by Inc. HDWP
While all the Humans had the same bipedal construction, there was enough differences in skin tone, height, and weight that she was able to sort them loosely into phenotypes. The diversity thrilled her and brought years of lessons to vibrant reality.
She was tired of her parents telling her how lucky she was to live on the research station, how few teenagers got to meet and learn from the scientists of three planetary systems, and how good the experience would look on her resume. Blah, blah, blah. There was a sanitized version of galactic history and anthropology, and then there was a real experience. Leila was beginning to suspect her father hated actual living cultures. He preferred to sniff around the leavings of planets long dead.
Well, she was very much alive and so was this planet and this city. After walking for hours, she was pleasantly tired. Now all she had to do was figure out where to den for the night. Maybe she could find an empty room somewhere. Leila was used to roughing it. She was born on one of her parent's many digs, and long ago lost count of the number of places they had dragged her through.
Even through the camouflage on her arms and face, the radiation from an actual sun felt glorious on her skin. It was so much nicer than the solar chambers on the station. She closed her eyes and tipped her face towards the sky, wanting to drink it in. A low growl made the hair along her arms bristle and she snapped her eyes open. A young man struggled to hold one end of a tether to keep his animal from lunging at her. The fur along the quadruped's back was raised in a line of hackles that stretched from neck to tail. It was a canine, one of many creatures the enterprising Humans had domesticated.
She wondered what it smelled through its long quivering snout.
I'm bigger than you, and probably a lot more dangerous, she thought, flexing her odd, squared off claws. Not that her people hunted for survival any more than the Humans did, but she still had most of the equipment.
“I don't know what's gotten into him. He's usually. . .”
Leila ignored the person and stared the dog down. She relaxed her throat and let a high pitched, nearly inaudible trill roll into the rich air. The animal yelped and edged away from her, ducking between its Human's legs.
“No problem,” she said, smiling.
* * *
Leila had been planning this for more than a year, ever since her parents had brought home the material from that anthro program. She'd spent her whole life being dragged from one project to another in her father's quest for galactic renown. Her parents just assumed she would follow in their tracks. Paleo-anthropology was a dead science, or maybe a dead-end one. They either studied burned-out civilizations or ones going nowhere fast. What her father called fieldwork consisted of peering from a hole in the ground and writing notes that no one would ever even read, outside of maybe two or three of his jealous colleagues. Leila looked up at the sky, or what she could see of it that wasn't obscured by rows and rows of dark structures. This was fieldwork.
It was amazing. Not the buildings. Leila had seen many cities across many worlds that were more impressive, though these, at least, were not crumbling. No, what she loved was the sensory assault--the blur of color and sound and scent of all these people moving through the streets. Even through her borrowed gear it was glorious. She reveled in the difference from the stale, recycled air she'd been living with most of her life.
She let herself get swept along in the tide of humanity. Even if her parents found out where she had gone, they would have a hard time tracking her here. Leila stopped in front of an open-air stall selling newspapers. You could learn a lot from studying a culture's media. As much as she hated to admit it, she did have her father's endless curiosity. It was just what they found interesting that diverged. As she sorted through a handful of coins, Leila studied the piles of paper. She nabbed one with tiny print and lots of pages. A splash of color caught her eye as she handed over the money to the ink-stained hands of the proprietor. The masthead read, The Morning Star. “That one, too,” she said.
The man laughed. “Times and The Star. Quite a combo, lady.”
Across the street, in a large open expanse of green, dozens of natives sat or sprawled out on benches under the late-afternoon sunshine to read their newspapers. Leila joined them, feeling like quite a New Yorker herself. She looked at the first paper she bought, but the small print made her adapted eyes water. The Star had bigger print and less of it with lots of brightly colored photographs. It seemed . better place to start. Besides, maybe she'd find something Georgie had written.
She smoothed the paper out on her lap and studied the front page. The large print across the top was easy to read, but the words shocked her to the core. Alien Human Hybrid: Girl Born with Prehensile Tail. Leila's heart beat triple time. Impossible. Everyone knew this was a level four planet. Strictly pre-contact. Isolated. That's why they were here studying it.
She dropped the paper with shaking hands, two thoughts burning in her head. Her father was going to kill her, and this wasn't the pristine planet everyone thought it was. The fur on the back of her head fanned out beneath her wig. She drew in air through her sensitive nose, but with the filters blunting its impact, she couldn't tell what was threat and what was normal. Was anybody watching her? Leila grabbed the papers and left the park. As long as she was walking randomly, no one could track her.
Unless they had DNA scanners.
She forced herself not to move any faster than the people around her. No one knew she was here--not her parents, not the station command, no one. No one here would have any reason to look for her. As long as she didn't do anything stupid, she was going to be okay.
She crossed the street to purchase water in a sealed bottle. That should be safe. The smell of the grilled meat sandwich made her stomach gurgle and she splurged with more of her precious money. The food was more primitive than she was used to eating, but her ancestors probably hunted for nourishment not too much different than this. Figuring amino acids were amino acids. Leila ate the whole thing, licking her fingers clean. The salt was nice. The water tasted exactly like water should. With a full belly, Leila felt a little more settled and a lot less paranoid. She unfolded the Star again and looked at the cover page. Maybe this was the break she needed. If Earth already had alien encounters, then she hadn't done any harm in coming here.
