The Book of Ralph

by Christopher Steinsvold

  “So will you give us your superior scientific knowledge?” the reporter asked.

  The queen giggled. “Of course not. My dear, mankind does not need more science. Mankind needs more God. Haven’t you been listening?” she said as she took a sip of Diet Coke, paused, and called on another. “You, yes, you, the man with the strange-looking penis.”

  He was about to stand up, then thought better of it and asked his question from his seat.

  “Why is it that you look so human, or, as many say, humanoid? It seems like a fantastic coincidence—”

  “There is no coincidence. We were made in God’s image, just like you,” she said, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world. With no loss of rhythm, she pointed to another reporter.

  “What is the purpose of the large ship near Pluto?” a reporter called out.

  The queen looked at the reporter, smiled, and said, “Next question.”

  There was a pause; then the questions resumed. “Why do you have this press conference in the United States? Why not another country?” the unshaven reporter asked calmly with a French accent.

  Her response seemed completely flippant.

  She smiled, almost laughed, then looked over the faces of the reporters and said, “What’s great about this country is that America started the tradition where the richest consumers buy essentially the same things as the poorest. You can be watching TV and see Coca-Cola, and you know that the president drinks Coca-Cola, Liz Taylor drinks Coca-Cola, and just think, you can drink Coca-Cola too.”

  Her weird answer left almost everyone dumbfounded. I’d bet only a few thousand people on Earth recognized her words, but Alice was one of them.

  “Your Majesty . . . Did you just quote Andy Warhol?” Alice asked with a small laugh.

  “This one is clever,” the queen said with excitement, pointing sharply at Alice while looking back at the gnarly beast. Then she walked over and touched Alice’s shoulder with a smile. “In fact, I did quote Mr. Warhol, for fun, but don’t think I was insincere. The United States is truly the greatest bunch of states on Earth. That is why we are here.” The queen seemed more impressed with Alice than embarrassed. Whereas Alice’s knowledge of Warhol was easy to account for—she studied art history at NYU—the queen’s knowledge was not.

  The queen called on another reporter. “Ah, you, yes, you, the hairy one.”

  Trembling, the hairy reporter asked, “In light of the appearance of what we’ve been calling ‘sky banners,’ and also what you just said about Coca-Cola, I have to ask . . . Are your people responsible for the lunar advertisement?”

  The queen paused for thirty seconds to think about it, staring at the bottle in her hand while she did. “We thought humans were responsible for that . . . Don’t you like Diet Coke? Why would we do that? It was here when we got here.” She looked back at the black beast. “We didn’t do that.”

  The beast huffed and grunted.

  She glared back at the reporter. “Are you saying Coca-Cola is not responsible?”

  “Well,” he said, “that was the conclusion of the congressional investigation.”

  “I thought no one took that seriously.”

  I was worried—worried for Ralph. If the queen believed the congressional report, my report, then she’d wonder if another alien was responsible. I believe Alice was putting the pieces together and worrying the same. She tried to change the subject.

  “Your Majesty, earlier you said humans needed more God. Are you claiming to be prophets?”

  “Of course we are prophets.”

  “But . . . Why should we believe you?”

  “Oh, my poor child, I will not waste my secrets in this crude public forum. And I will not try to persuade you with reason, when I could only convince those with faith,” she said as she turned away from Alice and addressed the camera directly. “Any human who wants to see the glory of God must come to us. We will show you the way. This is a promise. We want to show you the kingdom of heaven. This is why we came to your lonely planet.”

  “And if we refuse?” the French reporter asked.

  The queen laughed. “We are not forcing anyone. If you wish to pass up the chance for eternal bliss, I will pray for you. If you want to stay on Earth and worship your decadent idols of rock and rap and pornography and drugs and money and homosexual intercourse, I can’t stop you. But if you come with us, you will be shown wonders unknown to human minds. You will no longer worry about human illness. And you will know a warmth you have never felt before.”

