of sheepskin (what humans described as woollen). The buttons of the coat were made from steel-enforced human fingers, chemically treated so as not to decompose. An elegant design, thought Ur. Ona, however, looked ashen-faced as she stared at the models, but Ur could not be sure of that was due to the low lighting.
He noticed some of the other guests reaching for something inside a set of jars placed at the centre of each table. They picked it up with thin steel forks and placed it in their mouths as their bodies bobbed in time to the music. Ur glanced at the couple next to him. The male looked familiar. Ur decided to take a chance, he had to break the ice and get to speak to some of these upperups. A chance like this doesn’t come often.
He leaned over to the male sitting next to him and pointing at the content of the jar in front of them asked, ‘What are these? They look like pickles’. The male answered but Ur couldn’t hear him due to the loud music. He cupped his ear and said, ‘Say that again’. The male shouted in his ear. ‘Oh, okay!’ Ur’s eyes lit up. It suddenly dawned on him that the male was none other than the Chief Archivist, responsible for firing and hiring all heads of filing.
Ur smiled meekly and said, ‘I’ve never tried these before.’ He picked up the fork in front of him and plunged it into the jar. He had to fish around until the teeth of his fork hooked into their target. He pulled out his catch and popped it into his mouth. ‘Mmm. Zingy!’ he declared, as if approving of the food could win him the Chief Archivist’s favour.
Ona was always less daring when it came to trying new food. She asked, ‘What is it, Ur? What are you eating?’
‘It’s a foetus, sugarlump. They are a delicacy. Do you want to try?’
Ona’s face clouded over. She then looked at the guests, munching away at these small human creatures. Ur instantly realised what she was thinking, that the foetuses could not have been gathered in such quantities unless they were aborted by artificial means.
On the stage, a gorgeous female from sector 1 was modelling a spring dress made from stitched nipples.
Ona looked nauseous. ‘I need to cleanse.’ She got up from the table and began to run toward a cleansing chamber.
‘Wait ! Ona…’ Ur shouted. Everyone at the table, including the Chief Archivist, looked at him. He smiled meekly to convey that nothing serious was taking place.
Ur didn’t know what to do. Should he stay and continue socialising with the Chief Archivist or go after his wife? In the end he excused himself, left the table, his pace increasing the further he got away from the Chief Archivist. Once out of sight down the corridor, Ur started to pursue Ona. But it seemed she wouldn’t pause to let him catch up. It seemed she wasn’t even sure if she wanted him around at that moment.
The dimly lit corridor went on for what seemed forever. There were many bars, shops and clubs on either side. Other doors had no signs and were not transparent. Finally he saw Ona reach the cleansing chamber and, once inside, lowered her head into a basin. Her skull labia opened and undigested food, mixed with urine, erupted in thick ejaculations.
Ur walked in and steadied her by holding onto her neck with one hand and her short tail with the other. ‘Let it all out,’ he said. When her skull closed again. Ur ran the tap to wash off any remaining traces of vomit on the top of her head. He then dried her with some paper napkins.
‘Leave me alone,” she said, as she pushed him away.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I hate this place’
‘We can leave if you want. I think the exit is this-’ but Ona didn’t let him finish the sentence.
‘I hate sector 2047. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!’
‘Hey, hey calm down.’
‘We should’ve never come here. We were happy back home. We just got greedy because of the salary they were offering you and we didn’t stop to think, not for one milicount, about these poor creatures. I can’t bear to think what we’ve done to them. I mean, eating their unborn, really? Really, Ur?’
It took Ur a few seconds to realise what Ona was talking about and what had upset her.
‘They’re just humans, sugarlump.’
‘I know they’re just humans but they have feelings, don’t they?’
‘I suppose.’
‘It’s wrong, Ur. And we’re being punished for what we are doing to them. This is why it’s no good…it’s no good between us anymore’.
Ur had always found Ona’s belief in the ‘Setter of the Cosmological Constant’ and his powers to punish and reward endearingly anachronistic, but right at that moment it irritated him immensely. Still, he was determined to placate her.
Sugarlump…’ Ur tried to hug Ona. She pushed him away with greater vigour than the previous time.
