by R. Lee Smith
Look at him now. And look at them, those bleating sheep, those soft-bellied fools. Through the one-way glass of this small antechamber, van Meyer watched the auditorium of Cottonwood’s convention center fill with people. Good Americans, every one, handpicked for their lack of training, their lack of skill, lack of resources and lack of purpose. If he were not so pressed to acquire social workers, he would give them all guns.
“Mr. van Meyer? It’s ten o’clock.”
“Danke, Piotr. We’ll give five minutes more, ja? To settle. What could be more American than to be fashionably late?”
Piotr laughed dutifully, but van Meyer knew he was being humored. That his ass, to coin the phrase, was kissed. He did not mind. To have his ass kissed by Piotr Lantz was as soothing as warm towels for the hand on a cold and rainy night. He had been a young man when he first found Piotr scavenging in the streets he had made himself master over—a hungry child, slitting throats of beggars for a handful of coins. For the cost of a hot meal and a gun, he had won the boy to his service for all these years. He was not an intelligent man, his Piotr, but a hyena upon two legs, possessed of animal cunning and cruel humor, a squat and somehow crooked sort of creature now past his prime, but still deadly. With a thousand Piotrs at his side, he would not even need the bug.
“What do you think of them?” van Meyer asked, jutting his chin at the glass.
Piotr came to see, his reflection ghostly in the mirror. “Soft bunch. Tofu-eaters.”
“Ja.”
“And that one.” Piotr’s stubby finger smudged the glass. “Little Pollyanna in the first row. She came in singing.”
Van Meyer laughed. Little Pollyanna, yes. He’d noticed her. Younger than most at twenty-four, but old enough that humming happy tunes in public caught stares. Pretty, if thin-faced to his eye. Fair-haired, blue-eyed. The picture of hope in its fullest flower. A cursory ISP-scan revealed no subversive websites, no internet habits at all, beyond an abandoned avatar page, a handful of foolish comics and video viewing ports, and a subscription to something called a Brookings Bugle. Her history was that of low-paying menial jobs and prolonged unemployment leading inexorably deeper into poor credit, desperate financial circumstances. Perhaps slightly above average intelligence on testing, despite mediocre performance in school and no higher learning. Clean body, clean genes. A blank slate.
And she was singing. Van Meyer could just make out the strain of it through the glass if the other noises died just so. He could even name the tune: Over the Rainbow, wordlessly hummed, over and over. She smiled as she sang, looking brightly out the window at the white face of the containment wall. Little Pollyanna.
“Ah, but we wouldn’t mind a slice, nee?” he joked, still not looking at his companion. “A little sweety to clear the palate, as it were?”
Piotr grunted agreement, but without much interest. Women were, to Piotr, as gloves. He fit them over his hand and used them, then forgot. Van Meyer could recall a night when his dangerous young hyena had gone with him to a brothel he knew, found it closed, and gone instead to the music shop next door, where he had killed the cashier and fucked all three patrons—ages eighteen, forty, and sixty-three—before shooting them as well. He did not kill every woman he took to his brutish bed, but when war and lust are one’s only entertainments, it stands to reason one kills many. Van Meyer tried to keep him well-stocked and away from the sheep.
“Ah, I suppose it is time,” he said with a smile. Past time. The sheep were seated now, shifting, restless. “Let us go, my friend, and do good work.”
Piotr laughed again, dutiful Piotr. The IBI logo, We Do Good Work, had been van Meyer’s idea.
He smiled at Pollyanna as he passed her table and she smiled back, naturally. Women felt safe smiling at him. He had a grandfather’s smile now, a grandfather’s walk. A tall man, still a striking man, he dressed well, carried well, spoke well, albeit with an accent he had cultivated to a polish and not to extinction. Dutch blood, tempered by many generations in African sheets, gave him good temper and well-aged good looks. He wore spectacles now when he read. He carried a handkerchief and offered it now and then, gallantly. He did not carry the guns he sold. He carried the men who fired them.
