by Ann Christy
My dinner is good, if a little odd. The texture of the meat is all wrong and I don’t think it’s meat at all. It reminds me of those vegetarian patties that are supposed to be like chicken. It’s good; a bit spicy, but tasty. There are roasted potatoes and Brussel sprouts, which are both favorites of mine, along with a salad and cookies that taste of lemon and almonds. Hot tea and sparkling water round it out.
Whatever else these aliens might be, no one can say they aren’t good cooks and excellent hosts.
I flip through the catalog as I eat. This big book is a real, honest to goodness catalog. It’s also very fat, the last page numbered 1643, and divided into sections for clothing, personal items, entertainment options, furnishings, games, and everything else you could imagine. They even have a section for bedding that includes sheets with popular cartoon characters, if that’s your thing.
I’m supposed to furnish my room and pick my clothes if I’m not keen on the pajamas. My mom told me that catalogs were a big deal when she was small, and she used to love to mark all the pages with the things she wanted. I’ve not seen them much, except for small ones that come in the junk mail, but now I understand that wistful look when she spoke of them. Perusing for goods online is one thing, but there’s a certain allure to this crinkly and colorful paper.
My room isn’t empty, but it looks fairly bare without any personalization, so I take stock before I go crazy and wind up with a mountain of stuff. My room is divided into two main sections and quite large, almost like an efficiency apartment. On one side, there’s a tall dresser with drawers that slide out when I pass a hand over a tiny, silver oval inset into each one, a desk with a chair, a bigger easy chair next to a side table, and then my bed.
The bed is a double, which is what I have at home. The frame is something like a box, with more drawers underneath. On the other side of the big room is a small dinner table, two chairs, and a short line of counters where the room is bisected by the bathroom door.
There’s an entire corner empty of furnishings, but the catalog has a section for exercise equipment and other large items, so I’m guessing that corner is mine to do with as I like. The bathroom is small, but equipped with the basics: toilet, sink, and a shower/bathtub combo.
When Esme brought me here and told me about the catalog, I did wonder at it. How long am I staying if they’re going to let me furnish an entire room? That indicates ownership or a long period in residence. I was sort of hoping this was a stopover and they were going to send me back, maybe with some information that might help.
When I asked, Esme only shook her head and said, “Even if you’re only here for a few days, it should be comfortable. Don’t you think so?”
It didn’t escape my notice that she didn’t answer the question.
There’s nothing for it, so I might as well be comfortable and enjoy this no-credit-limit catalog. There are no prices. How often am I going to see that in my life? There’s a pad of notepaper on my desk and a pen—both also normal looking—so I note down all my possibilities and then narrow those down to my choices. When I look up at the silver spot next to my door, I’m surprised to find that a great deal of time has passed.
That’s another cool thing. The silver rectangle is blank until I look at it, then it shows the time and what’s next on my schedule. I’ve been trying to catch it out and surprise it. If I look straight ahead and take a moment to really focus on my peripheral vision, it remains blank. The moment I lose concentration and let my eyes move, it lights up. Whatever tech they have here, it’s way better than ours.
According to the calendar on my screen, my next appointment is at 0800 with a “Facilitator.” I’m not sure what’s being facilitated, but I’m hoping it’s my return to Earth.
Esme told me that I’m an hour behind my regular time-zone in this wing, which is set to the North American average. That means I’m an hour more tired than the clock says I should be. I’m not in the mood for sleep yet, so maybe this is a good thing. When I do go to bed, hopefully I’ll really sleep.
Of course, I’m in space on a giant space station where every thirteen minutes, up to a thousand people are switched out from my planet. And I’m wearing pajamas. Looking at a catalog. I’m not sure having a good night’s sleep is on the docket with that much weirdness to contend with in my brain.
When I’m done, I use the silver spot—which Esme says is my interface—to punch in all my choices by their identifying numbers. I could use my voice to do it, but it feels more natural to poke at a display not much different than the one on my phone. I wish I would have had my phone in my pocket when I came over. The pictures I might get!
