Maryanna Hoggatt © 2014
Maryanna Hoggatt © 2014
THE INVASION COMMANDER’S MOTION FOR NEW BUSINESS
* * *
SHAENON K. GARRITY
CONTACT DATE+3.45.333u
Hello, is everyone here? There’s myself, two, three . . . five. Good, that’s great, that’s as expected. First thing, I want to congratulate the team on an almost flawless landing and critical-point infection. As I can see from your convincingly mammalian faces, we’ve each managed to locate an endemic host, spore, then devour the host, absorb his knowledge of this planet, and take his shape. By-the-book infection—I’m sure the homeworld will be pleased.
. . . Or her shape. Yes, cC-3. Point taken, it doesn’t hurt to recall they have two sexes here.
No, cC-6, that’s usually one sex per individual. I think you’re a little confused. cC-3, you’re the expert. Would you say cC-6 has duplicated a “he” or a “she”?
A “he,” really?
You agree, cC-5? That’s interesting, that’s really interesting.
No, cC-6, I’m willing to trust the group consensus on this one.
Honestly, you don’t have to—
Yes, cC-6, that’s definitely male. Put that away, please. Thank you.
We’re getting ahead of ourselves. When I called tonight’s meeting at this diner, I mentioned that the invasion so far has been almost flawless. I have been given to understand that aA Company landed on an uninhabitable planet and failed to spore, while contact with bB Company was lost within the local interstellar cloud. But we of cC Company made it, in spite of what the other companies and the Overmind may have had to say about us in the past, and that means it’s time to get to work! Right?
Sadly, we have had a loss. It seems cC-2, my second-in-command, was discovered by the natives while still sporing, mistaken for a kohlrabi, and eaten. If we could have a moment of silence . . .
Kohlrabi. It’s a vegetable. A root vegetable. A . . . a kind of turnip, I think.
I have cC-2’s last transmission here, in fact. I think it would be a good idea to have a listen, difficult as it may be, to get an idea of the unique dangers . . . well, let’s not say “dangers” . . . the unique challenges we face on this planet.
Cabbage? cC-5 is saying “cabbage.” I don’t know about that, cC-5, we don’t look anything like cabbages in our gestating pod form. We—
A kohlrabi doesn’t look like a cabbage. It looks like an immature pod. Come to think of it, what exactly is a kohl—?
I’ll look it up. All right? We’ll both look it up and get back to this at the next meeting.
I see cC-6 has a question. Yes?
Sautéed and tossed with mushrooms, according to intelligence . . .
No, I don’t know how he tasted. What kind of question is that?
What, cC-5? You can also eat them raw? cC-5, we’ve been on this planet for three days. How do you know all this about kohlrabi?
Never mind. Just . . . never mind. Before we break and return to our respective beachheads to locate additional hosts and reproduce, I want to thank cC-4, our pilot, for doing such a great job with the landing. Wasn’t that a great landing? And didn’t he find us a perfect high-density metropolitan area in which to begin our conquest of the planet? San Francisco—what a city, huh?
Yes, you’re right, cC-3. Didn’t she find us a great area. The point is, I think we should all give cC-4 a hand.
It’s a colloquial phrase. From my host’s brain. It means to put your hands together and clap.
They’re those things at the ends of your arms.
These. These are arms. These are hands. How did you get all that about kohlrabi and not know—?
No, cC-6. That’s not an arm. I tell you what, let’s break and save this for the next meeting, what do you say?
CONTACT DATE+35.89.004u
Good to see you all again. I’m eager to hear how many humans each of you has killed and replaced since last month’s meeting. cC-3, why don’t we start with you?
Wait, I see cC-5 raising his hand. That’s hand, everyone, I trust we’ve all learned which parts are our hands now. I appreciate your enthusiasm, cC-5, but unless this is an emergency, let’s stick to numerical order. If you would, cC-3 . . . ?
It is an emergency? Oh . . . well, then, let me see what you’ve got on that sheet of paper.