“Good morning,” he said to the room filled with his newest acquisitions. “I am Damek van Meyer, chief executive of International Bureau of Immigration. This is my associate and head of IBI security, Mr. Piotr Lantz.”
A smattering of hellos, some of them appropriately awed at having such an esteemed personage engaged in such a menial duty as this orientation seminar, but most oblivious to the honor. This was America, land of the celebrity.
“You are to be congratulated, for you have all been selected to embark upon a grand new journey in the history of our planet Earth.” Statements of this sort never failed to earn respect in the eyes of sheep, even today. Pollyanna’s pretty smile broadened as she looked up at him, all attention and innocent eyes. “If you have been following the news, then you know that there have been several human interests groups in your capitol and indeed, very close to these offices, who make demands on behalf of the residents of Cottonwood. Naturally, we wish to satisfy them. Naturally indeed, it has always been our goal to provide our guests with a human liaison, to better facilitate integration.”
Pollyanna smiled, beautiful as an angel.
“Alas, our gears grind slowly, nee? Slowly, but exceedingly fine. And you are here. As of this day, this moment, you are become IBI employee, and representative of entire human race.”
Pollyanna hummed under her breath, three notes, and was silent, blushing prettily.
“Today’s seminar is meant to introduce you to your duties and to your clients. Please pay close attention to this briefing and feel free to use paz or Digitel to make notes. If you do not have one—” And here he paused to let the Americans laugh. In this country, such devices were issued along with their social security numbers; it was no more possible to go along without one as the other. In this country, they did not protest RealID or Locatech, but insisted on it, just so long as they could also stream live video and store one million of their favorites songs. He had camps all over the world, even in his own home country, but he had to admit he loved this one best. The sheep were of the very finest stock. “—please to speak with Supply Aid department after the seminar to acquire. We want our workers to feel informed, nee? Connected. And to ask whatever question they should have.”
The sheep took a noisy moment to ready their technologies. Van Meyer waited. Piotr walked to the wall and leaned there, watching over the flock with a bored and ravening eye.
“And now,” said van Meyer, when all were focused once more on him. “We are all quite old enough, I see, to remember the day of First Contact? Or no?” He looked at Pollyanna.
She blushed. “I do remember, actually. I think…I think I may have seen the ship.”
“Oh? To tell us, please?”
“Well…it was a camping trip with my father. I’d gone to bed, but I woke up and left the tent for a drink. There was a noise, like thunder, only very deep, like something you felt in your bones and not your ears. I looked up and thought I saw the whole sky on fire, this huge sheet of fire, the whole thing all at once. It sort of…rolled by overhead and then it was gone.” She laughed nervously, the center of appreciative attention and uncomfortable to be there. “And I went back to bed. My dad slept through the whole thing, so of course he told me I dreamed it all. It was two days before we went home and heard the news.”
“And where was this?”
“Dunes National Park, east of Sacramento.”
“Oh ja? Then very likely you saw them. Lucky girl. Piotr, if you please.”
Piotr switched low the lights, brought down the video screen, and the ship appeared. He always began with a shot of the ship, the whole ship, for no matter how many times the sheep had seen it, it still impressed. It was so big, a great wedge-shaped thing, black against the morning sky, silent, ominous, alien.
&
nbsp; “It came into our atmosphere at great speed, as you know, and made nearly two complete circuits of the Earth before coming to its eventual stop two hundred twelve miles due west of Salinas, California. In international waters. Naturally, the world trembled to see what manner of traveler might emerge. The ship did not move. So many days, it wait…” He waited out a well-rehearsed pause, then added, “And wait…”
Laughter, as always, to break the tension. Most everyone knew the story, of course, but it was always different to hear it when looking at the ship, frozen in this timeless video, as fresh and as terrible as it had been the day of its arrival. Pollyanna merely flickered a smile. Her gaze remained rapt upon the screen.