The interface displays my order summary and gives various delivery times, which makes me giggle because it reminds me of home. I wonder if a big brown truck is going to pull up to give me my packages. Then I’m on my own. According to the clock, it’s still not quite my normal bedtime, but I’m yawning and tired already.
Rather than fight it—because who knows if it will pass and then I won’t be able to sleep—I climb into the bed and face the other silver spot in the room. This one is on the wall near my bed and much bigger than the other spot. I have a good view of it from the easy chair or the bed or the dining table. The time and such come up, but I say, “TV programs, please.”
Esme gave me the quick and dirty on this. She told me that I can watch pretty much anything I could get on TV at home, sort of like an all-encompassing on-demand station. When I call out my favorite show, it shows a listing for every episode from every season. Nice! I go for the most recent episode—the hot vampire finally told my favorite character that he loved her—and scrunch up my pillow to settle in. I don’t even get to the all-important kissing scene before I’m out like a light.
Ten
The pinging wakes me gently, the sound at first so soft that it barely intrudes. Gradually, it grows louder until I say, “I’m awake.” Where I am slams into my brain as I become fully conscious, and my stomach does a flip in response.
My mom, the replacement mom, the portal—all of it pops into my brain in a sudden rush.
Holy crap! I’m not on Earth. My Mom is probably so pissed off right now. I hope she’s okay.
All of that banging into my head makes my face hot and gives me an instant headache, the kind you get from not drinking enough water on a summer day. I groan and climb out of bed, going for the metal cup in the bathroom to take a long drink.
I put my dishes outside my door last night like I was supposed to, but I should have kept the water bottle. I ordered the Glassware for Two set, but who knows when those will get here.
I swish out my mouth and spit down the sink. My mouth tastes like someone died in there. There’s a little toiletry kit in the bathroom exactly like the ones in hotels, so I brush my teeth until the feeling of old socks finally goes away. I know it’s just stress, but dang, that was bad. Then I gulp down two cups of water and feel the tiniest bit better.
Leaning back, I look at the interface. The time shows 0705. I’ve got less than an hour before I’m supposed to meet with my facilitator, whatever that is.
Pressing the silver spot, I ask, “Can I get breakfast?” I should have asked about that before. Esme arranged dinner, so I didn’t think of it.
Esme doesn’t answer me, which makes sense unless they work ridiculously long shifts here in space. Instead, there’s a male voice, but he sounds young. “You can use the refreshments tab on your interface or I can take your order. Which would you like to do?”
I’m embarrassed, but I’m more hungry and thirsty, so I say, “Can you do it? How quickly will it get here?”
“Very quickly. Go ahead when ready,” he answers. I can almost hear him smiling.
“Orange juice, a big one if I can get it. Coffee with lots of cream and sugar. Water. And, umm, do you have cereal? Never mind. Oatmeal, maybe?”
There’s a very slight pause, then he says, “Got it. It will be there in a few minute
s. Anything else?”
My head is pounding, so I ask, “Do you have anything for a headache? Some aspirin or something? Ibuprofen would be even better.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah. It’s just from the excitement. Maybe dehydration.”
“Sure thing. It will be on your tray.”
I sigh, my head giving a painful one-two punch when I do. “Thanks.”
Though I would love another shower, I want breakfast more, so I settle for taming my bed-head. It’s not pretty. My hair is very dark brown and wavy. If it were shorter, it would be curly. That’s nice when it comes to styling, because it loves to take a curl, but a nightmare when it comes to sleeping. I generally look like I’ve just rolled out of a cave, Neanderthal style, when I wake in the mornings.
There’s only a comb in the toiletry kit, but I had a hair tie around my wrist when I came over, so I pull it back into a ponytail and hope for the best. It looks like a worn-out broom in the back, my tail a big puff ball of crazy that stretches halfway down my back.
