by Ian Creasey
“By the Earth-Stypei Treaty of The Twenty-Third Local Year of Our Interaction, as amended, suspected Stypean sympathizers may be detained by duly empowered authorities only so long as the unbreachable sovereignty of the Stypean body-host is not violated, and only for the purpose of deportation upon confirmation of Stypean inhabitance. Tests to determine inhabitance are only permissible if they do not breach body-host sovereignty in any fashion. The breaching of a body-host as well as the deportation of a non-Stypean body host to Stypean space shall constitute an act of war and a resumption of hostilities between the two worlds.”
Sub-Ambassador Dolen placed the document on the table.
“What that means is,” he said while Willie read, “– well, in simple terms: if you’re inhabited, your entire body, down to your cell membranes, is a Stypean embassy. While we have many tests to determine inhabitance, the absolute sanctity in which Stypeans hold the inviolable boundaries of their host bodies prohibits most of them. No blood tests, no saliva swabs.”
Willie looked at him blankly. Dolen sighed, and with poorly concealed boredom said, “Bit of a problem for us. We pretty much have to guess whom to deport. If we guess wrong either way, hostilities resume.” Dolen then spoke firmly, increasing by a notch or two the seriousness of the situation.
“Fortunately, we have non-invasive tests which so far are one-hundred percent accurate.” This wasn’t entirely true. They had never deported falsely, but they had no way of knowing how many inhabited hosts had passed the test and remained on earth.
“We are allowed to monitor your reactions to the tests, response time, theta wave production, pupil dilation, stuff like that. Since the tests are non-invasive, refusal to take them means – and if you’re Stypean, please forgive the sickening crudity of the term, but it is the kindest one our savage Earth language allows – if you decline to take the test, we may violate your host-sovereignty to the point of cessation of life forces.”
Dolen smiled. “No need to be afraid. We won’t. Even if you take the test and are found to be inhabited, all we will do is return you to Stypei.”
Willie winced. Dolen grinned disarmingly. “Consider it like you hadn’t studied and you have to take a pop quiz.”
He tried to be as furtive as possible, scanning for the unconscious look that would be produced by a Stypean inhabitant unfamiliar with the term. Thank god for the tests, he thought, I could never guess. I’m not even entirely sure what I’m supposed to be scanning for. Still, every now and then a Stypean would think he had given himself away, get scared, and confess.
Dolen added, “And if you are as yet uninhabited, after you take the test I am authorized to grant you confessional immunity. That is, if you confess and give us the names of inhabited persons, your sentence will be reduced in direct proportion to the number of tested deportations your confession produces. Now, if you will follow these gentlemen …
Willie sat nervously in yet another room, smaller than the first, behind yet another bare table. A uniformed police officer came in holding a small cubed box, packed and taped for shipping. Two soldiers were with him, along with a man in a white coat who was holding a clip pad and a large digital timer with glaring red numbers. He set the timer on the table to one side of Willie, where everyone could see the readout.
“Can I have a cigarette?” Willie squeaked.
“Sorry, can’t do that,” the cop said.
“Well, if I were Stypean, would I ask for a smoke?” Willie croaked.
“Some do,” the man in the white coat replied. “They ask, but we can’t run the risk of calling their bluff.”
“Treaty,” Willie said.
“Yes, it’s pretty tight.” Whitecoat pulled out a piece of paper. Willie looked. He hadn’t seen paper in so long. Not writing paper. Whitecoat opened a small white box with a dark blue spongy interior.
“This is called ink,” the man emphasized.
“I know what it is,” Willie said, “I did take history, you know.”
“No doubt,” Whitecoat smirked.
“Is that supposed to be some kind of crack?” Willie asked. “Supposed to mean I must’ve taken an Earthprep course back on Stypei before I inhabited this host-body?”
“Please don’t take offense, sir,” Whitecoat said. “Now, everything I ask you to do from this point forward is officially part of the test.