“Kohlrabi (German turnip) is a low, stout cultivar of the cabbage. Its origin in nature is the same as that of cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, kale, collard greens, and Brussels sprouts.” Well. That’s. Well.
Five minutes on Wikipedia, you say? Well. Er. You know, this is very educational, cC-5, and I applaud your initiative, but what do you say we get back to the conquest? You remember the conquest? cC-3, your turn.
No, cC-3, I did not interrupt you because you’re a woman. I’m in a female body myself, in case you haven’t noticed. You saw what happened. cC-5 just barged in with this—
No, of course your contribution to the invasion is more important than whether kohlrabi is a cabbage or a turnip.
Well, I’m sorry, cC-5, but it is! Please, cC-3, tell the group exactly how many soldier drones you’ve added to our forces.
Zero. But you met a guy at a grocery co-op and you think you might infect him? Okay. That’s not as good as I was hoping, but it’s progress. cC-4, how many drones have you created and stationed at your beachhead?
You got evicted from your beachhead on a noise complaint. She waved a Swiffer at you until you went away. No, I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.
Your landlady is a what? Well, all the more reason to kill her and spore into her carcass. All right. cC-5?
I thought it only took five minutes, cC-5. If it was only five minutes, you can’t have spent the entire past lunar cycle on “research.”
If that’s how you’re going to be, you can have your paper back. cC-6, I hope you’ve had more luck with the sporing and . . . er . . . so forth . . .
I’m sorry, but has anyone here successfully snatched any bodies at all?
Well, no, but I’ve been very busy in communion with the Overmind. It’s not all fun and games being invasion commander, you know.
Look, I just want to get this puny planet conquered. You want bB Company to show us up to the homeworld? You know what they’re like. I’m sure wherever they landed, they’ve got their planet half-infected by now, and all we have are these five bodies we’re wearing. I don’t want to be too hard on you all, but this is an order. The moment you walk out this door, you have to get serious about conquest. Understood?
Good. Great. Now let’s—
No, I will not.
That’s not important. This isn’t about me. This is about taking over the Earth.
Fine, then, I will put it up to a vote. How many people here want me to—?
All of you? Really? Even you, cC-3?
All right, all right. I was wrong for thinking the kohlrabi was part of the turnip family. Happy?
CONTACT DATE+62.93.17u
Where is cC-4? I’m serious. It’s bad enough that we had to wait an hour for cC-6 to finish his shift at the coffee shop, but we actually need cC-4.
I’m sorry, cC-6. You’re right, that was unfair.
Yes, and a little hurtful. I’ve just been on edge lately.
cC-4 is where? In Portland? What is she doing in Portland?
Crashing with whom?
So what I’m hearing is, cC-4 moved to Portland because she couldn’t find an apartment in San Francisco.
Sorry, couldn’t find an apartment outside the Tenderloin, and yes, I agree it’s a little scary there. You know what’s supposed to be scarier than the Tenderloin, everyone? An army of killer brain-sucking pod people from outer space!
No, I’m not talking about bB Company. I’m talking about us! I’ll have you know that while you’ve been lounging around, I’ve assimilated two humans. That’s right, two.
They’re out scouting additional hosts, that’s where.
Er.
Bill. Bill and . . . Trixie. Bill and Trixie Pepper. You’ll address them as cC-1a and cC-1b, of course. When you meet them. Does anyone have cC-4’s number in Portland?
Oh, for cripes’ sake. I’m tabling everything until next month. Are you happy?
CONTACT DATE+97.50.00u
First, let me apologize for getting a little testy at the last meeting. Several of you texted me afterward to comment that I seemed on edge. That was unprofessional of me. Also, I’ve taken into consideration the suggestion—made by most of you, in fact—that you could get more killing and assimilation done if I’d make some accommodations of my own. As you can see, I’ve rescheduled our briefings to meet at lunchtime to accommodate everyone’s busy schedules.
Yes, cC-6, I’m sorry, I know you work the night shift at the coffee shop now and it’s hard for you to get up by noon. We all appreciate your dedication. Can we give cC-6 a hand?
Yes! Just like that! We’ve really come far, haven’t we?