“Really?” I ask my reflection. “Is this the look we’re going for?”
After taming my tail with water, the door pings and I race to answer it. My headache has settled into my face, right behind my cheeks and forehead. I can’t wait to swallow a few headache pills. I snag my tray from the bot, thank it, and then hurry back to my table. The pills are in a little packet and they look like they came from Earth. They even have the little logo for the same brand we have at home.
Downing them with a full glass of orange juice—which I might add tastes freshly squeezed—I know I’ve still got twenty minutes or more of pain to deal with. The oatmeal is a bit mushy, but otherwise good. Even the coffee is amazing. I pull on a fresh set of pajamas since mine are all wrinkled from sleep, and I’m ready two minutes before eight.
The ping comes exactly on time. While I’m hoping for Rosa, or maybe even Esme, I know it’s unlikely either of them will be my facilitator. It might not even be a human. My stomach coils up in tight knots as I reach for the doorknob.
It isn’t Esme or Rosa outside my door. It isn’t some officious person I’d mentally assigned to fit the title facilitator, perhaps someone like the pinch-faced assistant principal at my school. I’m surprised to find it isn’t even an adult. The guy standing outside my door is probably my age, wearing jeans with just the right amount of wear and a black t-shirt with this year’s ComicCon logo on it.
He raises a hand in a casual wave and says, “Hey. You Lysa?”
I nod, because really, I don’t know what else to do. He’s taken me by surprise. Shouldn’t this guy be in school or something? And I’m standing here in pajamas, so it’s super awkward. Crossing my arms over my chest, I say, “I’m Lysa. Are you my facilitator?”
He nods right back at me, a sideways grin coming up on his face that makes me cross my arms a little tighter across my chest. Whatever confidence I had in the idea of running around in comfy pajamas is entirely gone. With brown hair mussed just so and blue eyes that tilt down a little at the ends, he’s pretty much beautiful. If he went to my school, I’d be crushing on him from the first day. And yet, here he is on an alien spaceship, wearing jeans and a ComicCon t-shirt, while I’m standing here in pajamas with bad hair.
He sticks his hands in the back pockets of his jeans as he stands there, all good-looking and perfect, waiting for me to do whatever I’m going to do next.
“You okay?” he asks, his grin growing a little wider, perilously close to becoming a knowing grin.
Okay, yep, there it is, a full-on knowing grin.
“Uh, fine.” Then it strikes me that he’s simply too perfect. There’s absolutely no reason for these aliens to look like us. None whatsoever. And a hot guy who’s far too close to my ideal? There’s definitely no reason for that.
On second thought, I’d say this guy is probably the ideal for a whole lot of people. He’s got that sort of universal appeal. He’s the kind of guy that winds up starring in teen movies where the plots are stupid when you think about them later, but are too ga-ga while the movie is rolling to realize it.
“Is this what you really look like?” I ask.
His grin falters a little at my question, his eyes uncertain for a flash. Then the smile comes back, but less brash the second time. “This is me.”
Again, a non-answer and I’ve had just about my fill of those. I step into the doorway, entirely blocking his path by leaning against the doorjamb. Two can play at this. And my headache isn’t completely gone yet, so I’m getting testy.
I nod just once, keeping my arms crossed up high. “That’s an interesting way to answer that question. It reeks of bullcrap. How about you take another run at an answer. And how about a name while you’re at it.”
That perfect grin falls away, his hands leaving his pockets to drop to his sides, and his brows drawing together in confusion. Clearly, this is not the reception he expected.
He clears his throat nervously and says, “This isn’t going well. Can we start over? My name is Jack.”
Still not an answer. When he sticks out his hand to shake, I glance down at it, but make no move to take it. I’m generally not a rude person, and I’m usually embarrassed to see others act that way, but I’ll make an exception right now.
“I’m not biting, Jack. How about you answer my question and then maybe we can start over.”
