Space Rocks!

by Tom O'Donnell

  “I didn’t start it,” I said. But I knew it was hopeless. There are certain situations—no matter how clear to the younglings involved—that elders simply cannot understand.

  “If Zenyk is threatening you, pop it once right in the gul’orp,” said Kalac as we walked through the streets of Core-of-Rock toward our dwelling. “Xotonians like Zenyk are cowards. The moment they encounter any resistance, they give up.”

  “So . . . am I supposed to fight it or not?” I asked, a little annoyed. I doubted if my originator had ever even been in the same situation. As far as I knew, Kalac had always been strong and popular. Not likely to have been troubled by the Zenyks of its own youth.

  “There’s a time for fighting and a time for peace. You’re supposed to use common sense,” said Kalac. “You convinced me you had some when I agreed to let you inspect Jehe Canyon. So did you learn anything useful?”

  “The humans have rockets!” I said.

  “Yes, Chorkle, that’s how they got here,” said Kalac, sighing.

  “No, I mean small rockets. That they ride around on for fun. They were flying all over the place, and one of them kept crashing, and then two of them raced each other and—”

  “Chorkle,” said Kalac, its voice suddenly grave, “did you see actual humans on the surface?”

  “I . . . yes.”

  “And you watched them? For an extended period of time? Did they see you?”

  “No, they didn’t! I stayed hidden.”

  “Are you absolutely sure? Tell the truth.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “They didn’t see me.”

  Kalac shook its head. “Chorkle, you promised that you would come home immediately at the first sign of any humans! You aren’t a scout. You’re just a youngling. If they had seen you, it would have ruined everything, destroyed all our plans. This situation is serious, you know. The time for daydreaming is over.” It was a different version of the same speech Kalac always gave me.

  “Sorry,” I said quietly.

  “It’s my fault,” said Kalac. “I shouldn’t have let you go. You just aren’t ready for such responsibility.” We walked a while in silence.

  “There were four of them,” I said at last. “I think maybe they were younglings. Like me.”

  It was several seconds before Kalac responded, “I wasn’t aware that the humans had brought any offspring with them.”

  We had reached the entrance to our dwelling. From the smell wafting out the window, Hudka had already started dinner: mushroom and usk-lizard tail stew.

  “When we set off the asteroid-quake,” I ventured, “will they get hurt?”

  Kalac didn’t answer.

  “Wash up,” it said. “It’s time to eat.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The days after the Conclave passed slowly for me. I couldn’t stop thinking about the four juvenile humans. I spent much of my time (when I wasn’t enduring instruction, at least) in the caverns near the exit to the surface. There I sat, listening in on the Nyrt-Snooper, for hours at a time. I had started borrowing the tiny device without permission. So far no one had noticed.

  Teams of Xotonians still continued to monitor all the human ship-to-satellite transmissions—despite still not understanding human language—from the Observatory inside Dynusk’s Column. But after we had collectively decided on the asteroid-quake as the solution to the human problem, our scouts no longer took the Nyrt-Snoopers out to eavesdrop on their interpersonal radio communications. Maybe listening to them chatter away to one another Xotonian-ized the enemy too much?

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough. I always tuned in to the channels where I’d heard the young humans communicate before. Mostly I heard static. Sometimes I listened in on what seemed to be adult human miners using the same frequencies. Once or twice a voice sounded familiar. Was that Crackle-Voice speaking to Lenses? Did I just hear Red-Fur laughing? I could never quite be sure.

  As I listened, I would occasionally try to repeat the strange human words I heard. “Gud-moor-ning.” “How-ya-doo-un.” “O-vur-an-dowt.” My gul’orp seemed to be the wrong shape to pronounce them.

  Twice, I even sneaked out to Jehe Canyon again. There was never a sign of the young humans, though. It was once again just a boring patch of the boring surface of a boring asteroid.