“We’re going to put our thumbprints on this piece of paper. You will then be asked to swallow it. If you are inhabited, your occupant will have our IDs. If we violate your sovereignty over your own body, the Stypean government is allowed to request our deaths – sorry – in lieu of resumption of hostilities. I doubt they’d request something so fundamentally abhorrent to them, but it’s a safeguard on our end to make sure we respect sovereignty.”
Each person standing thumbprinted the paper, and Whitecoat pushed it to Willie. Willie looked at it doubtfully.
“Everything I ask you to do is part of the test. It’s slightly uncomfortable for Earth bodies, inhabited or not, so your reticence is natural, but you cannot refuse. We wish to watch your reactions as you eat it, as part of the test.”
One of the soldiers set a glass of water on the table. Willie took a couple of sips, and cleared his throat. “Nervous,” he explained. “Dry throat. Totally natural human reaction.”
The men said nothing. Willie folded and swallowed the paper with some more gulps of water. The man looked at the red timer readout and made some notations on the clip pad.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your names?” Willie asked. “It’s only polite. Not that I’m adhering to that politeness you always hear them Stippies railing about.”
“Now now, Willie,” Whitecoat said. “Six hours ago they were your friends. No need to use the insulting term just to try and form human camaraderie with us.”
“I am human.” Willie said.
“We’ll see.” Whitecoat stared at the clip pad. After a few seconds, it gave off a little beep. “Ah,” he said, a happy little smile on his face as he looked up.
“Is that good? Did I pass?” Willie asked.
“Not yet,” the man said.” Whitecoat stepped back, and the uniformed cop walked forward with the cardboard box. It had been shipped, Willie could see, from Boston.
“I grew up in Framingham,” Willie said. He took another sip of water and heard Whitecoat’s fingers make some notes on the clip pad.
“Is that a fact?” Whitecoat asked, disinterestedly. “What’s that got to do with anything, hmm?”
“Well, it’s in Massachusetts,” Willie explained.
“I don’t follow you,” Whitecoat said.
“Well, that package there, it’s postmarked Boston. I grew up in Framingham.”
“Mmm-hmm, I see.” A couple of clip-pad entries, a beep, then two more.
“Look, these aren’t some prep-memories encoded on my eneurons after the IWOE. I really did grow up in Framingham.”
Whitecoat stopped making notations and looked up. “And just how do you know about eneurons and Inhabitance Wipeout Effect?”
Willie straightened up. “Come on, I’m no dummy. I’m up for conspiracy. That means, you know, I’ve been hanging with Stippies. I’m not inhabited, but I do know how it works when you are. It, like, totally wipes out your brain, and prep-memories have to be re-encoded. But I did grow up in Framingham, you can check.”
Whitecoat gave a prim little “Uh-huh-that’s-nice” kind of smile.
The cop said, “We have checked, Willie.”
“Well, then you know,” Willie said. “They can’t re-encode the same memories. It would be like trying to forge the Mona Lisa, brushstroke for brushstroke, from just a picture postcard like they used to send. Close, but no cigar, as they used to say.”
“You sure are a history buff, Willie,” Whitecoat said. “Picture postcards, phrases that haven’t been used in three centuries. Must study a lot.”
“Oh, go void your endarth pipes,” Willie said. He took another sip of water.
“Well, at least you’re getting closer,” Whitecoat chuckled. “That one has only been out about a generation or two.”
“Fuck you,” Willie said. “That one’s always in style.” He looked around defiantly. “Well? Could I use that word if I were a Stippie?”
“Not without choking, generally,” the cop said.
“Or not without a PPE response of point-o-six-four or greater,” Whitecoat commented, looking at the readout with a sort of subdued, triumphant concern.
“I don’t even know what a PPE response is,” Willie said. “So how could I fake it?”
“Who said you faked it?” Whitecoat said.
“Look,” Willie said, “I’m human as you guys. I got in over my head with this Stippie thing. I want out. I want that confession option that sub-ambassador leirp was talking about.”