‘Stop calling me that. It’s such a stupid word’.
Ur was hurt. ‘But sugar is the most important fuel for all organisms in all the known-’
‘I don’t give a shitlump!’ Ona interrupted.
Ur reached out to her and once again she rejected him. ‘I can’t stand you touching me anymore.’
Ur was beginning to panic. He’d never seen Ona so agitated before. So he stood still until her breathing went back to normal. His mind drifted towards the Chief Archivist. There was still time to go back, apologise for their sudden departure, blame it on Ona’s delicate stomach and resume the conversation that could, if he played it right, lead to the promotion he desperately wanted and deserved. But then Ona said, ‘I’m not going back to the inferno hall, Ur. No way.’
Ur could not believe that he had come so close to achieving his aim for the night, only for it to be swept away by something as trivial as a foetus. But then a pang of guilt swept through him like electricity. He looked at Ona and he was ashamed of his naked ambition.
Finally, he said, ‘It’s alright. But let’s at least get a drink before we leave; I spotted a bar down the corridor when I was running after you. It looked quiet.’
Ona didn’t reply or even nod, but the look she gave him was no longer hostile.
He walked down the corridor and she walked a few paces behind him. Halfway towards the bar someone called out to them.
‘Hey! Yoohoo! Yes, you, come in. Come in.’
A door had opened. A door that Ur could have sworn was previously closed.
‘Come in. Don’t be afraid, that’s it. Come in.’
Ur and Ona walked through the door. The room was a small bar. It could not seat more than half a dozen people. It glowed with a soft blue light, giving the effect of a moon-lit night in a rural part of sector 2047. Blue light also came through the opaque surface of the bar. Behind the counter stood a tall, dark, semi-naked, heavily made-up.
‘Hermaphrodite!’ Ur said this out loud, then instantly regretted being so careless.
‘That’s right, sweetheart. Kuszib is the name and bartending is the game. What’s up, sugar? Is that sweet little thing your ‘Mrs’? Mrs…what a strange little native word.’
‘I’ve read about you,’ Ur said in the same hypnotised voice he had uttered the word ‘hermaphrodite’.
‘Oh, I do hope it was suitably scandalous,’
‘I don’t mean you specifically. I mean about your kind.’
‘My kind? Do you mean bartenders? You must be a discerning business traveler who reads all those hoity-toity journals.’
‘You are from sector 96. The only place where conditions allowed highly evolved hermaphrodites to thrive.’
‘Allowed.’ The hermaphrodite rolled the word over its tongue. ‘No one allows anything in this universe, sugar. Shit happens because shit can happen.’
‘Or because the Sett
er wills it,’ Ona interjected.
‘Oh, you’re so cute,’ Kuszib said, patting her on the head and turning to Ur: ‘Can I keep her?’
Ur was still hypnotised.
‘Something the matter, sugar?’ Kuszib inquired.
‘Sorry, it’s just I’ve never met your kind before.’
‘Your kind, your kind, your kind!’ snapped the hermaphrodite. ‘You are not too kind, gentle sir, for harping on my kind.’
‘Come again?’
‘Oh, surely,’ and with that the hermaphrodite began to rub one of its tentacles until it hardened then it inserted it into an orifice located beneath its left nipple.
‘Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. That’s fucking gooooood!’
Ona giggled. ‘Ur, is he…’
‘Yes, darling,’ Ur replied meekly.
‘Did he just…orga?’
The hermaphrodite answered her: ‘Not yet my lady. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Yeaaaaaaa!’ Then talking to its thrusting tentacle: ‘That’s it, space cowboy. Ride it. Oh yes, yes, yes. There. That’s it. That’s the spot. Oh right there…there…no…a little to the left—’
The tentacle, one of three protruding out of the hermaphrodite’s navel, swayed to the left and began to pound the sub-nipple orifice with great vigour.
‘Ride it. Ride it. Ride it. Ride it. Ride it. Ride it. Ride it. Ride it. Ride it. Ride it, you big love barnacle!’
Shouting all the above, the hermaphrodite knocked several bottles arranged neatly on a glass shelves behind it with its two arms and two free tentacles, while its body writhed like a spaceship crossing an event horizon.