  I spent even more time playing games on the human holographic projector device. When I was absolutely certain I was alone, I would pull it out from under my sleeping-veth and immerse myself in a glowing 3-D world that, as far as I could tell, was in every way superior to reality.

  I defended Eo from alien saucers. I raced motorized vehicles before thousands of cheering spectators. I completed fiendish puzzles based upon the correct orientation of colored blocks. All these shimmering holographic challenges were a subtle mixture of vexation and pleasure. They were incredibly addictive.

  From the games, more human words began to lodge themselves in my brain: “Kon-tin-ew.” “Eck-struh-life.” “Uh-cheeve-men-tun-loct.”

  One day, I was playing a game in which a squat human in red must flatten evil walking mushrooms. Evil walking mushrooms can be quite a problem in the Unclaimed Tunnels, so I identified very strongly with the theme.

  “Guano!” I yelled after losing a life.

  “You need a running start to make it over that lava pit,” said Hudka, nearly scaring me to death. My grand-originator had apparently been watching me for quite a while. I hadn’t noticed. These hologram games had a strange way of dulling the senses.

  “What? I mean—I don’t know where I stole this thing from!” I scrambled to conceal the device. But it was obviously too late for that.

  “That’s a human computer thingy you’ve got there, kid,” said Hudka, shaking its head ominously. “I should really tell Kalac that you have it. And I will—if you don’t let me play too.”

  And so my grand-originator was initiated into the secret cult of the human hologram game. Hudka was pretty good for one so old! Many of the games had two-player modes, and we spent hours competing for the high score in all of them.

  Our rivalry was especially fierce in the alien invasion game. Hudka loved blasting those flying saucers right out of the sky. But it could never quite edge me out for the top spot.

  During this period, a strange thing began to happen. Between listening to so much human conversation on the Nyrt-Snooper and playing so many human games, my human vocabulary began to grow. Thanks to total cultural immersion and a naturally keen Xotonian memory, I was accidentally beginning to understand their language.

  “Xenostryfe III,” I said suddenly one day as Hudka and I played the alien-blaster game.

  “Did you just sneeze?” asked Hudka.

  “No, I—I think that’s the name of this hologram game,” I said. “You know, the human name.” Somehow the letters of the alien alphabet that always displayed at the start of the game suddenly made sense to me. I’d seen them often enough that I’d been able to connect them to specific sounds.

  “Xenostryfe III? What in the name of Morool is that supposed to mean?” asked Hudka.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I said as my life meter dipped to zero under the onslaught of flying saucers. The hologram faded monochrome gray. Game over.

  “Learned to read human but forgot how to play,” snickered Hudka. “Seriously, get your priorities straight, Chorkle.”

  But from that moment on, I made a conscious effort to retain and understand all the human words I heard or read. And slowly, little by little, they started to make sense.

  • • •

  Before I knew it, the asteroid-quake mission was only a few days away.

  All five members of the Council convened at the Vault, a pyramid-shaped building near Ryzz Plaza constructed entirely from lead.

  The Vault was the sort of thing that you saw every day o
f your life but never really took a good look at. It stood in sharp contrast to the typical Xotonian structures, which are dome-shaped and built from stone blocks. The Vault had no windows and a single door made of solid iridium, with an eight-pointed star inset. This was where Great Jalasu Jhuk had put the Q-sik for safekeeping.

  Though the general public was forbidden from attending the opening, I secretly watched from behind the column of a nearby building. I’d changed my skin to the shade of the surrounding architecture. Sometimes Xotonian camouflage works even on Xotonians.

  Kalac approached the door, beside which was a numeric keypad. Consulting a yellowing scrap of paper—apparently a relic passed down to each Chief of the Council since ancient times—it pressed a series of digits into the pad. I was close enough that I could see Kalac’s brips punch the buttons: 9-1-5-6-7-2-3-4.

  There was a pause. Then the door began to slide downward with a scraping rumble.