The cop slammed his hand down on the table, startling Willie. “You will NOT, in my presence, refer to a sub-ambassador as a leirp,” he informed him.
“Well, whatever. He looked cowardly to me. I want the confession option. I got names.”
“After the test,” Whitecoat said, looking at the clip pad. Several sporadic beeps came out of it. “Once it’s begun, we do it all. Then you can confess and we’ll take all the names you give us.”
“Oh, I catch it,” Willie said. “That was part of it. Reactions to sudden fear, seeing if my calling him a leirp was real, and stuff.”
“Let’s just say it’s all duly noted for evaluation purposes,” Whitecoat said.
Willie asked, “Could I get some more water, please?”
The cop refilled the glass without a word. Willie drank. “They told us, ‘We’re getting deported unacceptably.’’ That’s what they said.
“And just who are ‘they,’ Willie?” asked one of the soldiers.
“My friends. Ex-friends. Stippies. ‘We have to know what the test is,’ they said. Something about every single inhab you arrest gets found out. Said if we get caught, go ahead and take the test. Said don’t worry, they’ll find us, bail us out and debrief us.” Willie scoffed. “ ‘Debrief.’ Hmph. Wiping my brain, is what they meant.” Willie foundered in his dismay, finally announcing, “I gotta go to the bathroom.”
The cop walked over to a door in the wall Willie hadn’t even noticed. He opened it and beckoned Willie in, like a doorman expecting a tip.
When Willie was back, he said, “I gotta tell you, I don’t wanna take this test. Because I’m wipable, you see? I’m not inhabited, but I waived sov with them. They can legally wipe me, and all of a sudden, I don’t want them to. But they can. And if I take this test, I’ll have something to give them.
“That’s how they work,” he continued. “Every time you test a non-hab, if he’s waived sov, they go in and wipe him, but before they do, they get a little piece more, each time. Trial and error, but they’re finding out more about what the test is, each time. You keep changing stuff, but they figure it’s diversions, and they try and eliminate it down to what gets done every time. And I don’t wanna be wiped. I … don’t. I mean … oh cheesh, guys, I don’t wanna turn into some kind of leirp here, but doesn’t the fact that I’m telling you what they’re doing help me?”
“We all make choices, Willie,” one of the soldiers said. “Some we can live with, some we can’t. So far, the ones you’ve made, you can live with. You haven’t crossed too many lines. But this is a painless, non-invasive test. Once you’re done, you heard the Sub-Ambassador: give us names, and we’ll protect you. You won’t get wiped.”
“Oh, he’s just municipal-class. He can’t run me a protection program. It’s just really coming home to me how I wanna be human here, I am human, how I wanna stay human, and I don’t mind telling you I’m leirping out over this wiping thing.”
The clip pad quietly gave some functional beeps.
“Are we ready, gentlemen?” Whitecoat asked. They said nothing. The cop set a small box cutter between Willie and the box. Willie looked at it with fear.
“That is a knife,” Whitecoat explained.
“I know what it is,” Willie growled. “Get it away.”
“It’s part of the test,” Whitecoat soothed.
“I don’t care. You know I can’t touch that. Even if I’m not inhabited, I’m CP-certified.”
“Yes, we know,” a soldier said. “This is not a violent situation. Your Congenital Pacifism has no legal status in this case. You cannot refuse to take the test.”
“That’s why I started hanging with the Stippies. Empathetic pacifism, you know? The whole body-host sov thing, inviolable as an embassy – you’re like your own little nation within a real country. All that really appeals, you know?”
“I’m sure it does,” Whitecoat seemed to be genuinely sympathetic, if not actually caring. “But part of the test is we need to time how long it takes you to open the box. And yes, of course, your CP norms will be factored in. Would you like some more water before you start?”
“Yes, I – no. Forget the water.”
“But you just had trouble swallowing.”