Leila started laughing, ignoring the looks the passersby gave her. All that preparation for nothing. Hiding her claws, her eyes, her pelt, her fangs. Spending all that time learning local dialects and studying Earth culture. The endless hours studying holos. And all along, her father didn't know. He didn't know what she had been planning and he didn't know that his precious dead-end, isolated culture was anything but.
She couldn't wait to tell Tannar.
Hordes of people streamed out of buildings and onto the streets as day turned to evening. It wouldn't get too cold at night during this season and she could easily take the claw caps off and climb into one of the big trees in the park, but the newspaper article changed things. It's not like she really had to hide, though she didn't see many obvious looking aliens in the flow around her. She tapped her false fingernails against the fabric of her trousers. Paper rustled in her pocket. Reaching in, she pulled out the small rectangular card. Georgie Ryder. Managing Editor. The Morning Star. Beneath the name of the paper was another row of smaller letters and numbers: 149 West 26th street.
Leila looked up. The signpost at the corner read 37th street. The city was roughly a grid--intelligent design there -- and it shouldn’t be much further to walk. She nodded, her feet already hastening toward the address. If anyone could help her find the off-world expatriate community, she was certain Georgie could.
* * *
There was a small plaque for The Morning Star squeezed between a t-shirt shop and a nail salon. Leila glanced at her odd-looking hands and the artificial nail covers. Maybe the reason she didn't see any other off-worlders was because it was all about fitting in. She was glad she went to so much trouble th
en.
According to the building directory, the paper's office was on the sixth floor. She rode the elevator alone, feeling little flutters in her stomach. Would Georgie help her. Or would the older woman just turn around and contact her parents. Leila supposed there were about a hundred laws she'd broken just being here.
The door slid open. Oh well, no turning back now.
A cacophony of sound assaulted her as she stepped out of the elevator. It reminded her of a jungle planet her parents had been stationed on once. Every sunrise and sunset, the noise from the birds was this deafening. The room was full of people calling back and forth and shouting to be heard over other noises—equipment buzzing, beeping, and ringing. Laughter rose in waves overlapping the conversations and Leila froze against the wall.
“Leila, what a lovely surprise!.
Georgie popped up beside her, smiling broadly. How had the woman moved so silently and so fast?
“I found your paper,” Leila stammered. Now that she was here, she felt stupid. She couldn't even manage a full day before running to a grown-up for help. So much for making it on her own.
“I'm so glad you did. Come on in.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother anyone. . .”
“No bother. Welcome to the home of the Morning Star.”
As they talked, the room fell silent. Her ears rang. She wanted desperately to be somewhere else.
Georgie put her arm around Leila's shoulder and guided her through the crowded room. Everyone stared at her.
“We don't get many visitors here. Don't worry. It's more comfortable in my office."
Leila just nodded and stumbled along in Georgie's grip. The woman shepherded her into a small, tidy office that was clean and spare. The wall beside the desk was covered by an enormous map of Earth's continents. The surface was marked with scores of little pushpins.
“Have a seat.”
She dropped into the battered chair in front of the desk.
Better?”
Leila nodded again.
“It gets a little crazy out there, especially near deadline. So what can I do for you, Leila Estrano?”
What did she want? Now she wasn't so sure. She pointed to the front page of the paper. “I want to talk to the person who wrote this.”
Georgie lifted one eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”
“I want. . . I want to stay here." Leila looked at the floor. “I mean, if someone like that can live here." She stammered to a stop. From the moment she hatched this plan, she knew there was no going back. Despite what she had told herself and Tannar, she wasn't going back to an endless parade of temporary homes, spending month after month digging up fragments of a forgotten past or watching her father argue endlessly about the significance of some shard of some stupid artifact. Next time, he should just find someone to ask.
Leila looked up. Georgie stared at her, her head cocked to one side. “I wrote that article, Leila.”
She had been right. Georgie would know where other off-worlders were. She let out the breath she'd been holding.
“Do your parents know you're here?”
“No." Leila swallowed hard. “They don't understand. I've been dragged behind their careers all my life." She straightened her shoulders and swept her tongue along the flat tooth caps. It would be nice not having to wear them all the time. “I'm not going back.”
She half expected Georgie to argue with her. That's what her mother would have done. Her father would have glared across the dinner table and the next day, Leila would end up doing what he wanted anyway.
“Look, I'm smart. I've scored top levels at all my exams, and I'm not lazy.” Georgie nodded and Leila ran on. “I thought at first I could just show them all how resourceful I was, getting here and back without being discovered. I know it's breaking quarantine, but I knew I could do it. I mean, the study teams go back and forth all the time." She shook her head. “It doesn't matter what I thought. This isn't a level four at all. There's no reason I can't stay." Shaking out the newspaper, she smiled at the photo of the baby with the tail. It was grainy and hard to see, but she could trace the line of the tiny tail as it curled back along the baby's spine.