  If Jalasu Jhuk didn’t want Xotonians to use the Q-sik, I wondered, why leave instructions for opening the Vault?

  But pondering the will of the ancients is a sucker’s game. That was an old expression that Hudka probably made up.

  The door was open now. A pale, eerie glow shone from inside. From my vantage point, I couldn’t quite see the Vault’s interior. The Council huddled nervously on the threshold. At last, Kalac stepped through the door.

  A few long moments later, my originator came out carrying the source of the light: the Q-sik itself.

  It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. The Q-sik appeared to be a glowing tetrahedron that spun slowly inside several concentric rings of tarnished, iridescent metal. On its base were several complex controls and inputs, which allowed for its use. On top, the Q-sik came to a sharp point from which, I guessed, it would fire its energy beam, a blast powerful enough to destroy several kilometers of solid rock, powerful enough to rip a hole in the universe, if the legends were to be believed. I was surprised to see how small the device was.

  From where I stood, I could also see the iridium statue of Jalasu Jhuk in Ryzz Plaza, now reflecting glints of the Q-sik’s light. This little thing was what our Great Progenitor was so worried about?

  The other Council members shrank back from the Q-sik. Only Kalac looked resolute as it strode past them, holding it aloft. In its other thol’graz, it carried a crumbling manual.

  For better or worse, the ancient weapon would now decide the fate of the Xotonian people.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kalac, along with the few other Xotonians who had any knowledge of ancient technology, spent the next few days poring over the Q-sik manual.

  The heavy tome turned out to be a collection of meticulous notes, written and placed inside the Vault by Great Jalasu Jhuk itself. No one had much time to dwell on this remarkable historical discovery, however. Kalac and the others were too busy trying to understand the workings of the Q-sik enough to fire it.

  Now came the day of the asteroid-quake mission. Kalac, Hudka, and I were eating breakfast (rild-sauce over cold svur-noodles) together in our dwelling. Tensions were high. Well, higher than normal.

  “Mark my words,” said Hudka. “You’re making the biggest mistake in Xotonian history. Even bigger than the time we declared it legal to raise giant spiders for food inside city limits!”

  “I’m not having this discussion again,” said Kalac. “There was a Grand Conclave. I seem to recall that you were there, Hudka. There is no turning back now. We reached a decision as a society.”

  “A bad decision,” said Hudka. As a rule, Hudka never let Kalac, or anybody, have the last word in an argument.

  “But what if the humans aren’t evil?” I asked, slurping down a gul’orp-ful of svur-noodles. “Maybe we could work with them instead of against them?”

  “You’ve brought this up before, Chorkle,” said Kalac wearily. “And I have told you that the stakes are simply too high. I’ll admit that I don’t know for certain that the humans mean us harm. And I’ll grant that there might be a small chance that diplomacy might work. But suppose it didn’t. What then?”

  “Just because the right thing to do might not work doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do,” said Hudka. “And we’re supposed to guard the Q-sik. Removing it from the Vault is a mistake.”

  “Now is not the time!” snapped Kalac. My originator’s nerves were running high. In just a few hours, it would be leading the asteroid-quake mission.

  “You two give me more trouble than all the humans combined,” said Kalac, rising from the table. “I have to go. There are still final preparations to make.”

  “But there must be something we can do!” I said. “To make sure that the young—that no humans are needlessly hurt in the quake.”

  Kalac stared at me, surprised. I don’t know that I’d ever confronted my originator so directly.

  “Chorkle,” it said slowly, “the success of this plan is crucial to the very survival of our species. If humans are hurt or, yes, even killed, that is the price that must be paid. Do you understand this?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Do you understand, Chorkle?”

  “Yes,” I mumbled.

  “Good,” said Kalac. “Now I must go.” And my originator walked out the front door of our dwelling. The next time I saw Kalac—at dinnertime, I supposed—the human problem would be solved.

