The Twiller
Page 10
In due time, Ian reached the front of the line and had the single most unproductive conversation of his life with the single friendliest spaceport ticket agent he had ever dealt with. She explained, with the utmost patience and compassion, how they didn’t accept his Gideon travel pass on the islands, and how there were simply no tickets available anywhere—let alone the faraway Nowhere Quadrant of space—for the small amount of change Ian had left on his credit chit. She searched for nearly half an hour across different carriers, various destinations, special deals, Saturday night stays, connecting flights, and even stopovers in El Leigh (Ian shuddered) … but, in the end, the simple fact remained that Ian’s splurge on SPF 5,000 sunscreen had depleted his credit chit too much to afford any of the fares.
Ian walked across two terminals and took a shuttle bus to where the nearest benches were, and he slumped down on one to think. Considering how his day had gone, Ian was not in the least surprised when his cell phone rang, signaling a call from Colonel Sanders.
* * * * *
Part VII
“Mister Harebungler,” cooed the voice from the other end of the line. “I must admit you have performed far more admirably than I could have anticipated.”
“Thanks,” replied Ian. “Happy to help out.”
“And help us you have,” Sanders assured him. “Your government—if it knew about the NETSA—would owe you a great debt.”
“Listen, Colonel. I think it’s time you let me in on what’s going on here.”
A series of shocked and incomprehensible sounds came through Ian’s cell phone. “B–but you know—” it stammered, before Ian cut him off.
“Yes, yes, Super Duper Ultra Double Secret Top Secret and all that. But I think I’ve been more than patient. Besides, you just told me yourself how helpful I’ve been.”
“Well, yes, but ….”
“But nothing. I’m sure I can perform this mission—perhaps the single most important mission in the history of mankind—even better if you, I don’t know, give me the slightest hint of what it is.”
There was a long pause. “This is all highly irregular. You must understand, this mission is so unfathomably secret, I almost didn’t tell myself about it.”
Ian responded with an understanding sort of “mm-hmm” sound.
“I wasn’t sure if I could be trusted, you see.”
“And I admire you for your caution. But now is the time for bold action, is it not, Colonel?”
Ian heard Sanders sigh. “Very well, Mister Harebungler, you are a capable agent, indeed. I will tell you a bit more about your mission.”
In spite of himself, Ian’s senses perked up. He hadn’t expected it to actually work. While, on some level, Ian still understood that he was speaking to a lunatic, on the other hand, his curiosity was truly piqued. After all, lunatics told the very best stories.
“It all began a very long time ago, Mister Harebungler. You see, it all began with a jar of paprika.”
Sanders was obviously pausing for dramatic effect. And, damn him, it was working. Ian looked about him to make sure no one was around and pressed the phone closer to his ear. The Twiller leaned in as well. “Yes?”
“Something … opened … incredible. [garbled] … only once.” Sanders’ voice cut out amid a flickering of static, which was quickly getting worse. Perfect reception all across the galaxy and now this! Ian exclaimed to himself.
“Mister Sanders? Colonel!” Ian pleaded into the phone. “Hello?” The Twiller hovered up and down excitedly.
“Without … [garbled] … hula hoops.” The static was getting really bad now. Ian strained to make out anything, anything at all that would give him a clue. “Find … [ice pick? limerick? drumstick?].” Ian turned the volume all the way up, pressing the phone against his ear until it throbbed. “That is all.”
“Hello? Hello?” Ian shrieked, as several passing aliens gave him looks that clearly conveyed their opinion of his lack of evolution. “Colonel Sanders?”
But it was no use. The line was dead.
. . . . .
Ian wandered dejectedly around the spaceport. He walked from the ticket counter to where customers deposited their bags, several terminals away. He walked another few terminals, up an escalator, around a koi pond, and down a long outdoor walkway until he reached the security gate. He watched for a while as aliens of diverse sizes and shapes maneuvered through some sort of high-tech X-ray imaging systems, luggage was scanned by 3-D holographic imagers, and security workers somehow compared ID cards to their various outlandish owners. One group of travelers resembled the fohrwurt Ian had met at Yore Maker’s Circus of the Bizarre. They were spiny, scaly, scary creatures, with great rows of spikes atop their heads and rippling down their backs, enormous claws that looked like they could rip a shuttle in half, and teeth that simultaneously terrified Ian and made him wonder how they could possibly brush them without destroying the toothbrush. Another alien in line was massively built, with shoulders like boulders and a body that looked literally carved of granite. It carried a large, heavy suitcase with a casual strength that was easily that of ten or twenty men. Another pair of insectoid creatures dripped what was clearly some potent form of venom from their mandibles, although, in their defense, they took care not to drip on any of the other passengers.
