I stared out my windshield, fighting the urge to rub my eyes like I'd seen people do in all the science fiction movies I'd grown up watching. The dull silver flying object sat in the brown-grey cement parking lot, not ten feet from me, taking up three and a half spots, including the handicap slot. It made a soft humming sound, kind of like one of those little vacuum cleaners that zooms around on the ground and cleans by itself.
Right in front of me stood what had to be an occupant of the craft, her head even with the top of the drive-up window. Her four legs looked like they'd come off a deer, and her two arms were longer than they should have been, giving her the appearance of one of those stick insects, a look that was further enhanced by her skin coloring.
She was the color of an iced non-fat mocha, the very drink I had ordered before the ship and the alien had appeared. What convinced me she was a woman was the fact that, over her shoulder (or the closest approximation of one that she had) was slung one of those fashionable new tootsie-roll looking purses. Even from my distance, I could see the little Gucci symbols all over it. Wherever this alien was from, she knew how to shop.
I fought the urge to press the button and roll my window up. Who knew if this alien woman would take that as a sign of aggression? Shopping habits aside, we might have nothing in common.
Her pencil-thin fingers opened the purse, and she dug through it. A piece of what looked like the foil that Wrigleys' was wrapped in fell to the ground. Do aliens chew gum? She shook her triangular head and kept peering into the bag with those weird bug eyes. Finally, she withdrew a small booklet and flipped to one of the last pages.
Through the open window, I could hear her speaking. Her voice sounded like one of those automated machines that I heard whenever I called my bank to beg them to refund the bounce check fees. "I would like an iced triple grande cinnamon soy no-whip mocha. I would like an iced decaf venti sugar-free vanilla chai latte. I would like a tall almond Americano—" she paused and her head whipped from side to side for a moment. I swore I heard guitar feedback, even though my radio was off. "No. I would like a grande decaf almond Americano with half and half. I would like a venti peppermint mocha frappuccino. With whip."
I couldn't hear the response of whoever was inside the window. The alien woman stood without moving. Was she breathing? Did she breathe? I could feel and hear my own breathing now. It was the only sound I heard. I couldn't tell if the outside world existed anymore. All my attention was focused on the figure in the line ahead of me.
I don't know how long I sat there. I figured this was it. After she got the drinks, I thought, the entire planet would suddenly be destroyed. It was all over. I couldn't tell if that upset me. My entire head—brain included—felt numb.
A pale, shaking hand appeared in the window, holding an iced grande drink. The alien shook her head. I waited for the planet to explode. It didn't.
"I am sorry," the alien said. "I require a cup holder. The x-Generated JVR5 does not come standard with cup holders."
The hand was withdrawn. A minute later, it re-appeared, holding a brown cardboard cup holder with four cups perched in it.
I didn't see the alien move, but one second the tray sat in the disembodied hand, and the next it was floating in the air, a few inches away from the alien's purse. The alien dug through the purse, retrieved some crumpled bills, and handed them to the hand. The hand withdrew quickly.
"Please keep the change for excellent service," the alien said. She turned her head to me without moving her body. The volume of her voice increased as she addressed me. "I do apologize for cutting in your line," she said. I realized that her mouth—or the slash that I assumed was her mouth—didn't move when she spoke. "With the current atmosphere, I cannot observe proper manners. I did not mean to inconvenience you."
I nodded and smiled dumbly. Was I supposed to respond? What did she mean, anyway? The political atmosphere? Were we not alien-friendly? Or did she mean the actual physical atmosphere, the stratosphere and all that science stuff?
She turned away from me, then she disappeared, along with the drinks. The ship blinked once before it vanished. I waited, again, for the planet to explode. It still didn't. But the car in front of me did reappear, the woman still complaining.
"And when I say hot, I don't mean burn my lip and give me a blister hot." She paused and shook her head. "Never mind. Make them both iced."
I closed my eyes, giving in to the temptation to rub them. My breathing was returning to normal, and I heard ordinary noises around me again—birds chirping, cars revving on the road, tires squealing.