“The Cabinet of First Contact was commissioned and made many attempts to communicate and then to enter, but the ship remain silent, closed. At last, come the USS Enterprise.” He paused again to let the appreciate chuckles and whispers run their course. “It brought scientist and linguist and ambassador and all manner of important men and women to make semi-permanent settlement until the mystery of the ship could be solved, but when the great carrier arrive, the ship open. It does not land, does not move. The bug do not emerge. But the ship open and when Mr. Kurtz and his team go up to meet them, they are met without resistance. They enter the ship—” He spread his hands to indicate the insufficiency of words. “—and look in awe upon the faces of beings from another world.”
Soft humming at his elbow, swiftly stifled. Pollyanna blushed and stared at the screen.
“Now I will not bore you all with a faithful recounting of the following days. I am certain you have to study these things once in school already, nee? And they are all on file at the IBI museum for those who are interested in such things.” He watched little Pollyanna make a note on her ancient PAS. “I will say only that First Contact did not bring aids to end world hunger or cure disease, only the great responsibility—and great cost—of housing nearly half a million refugees. And so was born the International Bureau of Immigration. We—for you are part of that family now—are a community of many nations, representing no country but only humanity, and seeking to better the lives of those unfortunate strangers who have been stranded here by circumstance.
“For they are stranded. By whom, no one can say; the bug himself seem unable to grasp just how or why they have come. It is believed by our top researchers that the bug are, quite sadly, of a hive-like mentality, where unknown queen or similar intelligence has been demised in their disastrous landing. The remainder are notably weak of will, of mind, of imagination. But it must be admitted we judge them perhaps by human standards, which is a presumption. You will make up your own minds, I hope, but you will always remember as you do so that you are IBI and you will show a professional attitude and professional kindness towards your clients always.”
A hand raised near the back of the room.
“Sir? What, uh, what do we call them? I mean, all I’ve heard is…uh…”
Sheep shifted, eyeing one another.
Van Meyer smiled and said it for them. “Bug.”
“Well…yes.”
“Bug. Roach. Jim Cricket, ja. But bug particularly. Bug will do.” He caught Pollyanna’s frown and addressed her kindly, as a grandfather. “In twenty years, we have never been able to make them understand what we mean when we ask for the name of their people. Their minds are not like ours. And yet, we must call them something, nee? After twenty years, it cannot continue ‘The Visitors,’ eh? ‘The Travelers?’ ‘The Aliens?’”
“I guess not,” she said. “But bug is…is kind of derogatory, isn’t it?”
“To a degree, from one who use it so, but to look another way, do they not resemble a bug? Eh? Let us examine.”
A nod to Piotr and the video switched. There stood, as large as to life, one of them.
It was the closest look any sheep had ever received. No camera was allowed inside the immigration camps, no news-craft allowed to fly over or even near the walls. In days not too long distant, it would have been impossible to keep such secrets, but in these enlightened times, with the anonymity of the internet extinct and agents of even a free press easily detained for treason, IBI’s control over those images available to the public remained absolute. Some illicit photos and videos cropped up now and then, but they were grainy, amateur things that merely tantalized the eye. This one pierced it.
“The adult bug stand 2.3 meters, with a fifteen percent variation to healthy individual height or weight, same as human, nee? As you see, body is distinctly arthropod overall, but biped, with many man-like characteristic. Coloring of shell typically appear dull, with green, grey, black or brown base and brighter color overlaid. Certain individuals will have much brighter pigmentation of yellow, red, or blue, and this is not sexual display, as all bug appear to be one gender, which we shall shortly address.
“The eyes are, as you see, binocular, wide-set by our standards, and quite large, but are not insect-like or faceted in any way. I have heard them often compared to human eyes, and indeed, our research suggest their vision is very much like ours. You will notice large and small pair of antennae on top of the head, which is somewhat flat and oblong, as that of mantis. These appear to be used as part of language of the bug and not as sensory organ of any kind. If I magnify—” Piotr did so. “—you can determine several short filaments along the head, which relate in some fashion to the bug’s balance and other senses, particularly to hearing, as they are arranged around the plate which correspond to the bug’s ear. We call them hairs, but they are not truly. The bug is entirely hairless. You will see no nose—”
“How do they smell?” someone whispered, and at least six answered, “Terrible.” There was much laughter. Pollyanna frowned again.