Willie muttered, “Void your –” then spoke normally. “Just – let’s do it.”
He took up the box cutter and winced as he held the blade in front of him. He then touched the box gingerly, as if it were a living thing, and slowly slit the packing tape. “This takes me back,” he said, with bravado. “Actual packing tape. Not a unaseal box. Haven’t seen packing tape in … “
“Since you were in Framingham?” a soldier scoffed.
Willie stopped slicing. “Yes,” he said deliberately. “In Framingham.” He then cut the tape.
“You never refuted my argument,” Willie said. He pushed the box forward without looking in it.
Whitecoat held up a finger for silence and entered things with little quiet beeps onto the clip pad. After a long pause, he said, “What argument was that?”
“About my memories. You could check. Even the most mimical prep-memory can’t match everything.”
“Yes, that’s true, Willie. Unfortunately, since we have no way of knowing what your original eneural map looked like, the only things we’d be able to check would be basic facts, albeit millions of them. We might find a mismatch, something they forgot to encode, but it would take too long and be too iffy. No, this test is quite satisfactory.”
“So we’re done?” Willie asked.
“Hardly. Now open the box, and take everything out, one item at a time. I want you to set some objects to the left, and some to the right.”
“Which is which? Based on what criteria?” Willie asked.
“Any criteria you like. You won’t even need to tell us. Just set some to your left, and some to your right. At least one object on each side.”
Willie pulled the box back closer to him and took out the bubble-wrap package within. He methodically unfolded the bubble wrap flat on the table, smoothing it with outward strokes of flattened palms. A pile of objects lay in the middle of the bubble wrap.
Willie reached and selected the shoelace, setting it to the right.
The soldiers exchanged a significant look. The small plastic carrot went to his left. The red rubber ball he put to his right, along with the yellow rubber ball. The blue rubber ball he put to his left. He picked up an amorphous little object, toneless grey in color.“What’s this?”
“It doesn’t matter what it is. Just select where it goes, please.”
“But it has to have a name.”
“It has one. The name’s not important.”
“Well, then, it’s not important if you tell me. I’d like to know, please,” Willie said.
Then, when Whitecoat began entering onto the clip pad, Willie quickly added, “Never mind. I don’t need to know.”
He put the object to the right and picked up the next one: a spool of black thread. This went to his left. Another barely disguised significant look passed between the soldiers.
Willie hesitated, then picked up a shiny, purple knitting needle and also s
et it to the left. A speckled egg he held in the palm of his hand, rolling it gently back and forth, then set it to the right. That left a bit of string, a rubber band, a paper clip, and a pen. All of these he swept firmly to the left. “There.”
Whitecoat scanned the arrangement to the right with the clip pad, then the arrangement on the left. He entered things into the pad, then said, “Raise your right hand please, palm toward me, fingers together.” Willie did. “Now spread them. Close. Open. Good.”
Whitecoat moved the box and the bubble wrap aside, careful not to touch any of the objects. “Now, I’m going to scan again in five minutes. During that time, you may move any object from one side to the other. You must move them one at a time. You don’t have to move any. You can move an object, and move it back. You can even move all the objects to one side, if you move them one at a time. You may keep one, and only one object, but you don’t have to keep any. Is that understood?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Okay aannnnd …” Whitecoat looked at the big red digits on the timer. “Begin.”
The only thing Willie did, and this was after nearly three minutes had elapsed, was move the blue rubber ball from his left to his right. Then he sat back and crossed his arms.
Whitecoat waited the full five minutes, until a digital beep went off from the clip pad.
“Now, I am legally obligated to ask you, before I scan, do you have things arranged exactly the way you want them?”
“I guess.”
“You can’t guess, Willie. If there’s an object you aren’t sure about, go ahead and move it.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you certain? Because once I do this scan, the results cannot be changed. Are you sure?”
“All right,” Willie snapped. “I’m sure. Just do the damn scan. It’ll show you I’m human.”