Before we go any further, let me tell you how proud I am that one of us has finally produced a soldier drone. cC-3, when you walked in here with this young man, it was such a weight off my . . .
He’s not a drone? He’s just an unassimilated human? Then why on earth did you bring him to our secret planetary-conquest meeting?
That’s the stupidest answer I’ve ever heard.
Well, it is. It’s like none of you are taking this invasion seriously. This is exactly what the Overmind said would happen. Honestly, it makes me want to scream sometimes, one of those high-pitched screams where your jaw hangs open and your eyes roll back into your—
cC-3, wait! Let’s talk this over like adults! cC-3, so help me, if you walk out that door—
Well, that could have gone better. So . . . for this meeting we’re down to cC-5, cC-6, and myself. Does anyone else have a report to make? I mean real news, not—
Why, thank you, cC-6. A postcard for Flexible Lola’s Vegetarian Burlesque Show in Oregon. What does this have to do with anything?
cC-4 is Lola. Of course.
As long as we’re airing our laundry, I have a confession to make. The item I submitted at the last meeting about assimilating two humans . . . that was not entirely accurate. The truth is, it was somewhat fewer than two. In fact, it was no humans. None. I thought I could get a couple before today’s meeting and make up the difference.
No, I don’t want a hug. I’m a terrible invasion commander. I haven’t had the nerve to commune with the Overmind in weeks. I have to go home and rewrite our entire strategy. cC-5, could you find cC-3 and her . . . you know, the human? I didn’t get his name, sorry.
What kind of name is Richmond?
Meeting adjourned. I don’t even know anymore . . . Say, can anyone pick up the check?
CONTACT DATE+120.50.00u
So! Here we are, together again! Except for Lola, of course, who is touring the state of Washington with her burlesque troupe. Let’s all wish her the best and hope she manages to devour a few humans along the way. And let’s welcome the newest member of the invasion force, Richmond. He’s a mere Earthman but has assured me that as long as cC-3 wants to conquer the world for the Overmind, he wants to conquer the world for the Overmind, too.
Have a Kleenex, cC-6.
Men—and women, and women—I’ve given the matter a lot of thought, and I’ve decided we need to change our approach. We’ve been spending all our time at our individual spore nests, seeing each other only for these meetings, when we should be working together. I mean, we’re pod people. That’s our great strength, cooperation. Am I right?
Exactly. So I propose we all sign up for the grocery co-op and focus our efforts on selecting and devouring victims there. First the co-op, then the world!
I’m feeling good about this. I don’t mind telling you, I feel very good. Also, Richmond tells me we can get discounts on bulk granola.
CONTACT DATE+133.82.433u
I think you all know why I’ve called you here. After discussing the issue individually with each of you and weighing all our options, I’ve reached a decision. Our next victim will be Rob, the assistant manager at the co-op.
Yes, all right, our first victim, if you want to be all glass-half-empty, Richmond. Let me remind you that your brain would’ve been devoured by spores months ago if it weren’t for cC-3.
I’m not threatening him, cC-3, I’m just pointing out the obvious.
We’re getting off track. Rob. The assistant manager. Through my analysis of the data, I’ve determined that he has the genetic qualities of an easily convertible host, as well as personal habits that will make it easy for us to isolate and subdue him. Also, we all really hate that guy for taking away our olive-bar privileges.
The plan is to stay after hours, corner him at the office, chloroform him, and launch into basic sporing-and-assimilation procedure as we learned back on the good old homeworld. I trust we all remember the procedure, yes?
cC-6, you’ve acquired the chloroform? Maybe? I hope?
Good! You followed through on a task! I’m surprised. I mean impressed. I’m surprised by how impressed I am, cC-6. Excellent work. So once he’s unconscious, I’ll spore into his—
You want us to infect Rob with your spores? I don’t like to pull rank, cC-5, but I am invasion commander, and if there are options, I’d kind of like to be the first to produce a drone. How would it look if we created a cC-5a drone before a cC-1a drone?