“The mouth is formed by this network of finger-like appendages which hang in front of the throat and assist both in speech and the breaking up of food. Bug language is quite well-developed and their ear for speech quite good. All understand English excellently, and most understand several languages beside, although of course they do not speak it, as they can produce little beyond the sorts of click, chirp, and buzzing sound one would expect of giant insect. Yet they have a language of word as well as sound. Most of our employees find that after immersion, they do not even need the translators. But you will require one to begin.”
Piotr took his cue and heaved himself up to pass them out, each ear-mounted little curlicue in its own baggie with a serial number to be filed with the sheep’s papers.
“They’re quite comfortable,” van Meyer said encouragingly. “Resists water and pressure. Battery life of ten years. You can shower with them, sleep with them, and it is highly recommended that you do not take off at any time while on premises. There have been misunderstandings in the past, regrettable and perhaps avoidable. Please. It is not always possible to comprehend the motives of the bug, but one can at least comprehend his words.”
Pollyanna put hers on, right there in the auditorium. Precious child.
“I will warn you that in effort to as fully enhance the translator’s usefulness, we have integrated many rather offensive words and phrases. I apologize to our members of delicate ear, but we at IBI are interested in accuracy foremost. It is not our place to impose moral standard upon the speech of the bug, which, like many of low intelligence and imagination, tend to be vulgar. And now we move on.”
A gesture, and Piotr returned to the video equipment and pulled the bug’s head out to a full-body shot once more.
“Observe please. The bug has no bone, but exoskeleton of hard and extremely durable plates of a chitinoid structure, similar in composition to that of crab or insect, but much stronger. Although the plates overlap in most areas, there can be found several joints or seams along the body, where are pliant spans of sensory skin. Although you might imagine this make the bug stiff and immobile, they are surprisingly agile and much, much faster and stronger than a human being.”
The next several minutes showed a variety of bugs in moti
on—leaping over vans, running over rooftops, throwing things, snatching things, slapping things…
“I must warn you, the following images become quite graphic,” van Meyer murmured, and immediately afterward, the bug scuffling with soldiers on the deck of the Enterprise seized a human head and twisted it right off the man’s shoulders.
Gasps and squeaks from the audience. Pollyanna’s mouth dropped open.
After that, the images came more rapidly, assaulting the eyes with unblinking, uncensored violence. A bug, seizing the human arm that has just shoved him and kicking once, still holding that arm with a belligerent stare while the viewing eye tries to reconcile there being no man attached anymore, no man anywhere in frame, just a spray of blood. Screen-shift to a bug grabbing the door of an armored IBI van and ripping it away in a squeal of metal. Screen-shift to a bug leaping up and kicking at what appears to be a metal wall, just one kick to dent it, three kicks to break through. Screen-shift to a bug snatching up a soldier and swinging him overhead like a sack of flour, swinging and slamming him down so that he split, yes, exactly like a sack of flour, red flour in a red cloud that settles as the bug straightens and wipes a hand over its clicking, alien face.
Lastly, van Meyer’s personal favorite, a bug listening attentively to a screaming soldier’s tirade, accepting pushing, accepting blows from the butt of a gun, and then reaching up, quite calmly, casually, to take the soldier by his flak jacket just as one takes the lapels of a dinner coat, take and rip it entirely open, then kicking a neat round hole through which exiting portal one can clearly see, on slow frame, first the man’s somewhat mangled heart ejecting and then the bug’s clenched foot.
“Dear God,” someone said. Not Pollyanna.
“We have much fewer of these misunderstandings since we develop the translator,” van Meyer demurred, and there followed a mad plastic rush as the sheep put them on.