The hand appeared from the window again, and drinks and money were exchanged. The SUV pulled out. I exhaled and moved forward, taking my place in front of the window. The woman working the window refused to look at me while she served me my drink and took my money. I didn't know how to broach the subject of aliens ordering coffee. "So, do you get much intergalactic coffee traffic?" sounded like something you'd see written in a police report on COPS after they'd finally managed to arrest the guy who was drunk, driving on the wrong side of the road, and naked. I didn't feel like being on TV.
I lingered at the window a moment. Were they up there, sipping their coffee? I heard a honk behind me and pulled forward and out of the black BMWs way. The road before me was bumper-to-bumper, and as I waited for an opening to appear, I glanced back to the drive through and almost choked on my mocha.
In the same three and a half parking spots that the silver egg had been sitting in not three minutes ago, a blue-tinted, round craft materialized. It had orange lights encircling the bottom, and they flashed slowly, reminding me of a road work sign that was losing power. Before I could blink, the BMW was gone, replaced by another alien.
This alien was more humanoid than the last. It stood on what I assumed were two legs—I could see brown work-boots protruding from under its satin-looking striped pants—and those were definitely hands protruding from the end of the orange and pink pineapple-covered shirt. I couldn't see how many fingers there were at this distance, but I would have bet the rest of my drink that there were a few more than five on each. The alien's octagonal head stuck out of the neckline of the shirt at a weird angle, and it was the same color as the ship.
Staring at the gaudiness on display in my rear-view mirror, I tried to figure out if the alien was pure Prada or pure Wal-Mart.
Through my open window I heard it begin to order. "We wants us a solo ristretto with whip…"
The rest of the order—if there was one—was drowned out by the scream that escaped through the window, followed by a very loud and forceful, "I quit!"
I couldn't say I blamed her. The customers always were the worst part of working retail.
****
Technical Exchange
Author: Kevin Haw
Illustrated by David Maier
Score: 100.0
I'm ashamed to admit it, but the only reason I went to the kickoff meeting where I met my best friend and business partner was to score a free coffee mug. I wasn't expecting any Exiles to be there.
Now, normally I avoid corporate pep rallies, even when there's free loot to be had, but that time I had an ulterior motive. You see, you can tell how committed an aerospace company is to a project by the quality of the swag it gives the peons. So, while the business section obsessed about the outlook for international tourism and the UN's recognition of the Exiles, I simply clutched the stainless steel mug with the etched 7z7 logo surrounding an Exile shuttlecraft and saw two years of private school tuition for my daughters.
That was also where they debuted the ad. You know the one. "Around the world or around the stars, the Otherliner™ takes you there!" The animated plane taking off from Beijing, kids in a Midwest playground waving up at happy passengers. A media campaign for a piece of hardware that hadn't even been designed yet, let alone manufactured or flown.
You'd think we would've seen it as an omen.
"Thank you," Thermal cooed when the lights came up, assuming the applau
se was for him. His thumb absently scratched his scalp, a gesture universal to owners of poorly fitted hairpieces. "I'm glad everyone's as excited about this project as I am. Today marks a new chapter in our company's—no—in our planet's history. Now normally, I'd field questions myself . . ."
The auditorium filled with subvocal groans.
". . . but since this is a joint venture, we'll let our partner handle that. Allow me to introduce Chairman Smith, of the Exile Habitat Engineering and Maintenance Company."
Now that perked everyone up. Even I stopped recalculating my hourly contract rate and started paying attention. The Exiles might have been all over the media for the better part of a year, but none of us had ever seen one in the flesh.
The Chairman sidled up to the podium, switching from four footed stance to two-and-tail. At first glance, he looked exactly like the videos. Take a cave newt, one of the eyeless albinos from the documentaries with the narrator in a mining helmet, dye it slate gray and stretch it to eight feet long. Then stick a second pair of limbs just below the ribcage. For the head, put a porpoise's acoustic melon on top of the long, sinewy neck and a tentacled snout underneath, a sea anemone the size of a beer can. Add a three piece suit (shirt, pants, midlett–one garment for each pair of limbs) out of something that looks like navy blue wool.