Ian watched all these and more aliens get shepherded through the security checkpoint with a minimum of fuss and bother. The whole procedure was, in fact, vastly more efficient than Ian had seen at any airport back on Earth, even though there were dozens of different species represented, which would have made pat-downs a bit awkward. But the whole thing moved very smoothly, that is, until a series of alarms went off and a clear plastic cylinder of some kind rose from the ground and trapped a tall, thin alien inside. Four armed guards appeared from somewhere and leveled glowing laser rifles at the trapped traveler. The confused alien raised its arms, which appeared to be three-foot-long, slender serrated blades. The security worker scanning the luggage on the conveyor belt grabbed the alien’s suitcase and removed an item with great care. He held it up to display to the armed guards, who nodded and lowered the plastic cylinder to take the alien into custody.
Ian peered at the offending item held aloft by the security worker. It was about two inches long, hinged at one end, and dull gray in color. With a start, Ian recognized it as a nail clipper.
After the commotion died down, the line began moving again at its formerly rapid pace. About the most exciting thing that happened after that was that the group of scaled aliens had to duck down to avoid the five-foot spikes on their heads from scraping the top of the scanning machine.
Ian simply shrugged to the Twiller and walked on.
. . . . .
Ian found an unoccupied bench somewhere in the terminal and sat down to think. He needed to find a way off Huh? Why E? He thought he could feel the early effects of island fever, and he could even detect a slight greenish tinge on his hovering friend.
“You feeling okay, little guy?” Ian asked.
“Twill,” it replied bravely, but Ian detected the waver in its voice and wasn’t fooled.
“Don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way to get us out of here,” Ian replied. He sat in thought for a moment. “Hey, why do you stick around, anyway? I mean, why do you stay with me? I’m sure you could sneak on a shuttle flight on your own. Why don’t you?”
The Twiller looked at Ian with large, caring eyes. “Twill twill,” it said.
Ian was very glad to have a companion, especially one so loyal. But he still couldn’t understand why the Twiller had accompanied him for so long. Was it grateful for Ian rescuing it from the Anasazi, back what seemed like so long ago? (Probably not, since it would be far more accurate to say that the Twiller saved Ian than the other way around.) Was it lost as well? Did it have nowhere else to go? Or was there some other purpose that Ian could not understand?
Ian’s thoughts were interrupted by a pair of wide, uniformed aliens. They each sported an impre
ssive set of tribal tattoos that covered most of their arms and necks. Patches on the sleeves of their uniforms identified them as representatives of the Department of Agriculture. One of them held some form of scanning device, which was pointing at Ian. They both had annoyed scowls on their faces, which were also directed at Ian.
“C–can I help you?” Ian asked. “Is there a problem?”
“I would say so,” said the larger of the two aliens. “Are you transporting any unauthorized foods, plants, or animals here today?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Ian replied, acutely aware that he was pretty hungry and had no food with him at all. “No food or plants at all.”
The aliens exchanged a knowing look with each other. “And have you brought any unlicensed animals to Huh? Why E?” they asked.
“No, not—” Ian stopped short, looking protectively at the Twiller. “I mean, my friend here is with me, but he’s hardly an animal or a pet or anything.” Ian realized he was babbling, but he was terrified of having the Twiller taken away from him.
The second alien let out a humorless laugh. “No, the Twiller is fine.” Ian swore the large uniformed creature performed a minute bow to the Twiller, but he could have simply imagined it.
The first alien advanced a step toward Ian. “The problem is you.”
Ian was dumfounded. He lacked any response to that proclamation.
“You see,” said the agriculture agent, clearly enjoying it, “Huh? Why E? is an insulated community, and has a very delicate local ecosystem. We must be careful in preventing non-local predators, fauna, parasites, or diseases from entering the ecosystem. That’s why we carefully screen everyone who comes in through the spaceports.”
“And avoiding those screenings is highly illegal,” said the second alien, advancing a step toward Ian and cracking all three knuckles on the fingers of its huge right hand.
“Wait, wait,” said Ian, trying to shrink away. “There must be some mistake. First of all, I didn’t come through the spaceport, I …”
“Yes?” prompted the first alien.
“Um, never mind,” Ian amended, not really wanting to discuss how he had arrived on the planet. “But if you’re saying that I have some foreign contaminants or bacteria on me, then I assure you that I use the antiseptic showers in all the finest hotels—”
The aliens chuckled again. “It’s not the bacteria we have a problem with,” the larger alien said ominously. It stared unblinkingly at Ian.
Ian finally got it, or at least thought he did. “Wait, guys,” he said, trying to give his best this is all just a big misunderstanding laugh. “Don’t worry, if you guys are concerned that I’m some sort of foreign predator, let me assure you—”
The aliens looked at each other, dumbfounded. “Predator?” one of them repeated incredulously. “This parasite actually thinks it might be a predator!”
The alien agriculture agents laughed uproariously, and the conversation only went downhill for Ian from there.
. . . . .