  The queen’s large blue heart was thumping so strong I was tapping my finger to its rhythm. It increased her allure and everyone’s attention.

  “But be warned. Each human has only three days to make their decision. Three days.”

  “What happens in three days?”

  The queen smiled. “We’re leaving. And we’re never coming back.”

  XXXVII

  DEKON

  The seduction had officially begun.

  Everyone was invited to heaven. And everyone had three days to decide.

  “Now, who is ready?” the queen shouted, galvanizing attention. Her eyes took the gaze of a hunter as she scanned the room. “Time is short. Who among you will be first? Who here will show the world that you have God in your heart and come with us? Which of you inquisitive reporters is ready to decide your soul’s fate, right now?”

  The reporters slowly looked around at each other. Ten seconds passed before someone raised a timid hand. It was Lillian Gray, the first convert. She was tall and attractive with a picture-perfect body, the sort of woman young girls dream to be. We’d learn later she’d recently been diagnosed with heart cancer, extremely rare; most die within two years of diagnosis. Like me, she was single with no family, nothing tying her down to Earth.

  “Please, my dear child, stand up and come to me.”

  Lillian Gray wanted someone to take the pain away. Her walk oozed sadness, and when she reached the queen, her head hung low, barely hiding her wet face.

  “Everything’s fine, my child. Everything’s all right,” the queen said softly as she put her arm around her. “Lift up your head. Let the world see your brave face.”

  But the reporter did not raise her head. She threw her arms over the queen’s shoulders and cried aloud. Awkwardness flashed over the queen’s face, and then she smiled and embraced her first convert. The world waited for a full minute as the queen tenderly held the woman in her arms and caressed her left breast.

  “We will heal you,” the queen said.

  Astonished, Lillian stared in the queen’s face.

  The queen whispered something in her ear, and Lillian nodded.

  Unexpectedly, the queen kissed the woman’s lips and licked her forehead with her pure black tongue. She then reached into her furled up wings to pull out a small black tube.

  “Any human who wants to join us,” the queen said, addressing the camera, “must do two things. First, come to any of our ships, anywhere in the world, and present yourself as God sees you—naked—no clothing whatsoever. Second, to show your commitment, you must draw these symbols on your head . . . above the eyes . . .”

  With the black tube, the queen carefully drew the symbols on the reporter’s forehead.

  ⋈ ⋈ ⋈

  Naïvely, converts called these symbols ‘the three butterflies.’

  A common interpretation went as follows: Each butterfly was really an hourglass knocked over on its side, to remind us time is running out—so the three together represented the mere three days humans had to decide whether to go with the Kardashians. It was a thoughtful interpretation, but the real meaning was far more sinister.

  “What do the symbols mean?” Alice asked.

  “It means you are ready,” the queen said gently, petting Lillian Gray’s long hair. “Now, go sit down, my lovely. We will collect you when the press conference is over.”

  The reporter obeyed, and the room went silent.

  Then, once again, someth
ing unexpected happened.

  A reporter raised her pale hand. We had mostly only seen the backs of the heads of the reporters, as the camera focused on the queen. But I could tell the other reporters were not sitting near this one. Her English was not very good.

  “Ah, yes,” the queen said. “Please, stand up and ask your question . . . in English.”

  “Thank you, my queen, Your Majesty,” the reporter said, shaking as she stood up.

  The reporter was a Kardashian, a female who looked much like the queen, though her body and wings were smaller. Once I accepted she was an actual journalist, I realized that the Kardashians had their own complex society, with schoolteachers, engineers, social workers, criminals, politicians, and everything else you’d expect. I imagined everyone in their society gathered around their own televisions, watching the press conference broadcast on screens with Kardashian subtitles running underneath.

  Until that point, I hadn’t wondered what type of queen she was. She was not a queen the way a queen bee is a queen—where everyone else is a drone or worker. She was more of a monarch who happened to be female.

  “Why you . . . have new scars? On the back?” the Kardashian reporter asked.