"Thank you so much for those kind words," the translator strapped to the Chairman's chest said, converting his ultrasonic chirps to a bass monotone. "Before answering your questions, I would like to read a statement from my company to yours . . ."
As he droned, you could sense the entire auditorium lose focus. It appeared that the oratorical habits of middle managers crossed species.
"Ford," Marco whispered, elbowing my side. "He's wearing a rug, just like Thermal!"
I peered closer, realized the kid was right. Male Exiles have this small ruffle of down around the neck, perhaps as wide as a man's palm. In the Chairman's case, though, it appeared flamboyantly large and spanned several unlikely shades along its width.
"Maybe it doesn't look so bad on sonar." I shrugged. A lame joke, since Exiles actually see with a tiny eyespot just above the snout. But I got a snicker from my intern nevertheless.
"Are there any questions?" asked the Chairman when he'd finished reading his lines. Predictably, the audience was silent.
"Ask him," Marco whispered, nudging me, "what you said at lunch."
"No," I hissed back.
"C'mon. Chicken?"
"Me? You're the one who won't come out to the Soaring Club . . ."
"Ah," said the Chairman, swiveling his head towards me. "We have a question."
Damn. Too loud, I'd been caught like a rat in a trap. My embarrassment turned to irritation when I saw the two staff photographers covering the event nudge each other and begin to click away at me. I mean, I know the company's nuts for the whole "diversity" thing, but did they have to put an African American on the cover of the Employee Newsletter every time one stood up and asked a question?
"Well," I began, burying my annoyance. "I really have more of a concern than a question, Mr. Chairman. Er, Ford Gregory, Structures Group."
"Yes?" Perhaps it was just nervousness from talking to a bona fide extraterrestrial, but I swear I felt a beam of ultrasonic sonar boring into me. Several beams, in fact, when I saw about a half dozen Exiles seated in the front row turn their serpentine necks and look at me. An absurd notion, but no less so than feeling human eyes staring.
"Er, yeah. I'm just concerned about the risks of using Exile technology in our airplane."
"You mean safety? Because I can assure . . ."
"No, not that. Schedule and cost risk. For example, that video mentioned new technology that serves as the skin for your generation ship."
"Well, it's hardly a new technology," the Chairman replied. "Skin has protected our ship for centuries and its history goes back even farther. Very mature technology."
"A mature technology for keeping atmosphere separated from deep vacuum, perhaps," I said. "No one, though, not you, not us, has ever wrapped an aircraft with the stuff before. I just have doubts that something a hundred times lighter than the traditional materials can do the job."
"I understand your concerns," the Chairman said, "but the shearing stress of a micrometeor impact compared to anything an atmospheric craft might face . . ."
"It's not just about shear. There's other . . ."
"Thank you, Ford," Thermal interrupted. "But if we get into a debate here, we'll miss the refreshments at the back of the auditorium."
There was a chuckle from the crowd, followed by several hands going up. "Anyone else? Ah, Marilee! What questions does Systems Engineering have?"
In retrospect I couldn't blame Thermal for cutting off a debate that would have bored the rest of the auditorium to tears. Occupational hazard. Engineers argue the way fish swim.
Sure enough, though, the other questions were lightweight: How many Exiles were in the generation ship? (Four million) What did they think of Seattle? (Lovely, especially in the springtime) What was the most interesting thing they'd seen on Earth? (A tie between Mount Rushmore and Hollywood) How many planned to emigrate? (Very few. Most would stay in orbit and occasionally play tourist) Basically, a rehash of everything you could have gotten off the web.
The refreshments were good, though. After more speeches, Marco and I were critiquing the cookie tray when a voice surprised me from behind.
"I told the Chairman not to use those numbers."
"What?" I replied, concealing the stack of baked goods I'd been pocketing.