He sighs and tugs at his t-shirt collar with a finger, like he’s loosening a tie or something. His head tilts ever so slightly, just as Rosa’s did when I thought she might be listening to someone for instructions.
It’s brief, whatever it is, because he clears his throat again and says, “This isn’t quite how this is supposed to go, but I’ll do as you like. Yes, this is what I look like. This is my body and I’m stuck in it. My name is Jack and I’m going to be your facilitator.”
With that, he sticks out his hand again and says, “It’s nice to meet you, Lysa.”
I noticed that he said he was stuck in his body, as if it’s a bad neighborhood he’s just got to deal with, but he answered my question. I uncross my arms and shake his hand firmly. “Nice to meet you too,” I say, though it didn’t exactly start out so nice. That’s probably my fault, but I’m not good with weasel talk. Answering questions without actually answering them is a particular peeve of mine.
Jack peers around me at my bare room, then nods toward the table and my breakfast tray. “Are you still eating?”
I think he’s trying to hint for me to invite him in, so I turn sideways and wave him inside. When he passes, I get hints of shampoo and freshly laundered clothes. Even his hair looks freshly cut.
“I’m still working on my coffee, but mostly I’m done.”
He nods and looks around the room like I would look around someone’s house the first time I went inside. Touching the back of one of the dining chairs, he asks, “May I?”
“Sure, make yourself at home,” I say, sitting back down in front of my nearly empty tray.
Jack doesn’t seem at all nervous, but he has that same hesitation to his actions that Rosa had when I first came through, like he’s worried I might attack him or something. While I am irritated, and certainly nervous about what’s going to happen to me, I’m not going to stab him with my spoon or anything else heinous. I’d rather we get past this awkward part quickly. Maybe we can be as normal as possible with each other afterwards. Normal may not be the exact word, but closer to normal would be better.
I take a sip of this most wonderful space coffee and say, “I’m not going to freak out on you or jump on you or anything. I went through on my own.”
I’m trying not to stare at him, but I want to see his reactions to my words. Everything he does will provide me information, even if not immediately or in a way I can put together until later. Every single bit of data I can wring from him and everyone else inside this station might be important, possibly even vitally so. That’s especially true if
any of those nuggets of truth can help me figure out a way back home with something I can tell people. Caveat that with tell people something they can believe, because that’s pretty important too. Maybe I can get enough information that humans can either go along with what’s happening, or fight harder knowing what we’re fighting against.
That’s the plan anyway.
His shoulders lose a little tightness, but not much more than that. He lays a hand flat on the table’s surface and looks at the back as if it’s super interesting. His fingers lift and tap at the wood-like surface so that the tendons flex. Maybe if he’s really an alien then his hand is as interesting as he thinks it is.
When I set down my cup, thinking I’ll have to say more to get this ball rolling, he says, “I suppose you have a lot of questions. I’m the one that’s supposed to answer them and give you an idea of what your options are for the future.”
Uh oh. That doesn’t sound good.
I touch my cup again, suddenly anxious, and as soon as I do, he looks down at his hand. It’s almost like he disengages from our conversation entirely. As a test, I pull back my hand and sure enough, he looks back up.
“Why do you do that?” I ask, coiling my hands together in my lap.
“Do what?”
“Look away when I touch my cup.”
He glances at my tray and then asks, “Isn’t it rude to talk to people while they’re eating?”
“And this is how I know you can’t be human.”
“So, it’s not rude where you’re from?” he asks.
“Oh, yeah, it’s rude, but not rude enough not to do it. People talk while they eat all the time, or else eating would get super boring. It’s only rude when you ask a question while they’ve got food in their mouth. And even then, it depends on who’s doing the asking. Eating is a social thing.”
Shaking his head and rolling his eyes a little, I’d swear he was as human as I am, but he can’t be if he doesn’t know the basics of eating with others. I suppose he could be from some obscure place where those rules are true, but then why is he wearing a t-shirt from America and sporting a trendy haircut? No, he’s done his homework, but there’s no way he’s human.