Ian waited in a small, cold holding room with featureless white walls except for a large mirror that dominated the wall opposite him. The room reminded him uncomfortably of the Anasazi examination room, and Ian sincerely hoped the walls wouldn’t begin constricting again. He looked to the “mirror” on the other side of the room and wondered who was behind what was clearly a pane of one-way glass, like Ian had seen on countless television cop shows, and something inside of him snapped. He was sick of being looked down upon, treated with scorn and derision, and generally underestimated by just about every being he had met on his travels. Maybe these guys think I’m so simple and primitive that I don’t even know they’re watching me, Ian mused, the hint of a smile forming at his lips. I’m sure I can use their underestimation of me to my advantage.
Ian rose from the bench he had been sitting on and walked casually over toward the one-way glass across the room, meticulously being sure not to stare at it or make it obvious that he realized there was anything behind it. He made a show of glancing at his reflection in its mirrored surface and fixing his hair, then went down to one knee, pretending to tie a shoelace, but cleverly positioning himself below the glass and out of sight of his unseen observers. Carefully, he slipped his tube of SPF 5,000 sunscreen out of his pocket and palmed it, pointing the hard plastic cap outward.
“Twill,” inquired the Twiller, some concern creeping into its tone. Ian flashed it a look that he hoped said, Don’t worry, little buddy, I got this. They’ve underestimated me for the last time. The Twiller did not appear reassured.
Rising from his kneeling position, Ian lashed out with the tube of sunscreen, shattering the one-way glass before him. A shower of glass rewarded his efforts, and Ian covered his eyes, fortunately before being harmed by the glass, but not quite quick enough to keep some of the sunscreen from the exploded tube out of his eye.
Ian’s eyes watered, and he fought to wipe them so he could see what was behind the one-way window. He blinked twice, three times, and rubbed his eyes a few more times for good measure. Once his vision finally cleared, he stared at a plain, white wall, and the shattered remains of an ordinary mirror littered the floor.
From a control room somewhere else in the complex, a pair of agriculture agents watched Ian on a series of monitors, which projected images from the many invisible nano-cameras positioned at various places around the perimeter of Ian’s holding cell. The seated alien looked to his companion and simply shrugged.
“We’ve got a strange one here, alright,” the other alien replied without emotion.
. . . . .
Ian was led out of his holding cell and into another room, which appeared to be an interviewing room of some kind. A tall, thin alien with many arms sat behind a metal desk, and a pair of hard metal chairs were positioned in front of the desk. One of the guards that led Ian into the room gestured with a flipper at the chairs, and Ian obediently sat in one of them, while the Twiller hovered over the other. Ian noted that the second guard walked around the desk and stood guarding the mirror on the other side of the room.
“Mister Harebungler,” said the seated alien, as it looked up from a digital tablet of some kind with what Ian swore was an Apple logo on the back. “I understand you are here for smuggling a non-native parasite into our ecosystem.” The alien shook its head sadly. “A very serious offense.”
“I’m really sorry,” Ian said softly, lowering his head. He glanced at the second guard. “About the mirror too.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” said the thin alien, making a notation on the tablet with its tentacle. “I’m afraid the mirror is the least of your worries. Besides,” it said, its face brightening a bit, “I think we can afford to be a bit lenient in that case, considering all the circumstances. After all,” it said, looking to the two guards, “if any of us looked anything like you, I’m sure we’d hardly like to be reminded of the fact by a mirror! It was rather insensitive of us, I’m afraid,” it concluded, a dollop of slime dripping from an orifice on its forehead.
“T–thank you,” Ian managed, stubbornly swallowing his pride as the extent of the trouble he was in overcame him. He felt a small dash of relief. Maybe they’ll realize how helpless I am and feel sorry for me, he thought, completely oblivious to how opposite that thought was to his previous italicized thought that had gotten him in the trouble with the mirror in the first place.
“On the other hand,” continued the seated alien in a much firmer tone, “I’m afraid we have no discretion, no discretion at all, when it comes to the charge of parasitic vermin infestation on our fair planet. I’m afraid the sentence for that crime is quite severe and, as I say, there is no room for lenience.”
Ian gulped audibly and cursed himself for ever heading to the spaceport in the first place. All he had wanted to do was get off the stinking planet, and now here he was, facing execution or maybe eternal imprisonment for being on the planet illegally. He looked to the Twiller helplessly. It seemed, somehow, to be aware of the irony.
Ian simply looked back to the administrator in shock as it rose from behind its desk. “These men will escort you to the prisoners’ shuttle.”
“Um, thank you?” said Ian uncertainly.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay on Huh? Why E?” the thin alien said almost automatically as it entered a few final notes into the case file and set the tablet down on its desk. “Aloha!”
* * * * *
Part VIII
Ian did not have an opportunity to ask where the shuttle was heading, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Anywhere away from the “unique charms” of Huh? Why E? would do him just fine. He looked around the shuttle, his eyes bulging at the sight of the other prisoners condemned to deportation. Some were normal, which was to say no more odd and misshapen than the majority of aliens Ian had seen on his travels. But several were even more unusual than Ian was used to. There was an entire row of lamprey-like worms, long slimy creatures with a huge, circular, toothed mouth where their faces should be. One had fastened itself to the in-flight magazine and appeared to be making sucking noises.