  “Because someone’s been a very bad boy,” she said, pounding her fist on the beast’s head. Inexplicably, the beast cowered and squealed, hiding his hazardous claws in shame. The queen then shouted something at the beast in her jagged alien tongue.

  “Your Majesty,” Alice began, “we are all very curious . . . who is this . . . alien behind you? Is this a pet of some kind?”

  “Oh,” the queen said, “I believe this is what you call a ‘husband.’ His name is ‘Dekon.’”

  Her voice went raspy and harsh when she pronounced ‘Dekon,’ indicating it was her husband’s alien name. Dekon whimpered in response, and she began petting him.

  ‘Sexual dimorphism’ is the phrase biologists use to describe a species where the males and females appear different, and the sexual dimorphism of the Kardashians was severe. When first seeing Dekon, no one thought they were viewing a male Kardashian. While the queen was dainty, white, hairless, and elegant, Dekon was burly with dark brindle hair and murderous claws.

  “Ah, does this mean . . . Your husband is king?” the redheaded reporter asked.

  “No,” the queen said, poking Dekon on the head. “No. No. No.” To be sure, even on Earth, the husband of a queen is not automatically a king. Consider the husband of Queen Elizabeth II, for example.

  Another reporter asked, “How would you spell the name of your husband?”

  “D-E-K-O-N seems the most natural, in English,” the queen said as she sipped her soda and petted Dekon’s harsh, heavy hair. When the camera focused in, we could see the vestigial wings of the beast. They were tinier and even more useless than the queen’s, but it gave credibility to the claim that Dekon was a male of the same species.

  The camera focused in further, and I saw three crimson butterflies on his fat black collar.

  ⋈ ⋈ ⋈

  “Your Majesty,” Alice said with a tiny laugh, “one of your sky banners, the one over Europe, explicitly preaches women to be submissive, and yet . . . You’re holding your husband there on a leash, he’s wearing a muzzle, and you just bonked his head and scolded him in front of the whole world . . . Is this some kind of joke?”

  Alice had been increasingly bold in her questions, and I feared she was trespassing in deadly territory. Though I sensed a mutual respect growing between Alice and the queen, pointing out the queen’s hypocrisy was suicidal.

  The queen smiled at Alice, as if she admired her. She walked close to Alice and slowly bent over to put her mouth next to Alice’s ear. Afraid, Alice pulled away. Then, with two hands, the queen firmly held Alice’s head in place as she whispered, speaking directly into Alice’s ear for a minute. No one knew what was said, but when the queen released her head, Alice pulled back and gawked at the smiling queen.

  At once, Alice and the queen burst out in hysterical laughter. Their collective laughs exploded into the room as everyone else wondered. But we never discovered what was so humorous. Alice was laughing and pointing at Dekon.

  “Dekon, No! You can’t,” the queen screamed as Dekon slashed his feeble leash and lunged at Alice with his shining claws flying overhead. Parallel lines of blood streaked onto the walls as reporters ran back toward the camera, hiding the remainder of the instant slaughter.

  “The press conference is over,” the queen shouted amidst whirling screams.

  The screen went blank white.

  When the shock wore off, I was angry, and my anger gave me an idea.

  My ankle was still in pain from twisting during the earthquake, so I limped quickly to the kitchen and searched all the drawers, but they were empty. I searched some closets and two rooms on the first floor, but couldn’t find what I wanted, so I went upstairs and found Ralph. Though he didn’t watch the broadcast, he sensed something terrible had happened. Fearing he might scream, I didn’t tell him.

  “Is everything okay?” Ralph asked.

  “I need a magic marker.”

  “Is Alice okay?”

  “Just find me a fucking magic marker.”

  Slowly, Ralph raised the arm of his suit to reveal a small pocket. “Look in here.”

  I reached in and pulled out a lightly glowing thin metallic tube.

  “Is this safe?” I asked, after pulling off the cap. “Can I write on my skin with it?”