“Leila?” Georgie's voice was soft and her odd eyes never left Leila's face. “You know what kind of paper the Star is, don't you?”
Leila furrowed her brow.
“It's entertainment. Me and all those people out there. We make these stories up. Every single one of them.”
Georgie’s unfamiliar, flat features were unreadable. Leila's stomach heaved. The food she had so enjoyed earlier pushed up against her throat. Heat flooded her face and she stood so quickly, the chair tipped behind her. The paper slipped to the floor. How could she have been so incredibly stupid. Her father was going to have her claws for this. It could be the end of his career. What had she done?
Level fours. Emerging technology, high paranoia.
Leila backed towards the door, a nervous purr vibrating through her chest.
She had to get out of there. She had to get back to her skimmer before Georgie called the authorities. Before they captured her.
“Leila, it's quite all right,” Georgie said, her voice low and soothing, a strange hum filling the room.
Leila reached behind her and groped for the door knob with her clumsy hands.
“We're really good at what we do,” Georgie said. “Some of us better than others. I suspect you'd fit right in.”
“What?. Leila froze, the door halfway opened. The noise from the newsroom jangled against her ears.
“Ever consider a career in journalism?”
“Excuse me?” Leila's pulse kept racing, as if she were already running for her life, but her feet felt like they were captured by heavy gravity.
“I think the Star would have a place on the masthead for someone of your unique skills and talents.”
Georgie winked and for a moment it seemed as if the woman had two eyelids, one that closed top to bottom, the other that swept side to side. It happened so fast, Leila couldn't be certain. Her hand fell from the door knob.
Georgie pulled a blue thumbtack from her desk drawer. Smiling, she looked Leila over from her head to her feet, and glanced at the map. “Now then, where shall we say you're from?”
Singularity
Jeremiah Lewis
“You don’t seem surprised.”
Dr. Silverman pushed his glasses forward on his nose, eyeing Jake with curiosity. Jake had been expecting this moment. Seven months prior, he’d begun shedding pounds. He went from a deuce plus eight-five to just under a hundred, the fat just shriveling up. He was ecstatic at the weight loss, having always been a heavy man. Hitting one-seventy, on his frame--that was cause for celebration; or so he thought. His coworkers at first were impressed. “New diet, Jake?” they’d asked, as if it were a car or a haircut. But it was the anorexia that gave him his first pangs of doubt. He’d never before felt anguish at the sight of a plate of food. His frame, once a rotunda of flesh, was now a wafer. The change in his desire for food was what prompted him to first begin inquiries. Now, the definitive answer had arrived in the form of a pile of numbers on a chart, readable only by clinical eyes.
He shook hands and said “Thanks for this, Doctor,” in a dull voice. Silverman smiled the polite, slightly removed smile of a man long used to giving bad news to patients. The two had nothing more to say.
Maybe a half hour later he was in the lobby, waiting for the intake nurse to hand him his paperwork. The lobby television had a report on in the background, its sound slightly above a whisper. He’d ignored it at first, because unconsciously, he was ignoring everything but the sound of his footsteps; the rhythm of his shoes on hospital tile a safe repetition. In his head, he was thinking of his next steps; planning things out. He was like that. Methodical. Careful. He was a consummate boy scout. Though he’d never been one himself.
The video, shot from a helicopter, revealed what looked like
a sinkhole; it was framed as to fill the whole screen. That was just like the media; to mold everything into scales grand and apocalyptic. This report was framed by red banners above and below. Scrolling white and yellow text fluttered in the lower third of the screen, while blue and red emergency high-gloss art surrounded the rolling footage--a psychological vignette that screamed WARNING DANGER BE AFRAID! (But Don’t Change The Channel).
A quick zoom-out gave context to the thing. It appeared to be about the size of a small house. The ground around it had a sheen, as if covered with a thin sheet of glass. The hole itself was black, the sides leading into the depths also covered with the gloss.
The nurse handed him a folder. She asked for his signature on the insurance form, glanced back at her computer and thanked him, never once looking at his face. He hardly noticed.
Jake turned to leave, catching the view on the TV again. It was a new view this time, shot from the ground at the outskirts of the sinkhole. A security officer was at the edge of the crater. He stepped closer to the edge of the hole, his foot brushing the gleaming dirt. And then he seemed to stick there in midair. The guard's face was now all sweat and fear. He shouted something. He tried to pull away, but it was as if he was a penny nail and the void was a magnet. The camera was zoomed in, and Jake could see the guard twist, his face grimacing. The guard fell over, his body now caught halfway between the blackness and the solid ground. Jake watched, fascinated, not yet horrified. The camera view jostled, the picture going wonky. Faint audio came through--pathetic high-pitched whines that could have been coming from the guard, whose extrications had only pulled him further into the black void. And then a curious thing happened: the guard stopped moving completely. His face went rigid. His hands stopped making that swimming motion, and his pose was almost comic, like a really talented mime who was pretending to be stuck in the air. A swell of sound from the crowd gathered became a roar; a roar where it was happening. It was barely audible through the TV speakers. The news feed switched back to the studio, anchors' concerned faces smoothing over quickly. Panic wasn't user-friendly.