I’ll tell you—it’d look ridiculous. bB Company would laugh at me. Us. They’d laugh at us. So, cC-6, if you could give me the chloroform?
cC-6? Hello?
What do you mean, you’re more than just a number? I know you’re more than just a—
I refuse to call you Heather.
No, it’s perfectly fair that Richmond has a name and you don’t. He’s a human. Humans have names. What are you going to call your soldier drones, Heather-b through Heather-zzz-prime?
I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.
Fine. Everyone, from now on we’ll call him Heather. cC-5, both of us will spore into Rob the assistant manager. Anything to get this invasion under way.
Now let’s go get that jerk.
CONTACT DATE+135.02.219u
As invasion commander, I feel it’s important to go over the events of last night and think about exactly where we went wrong. It’s not going to be pleasant, but as I see it, there are several points we can turn into learning experiences. Learning experiences, everyone, all right? No one’s pointing fingers.
First, as we were getting ready to drive to the co-op, Lola arrived at my doorstep with four burlesque dancers—none of whom, I should note, seemed to be soldier drones—in what I’m told were tear-away Jonny Quest fetish costumes. Lola herself was dressed as . . . what was it?
“Naughty Hadji.” Right.
For reasons I’m not so clear on, Lola insisted on joining us for the assimilation, taking her troupe along because . . . why was that, Lola?
Because you’d only rented the one bus. Right. I suppose I’m glad you’ve been reading the minutes I forwarded to you in Portland. That’s . . . something.
Yes, everyone, it’s great to see Lola again. I probably wasn’t clear enough about that at the time. I was a little preoccupied. At the co-op, we did manage to corner Rob in his office. Let’s take a moment to congratulate ourselves on that. Good work, everybody. I was really proud of you there.
The next glitch, and let’s call this a learning experience, came when we tackled Rob and stuffed a chloroform-dipped handkerchief in his face, only to discover that what Heather had acquired for us was almond-flavored Italian syrup from his coffee shop. Now this is one area I’d really like us all to learn from. One of the people who needs to learn from the experience is me, clearly. I need to learn that when Heather brings me a bottle of something that he insists is chloroform, I need to test it to make sure it really is chloroform. I should also do my research, because I was sure that chloroform smelled like almonds, but it turns out that’s
cyanide.
Thank you, cC-5. Wikipedia would be a good resource for that . . . So those are the lessons I should take away. What lessons should everyone else take away? Specifically, what lessons should Heather take away?
Never mind. Heather and I are going to discuss this later. The next learning moment was when Lola and the burlesque troupe tried to distract Rob from choking on almond syrup by launching into a striptease, which instead made Heather faint. But as it turned out, none of these problems was important in the greater scheme of things, because that was when Rob revealed that he was actually bB-1, invasion commander of bB Company, and he called in his army of soldier drones . . . That was when we may have panicked a bit.
People, we really should have stayed and attempted communication with bB Company.
No, really, listen. I know they can be scary, especially in attack mode, but they are fellow pods, after all. Technically speaking, we’re all in this together. Much as we’d like this to be a planet of C pods, and much as they’d like it to be a planet of B pods, it’s not as if compromise is impossible, right? They probably wouldn’t have eaten us once they calmed down.
By the way, cC-3, I’m sorry for leaving Richmond behind. He was just standing there gawking—you know, like he’d never seen an army of pod-born zombies drenched in green synaptic syrup lurching down a produce aisle—and I couldn’t drag him away. In the end, he wasn’t a bad guy, for someone who wasn’t a pod.
So here we are, and I really am the worst invasion commander ever spored from the homeworld. I don’t blame the rest of you. You did what you could. This is all on me . . . Me and this stupid planet.
No, cC-5. Thank you, but I really don’t want a gift. I don’t feel like I deserve a gift right now . . . What is that?
A salad. You brought me a salad.
Oh, a kohlrabi salad. What is with you and kohlrabi?
Look, maybe we should get some sleep and in the morning this will have turned out to be a very bad dr—
Richmond, for heaven’s sake, is that you? What on earth are you dragging behind you?
Day One, Year One: Best New Stories and Poems, 2014 Page 21