  “Yes, it’s safe . . . What are you doing? What’s happened?”

  I didn’t answer and went back downstairs as Ralph trailed behind.

  I found a bathroom, closed the door, and used a towel to wipe any trace of perspiration off my face. I then drew the three angular butterflies on my forehead.

  ⋈ ⋈ ⋈

  Ralph’s strange alien marker tingled on my skin. I felt no pain, but I could smell my singed flesh. I never asked if the marker was permanent. I didn’t care.

  Ralph and Lieutenant Barber began talking outside the door. I couldn’t hear what was said, but when I heard Ralph’s sad crackling, I knew Lieutenant Barber must have told him about Alice. The crackling noises faded as Ralph walked back upstairs.

  Lieutenant Barber opened the door.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, glaring at me.

  “Infiltration.”

  XXXVIII

  PANIC

  “Slow down, Donnie Brasco . . . What are you planning to do once you get in a ship? And how will you get back out?”

  My thought was to get inside and kill as many monsters as I could before they killed me. He knew what I was thinking, but I would never have said it. In any case, if you think scientists never get so angry they want to kill someone, you can go fuck yourself.

  “Look, Doc, I wanna kill aliens too, but what you’re thinking is suicide. They didn’t come across the galaxy to risk getting killed by people like us.”

  His words calmed me.

  “Meet me out by your car in ten minutes, OK?” he said.

  I got in my car and waited while Lieutenant Barber talked to Ralph. The waiting cooled me a little more. Around in the distance were echoes of rushing sirens and smoke plumes of different shades. There was chaos out there, and the rage inside me wanted to meet it.

  Lieutenant Barber came outside thirty minutes later.

  “You still want to go?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m driving.”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you hurt your ankle?”

  He knew the answer. My ankle was still in pain, and I needed it for driving. I reluctantly got out of the driver’s seat and limped around to sit shotgun in my own vehicle. Lieutenant Barber turned on the ignition, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette. He had taken the time to print out the directions using Google Maps, even though my car had GPS navigation and we could see the large Kardashian ships in Queenstown from Ralph’s.

  “Ralph will be safe,” I
said, but I was really asking.

  “Safer than us—he’s got a panic room in the basement. Looks like it could withstand a low-yield nuclear blast.”

  “Good.”

  Lieutenant Barber eyed me and then pointed his finger in my face. “Now you need to lose your fucked-up ideas about infiltrating one of those ships, OK? You’re the smart one here. Don’t lose your fucking mind on me.”

  I had cooled enough to agree with him, so I nodded, but I needed to do something—anything. “I’m still going to Queenstown.”

  He flipped down the sun visor to look in the mirror. “Give me Ralph’s marker.” He took it and casually drew the three butterflies on his forehead. “We are going to do some basic reconnaissance, just to get a sense of what’s going on in Queenstown. I’ll get my car back, and with any luck, maybe we can find Alice’s body and give it a proper burial.”

  I exhaled some anger out of my brain, and off we drove. The chaos had already started, and what we saw was a small glimpse of the violent schism happening in all the neighborhoods of the world.

  In retrospect, I’m sure Lieutenant Barber was humoring me. He didn’t want me going off on my own. Checking out the local damage from the earthquake and examining the Kardashian ships up close seemed harmless. It was only three miles away. But we never made it to Queenstown.

  Pulling out of Ralph’s driveway, we saw a pedestrian. Like a zombie, he walked in the street, slow and alone, the sleeves of his shirt and hands covered in dried blood. It felt good to see something like this, and as we passed, I spied the three butterflies on his head. He didn’t even glance at us. A police car sped by, sirens blaring, and didn’t stop to investigate.

  Ralph’s neighborhood was mostly residential, and Lieutenant Barber drove slowly. We had barely traveled a half mile.

  “Where are you going?”

  “There’s supposed to be a convenience store around here somewhere . . . Ah, there it is.”