It was an Exile, a male from the front row. Unlike the Chairman, this fellow had a neatly trimmed crest of modest, although still healthy, dimensions. At first glance, it appeared all natural, too. Score one for those of us with receding hairlines who are still secure in our masculinity.
He stood about five feet in the two-and-tail posture, slightly shorter than the Chairman. Close up, I could see that the fine down that served the Exiles in lieu of fur wasn't solid gray, but was shaded in places. His midlett and trousers seemed slightly threadbare with a different cut than the Chairman's. The ancient suit I wear for job interviews and funerals suddenly leapt to mind.
"I told him not to use the one percent figure," the Exile continued, oblivious to my forced nonchalance and Marco's open gawking. "Valid for our application on the generation ship, but not yours. Ten times lighter, not a hundred, is more realistic."
"Really? I would have thought . . ." I paused, extended my hand. "My apologies, I'm Ford Gregory."
"Yes. 'Structures Group,' right? That would make you a materials engineer, too. Call me Thomas Patch."
There were handshakes all around when he extended the three fingered hand of one of his stubby midlimbs. His grip was firm through his glove/tabi sock garment, but in the back of my mind I remembered the old George Carlin bit about shaking hands with a guy missing some fingers.
"A materials engineer. So, um, what specifically do you do, Thomas?"
"Oh, I'm the chief engineer for the group that maintains the Skin enclosing our habitat."
"Er, ah, the skin that I said, er . . ."
Grace under pressure. Yup. That's me.
Thankfully, Thomas made a dismissive gesture, probably picked up in a briefing on human body language.
"Don't be embarrassed. You said nothing I wouldn't have if I didn't know the properties of Skin. I'd be skeptical, myself."
"Well," I said, "it sounds like a fascinating technology."
"Really? To us it's five centuries old, hardly glamorous. A career dead end, my parents warned me. Still, it's offered plenty of challenge over the years. In fact, we've improved Skin in a dozen ways during our journey. I doubt the inventors on Homebound would even recognize it."
"Well, I only wish I could learn more. But we're using carbon fiber for the 7z7 airframe."
"A good, conservative choice," Thomas agreed, nodding his faceless head. It must've been a very thorough briefing.
"Hey." Marco's unease was apparently abating. "Why will our Skin be ten times heavier than yours?"
"Photoelectric effect. Skin needs an electrical field to operate. Our version converts light from our Habitat's sun for power. Your version will need to include a power distribution network. Unless, of course, you always fly the planes westwards so they face the sun."
Wow. A giant newt telling a joke. Not a funny one, but still . . .
"Photoelectric? This stuff generates power like a solar cell? That's incredible!"
"Yes, it is." Thomas' translator injected a note of glee in his voice. "Skin really is beautiful stuff."
****
That should have ended it with Marco and me going back to our little cubicle to work with "good, conservative" carbon composites for the next three years. Instead, a voicemail from Thermal's assistant summoned me to his office to discuss the comments I'd made. On the way down the corridor, I dusted off my list of headhunters and contemplated a new job search.
When I entered Thermal's rosewood and brass lair, though, I was surprised by the absence of a security guard or Human Resources rep, the usual pallbearers at a firing. Instead of canning me, Thermal sat me down and turned on the charm. He said he liked that I "thought outside the box." I considered reminding him I'd actually been advocating thinking inside the Box, but I kept silent.
Then he blindsided me by offering a new job: leading the team that would work with Thomas to adapt Skin to the 7z7. I must've mumbled something vaguely affirmative because he leapt up and shook my hand.
I recovered from my daze long enough to seize on the ritual "If there's anything you need, just ask." It seemed only fair that Marco joined me. When I got back and told him we'd be working with new technology, that the fate of the project and perhaps the company would be resting on our shoulders, he thought it was a compliment.
I couldn't stop laughing for twenty minutes.
****
Score: 10.0
It turned out Thomas was absolutely right about Skin. It's beautiful stuff, a material scientist's wet dream. He hadn't even begun to scratch the surface, though.
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