  I looked at Hudka. On most days, it would have had the hologram game out the instant Kalac was gone. We both would have been gleefully stomping evil mushrooms or racing motorized vehicles in endless laps in a human city called “In-dee-uh-nap-oh-luss.”

  Not today, though. My grand-originator sat at the breakfast table, staring at the wall. Hudka looked as small and worried as I’d ever seen it.

  “I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” I said. “I mean, if the human race came up with hologram games, then they can’t be all bad, can they?” It was an odd defense of an entire species. Hudka stared at me.

  “Nobody is all bad,” said Hudka. “Not Xotonians. Not humans.”

  “I think—I think I should do something.”

  “Then do what you need to do,” said Hudka.

  Twenty-seven turns later, I stood at the entrance to the surface.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I walked across the surface of Gelo, running through human phrases in my mind. Red T’utzuxe hung heavy in the sky.

  Up ahead, I saw their mothership for the first time. A huge metal globe squatting on the surface of our asteroid. Rusted and pockmarked, bristling with spiny antennae, emblazoned with the flags of many Eo countries. I recognized a few of them from a particular hologram game in which two teams of human males attempted to kick a white ball into the net of their opponents.

  A series of smaller pods radiated out from the mothership, each connected back to it via a flexible tube. I guessed this configuration allowed the humans to travel among the various pods, using the mothership as a central hub.

  In the distance, big mining machinery sat parked in silence. If the human workday was over, then at least no one would be underground when the mines collapsed.

  Why was I even here? Was I going to warn the humans somehow? Had I come as some sort of self-appointed Xotonian diplomat? Even if the young humans turned out to be friendly, who knew how their adults would behave? What if they took one look at me and decided to shoot me with their primitive—yet still quite lethal—projectile weapons? Standing this close to a bustling hive of them, I felt far from safe.

  I checked my chronometer. Still three hours until the asteroid-quake. Then, if Kalac’s calculations were correct, the ground here would begin to shake and churn, possibly destroying the human mothership. I didn’t want to be here when that happened.

  Something crackled over the Nyrt-Snooper. It was a human voice I didn’t recognize. It sounded female. I heard it command another human called “Danny” t
o remove . . . something from their pod, immediately. Then there was a grudging yet affirmative response in a familiar register. It was Crackle-Voice!

  So Crackle-Voice was named “Danny.” Or at least I thought so. My human language skills were still pretty bad. “Danny” might actually be the human word for “digestive ailment.”

  I scanned the pods. There was movement inside one of them. The small light outside its airlock changed from red to green. I snuck closer, my skin a perfect Gelo blue-gray.

  The pod’s airlock slid open with a hiss. It was Danny. He was wearing a spacesuit, and he had two large metal cylinders with him.

  He hefted one of the cylinders, walked about a hundred meters away from the spacecraft, and dumped it out on the ground. Its contents seemed mostly to be rotting organic matter. Human garbage.

  Did humans really just dump their waste right next to where they lived? Perhaps there was some truth to the Xotonian stereotype that they were a pack of filthy slobs.

  Danny replaced the first cylinder and went to empty the second. Something seized me. I still don’t know what. But before I thought better of it, I darted into the airlock and climbed up the wall onto the ceiling. I hung there, my skin now the warm beige of the ship’s interior.

  To one side of the airlock were the four personal rockets I’d seen the humans riding in Jehe Canyon, heaped together in a sort of standing pile.

  Danny returned to the airlock. He walked over to a glowing console and punched a button. The outside hatch slowly rolled closed. Once it had formed an airtight seal, the inner door slid open with a whoosh as oxygen-rich human air rushed in. Air, I noticed, that was very similar to that in the Gelo caverns.

  Danny took off his spacesuit and stuffed it inside a small metal box—one of several beside the airlock—then ambled off down the hallway. He never once looked up.

  There I was, inside a human spacecraft.

  I was inside a human spacecraft!