PHASER POLLUTION
Chuck slapped down the flaps on the cardboard box. “Dang cheapskates can go crawl in a ditch and die,” he said as he carried the container to his rusty pickup truck. The weight of the unsold potatoes slowed him down and made his joints ache. As he slid the box into the truck bed a man and a woman passed by, though he needed a moment to tell which was which. The man had his hair in a bun and disk earing that stretched his earlobes into circles at least three inches in diameter. The man pulled a glass jar not much larger than his palm out of a cloth bag. Without being able to see the label, Chuck recognized the container as a product from Fanny’s, who sold honey. That’s what customers wanted at farmer’s markets these days. Instead of crops like potatoes, a hardy food ten times tastier than anything available at a chain store and sold at a competitive price, people threw away big bills on condiments that were barely enough to cover a morning’s worth of biscuits. “A deep ditch,” Chuck mumbled under his breath as he returned to his tent, “full of rats and roaches and rattlers.”
Without any help, his withered body needed twenty minutes to pack up his tent along with the boxes of carrots, beets, and turnips. Hot days like this made him anxious to lose his hair. Without his bandana the stiff, gray strands would get trapped in his bushy eyebrows and render him nearly blind. As he climbed into his front seat he noticed other customers with bulging reusable bags that were likely stuffed with more than honey. He wondered if his problem was with his supply. Perhaps root vegetables just weren’t trendy enough to sell.
He clambered behind the wheel and groped under the seat for the plastic bag of cured leaves. Tobacco was the one crop he grew that he kept for himself, although some days he was tempted to offer it. He knew kids these days were doing all kinds of things to avoid telling their parents they were smoking cigarettes. Most were inhaling nicotine vapor diluted with water, or smoking electronic cigarettes, or whatever going to Hookah bars, whatever the hell that stuff was. Maybe it was time to bring back the classics; locally grown, hand picked leaves that weren’t sold in tin cans. He popped a pinch into his mouth and compressed it tightly between his tongue and palate. He turned the ignition as the fluids accumulated. The engine sputtered but even in its old age the vehicle was reliable and soon roared to life. Chuck rolled down his window and spat as he put it into the appropriate gear.
“Did you just spit on the ground?”
Chuck squinted against the light as he swung his head toward a teenager in a plaid shirt and pressed khakis. “You got a problem with that, pretty boy? Don’t wanna get dust in your done-up hair or goop on your fancy pants? Back when I was your age a real man didn’t have any problem getting dirty. Also didn’t mind spitting in another man’s face, or shoes.” He emphasized his point by directing a blob of sputum at the teen’s feet.
The kid leapt away from the wet projectile. His disgusted and shocked face in the rearview mirror lifted Chuck’s spirits for a moment as he sped down the street, but the feeling subsided when he looked at his gas gauge. The feeble profit from the day’s sales would barely be enough to fill up the tank. He decided to drive out of Oklahoma City and fill up at a cheap station he knew along the highway. As he traveled south he could feel the atmosphere shift. Quite a few parts of the city had been changing over the years to attract the younger generation. The town of Sulphur, where he got gas, was not quite as big and busy but still bustling just a tad too much for his taste. His hometown of Mill Creek was most comfortable. There weren’t any cash grabbing events like plays in a park or all-day concerts. The main attractions were a post office and a church, and he could walk from one to the other with his eyes closed. Best of all, nobody in Mill Creek confronted him about his spitting. He snatched some fresh leaves and curled his lips up as he gnashed them between his teeth.
Most of the roads in Mill Creek were paved and well kept. His property was somewhat outside of the town and the gravel road was a different matter. He usually slowed down to minimize the damage and annoyances of driving over the ridges and potholes, but at the moment he didn’t really care one way or another. After a day of seeing kids in their tight clothes and strange piercings, barely making any money, and spending most of it on gas, a few jolts to the spine weren’t likely to drop his mood any lower. The only thing that would lift his spirits would be getting home, turning on the radio, and opening one of his homebrewed ales. He wanted to get all those things done as fast as possible.
Chuck passed the crest of a hill nearly eight miles away from the property, and the familiar sight of the old house came into view. It was two stories, longer and wider than it was tall, with walls made of staggered wood panels. Since he knew what to look for, he could spot the blemishes from a distance, like the chunk missing from the chimney or the slight lopsidedness that began last year when the house started sinking. He still needed to call somebody about that.
An unfamiliar sight came from above. Chuck slammed on the brakes as a flash of light surrounded his house. At first he thought it was green, but it might have been blue or turquoise. It was difficult to be sure since it only lasted a moment. The light struck the ground near his house and was shrouded by a cloud of dust that was kicked up by its impact. The dust began spreading slowly, but its rate increased and in there was an internal orange glow. Chuck stared with his mouth open as the dust continued to expand and subside. He started to choke on his chewing tobacco, and he lurched his head outside the window. He spat the leaves out by the front tire and kept his face toward the ground as he continued spitting. When he looked back at his house the dust had nearly subsided but tall flames burst from the ground and were growing taller. “Gas line broke,” Chuck said aloud to nobody. He craned his neck toward the sky. “What the hell was that?” He only saw clouds and smoke above his house.
Five Years Later
Chuck helped himself to his fourth beer of the day and flopped on the couch. As the cushion compressed the radio was obscured by static. He raised the beer can above his head and waved it around, hoping to find a sweet spot that would improve the signal. Every possible position yielded no results. With a sigh he slid to the arm of the couch and reached for the antennae. Without getting up, he was only able to hook his middle finger around the metal rod. As he wiggled it some of his beverage splashed onto the seat and floor. His shoulder popped as his cousin entered with a broom. “See this, Mark,” Chuck said as he found a position that allowed the announcer’s voice to come through, “this is why we need an extension cord.”
“Or you could start carrying napkins with you.” Mark pulled a rag from his back pocket and dabbed at the wet spots. “Or find your own place.” He pointed a finger at Chuck. “And don’t start that sob story about some sky laser blowing up your house. I’m sorry for your loss, but tragedies only count for three years. After that they become a crutch.”
“Oh, go crawl in a ditch and die.” Chuck placed his elbow on the armrest and leaned closer to the radio. “Now get out of here. I gotta pay attention. There’s only 113 games left until playoffs. This is when things really start getting interesting.”
Mark sighed and left the room to continue his bimonthly cleaning elsewhere. Chuck knew his cousin didn’t approve of him spending his days loafing about and listening so sports radio, but Chuck didn’t mind what anyone thought of him. After the explosion he’d spent months making and receiving calls from his insurance agency. He’d been truthful from the beginning and told them about the strange beam of light from the sky. Nobody believed him, but none of the investigations found evidence of foul play or irresponsibility on his part. The crater in the earth, ruptured gas line, and damage to his house had clearly been caused by an external force. He’d received a check for his losses larger than all his profits from every farmer’s market combined. He could have used the money to rebuild, but even using the cheapest materials and workers would deplete his payment. He was nearly seventy years old and had spent most of it working himself to the bone. He saw what could be his only opportunity at living the high life and seized it. He moved in with Mark and hadn’t worked a day since. The money mostly went toward food and home improvement projects. Chuck even offered to help cover a chunk of Mark’s mortgage, but the offer had been turned down several times.
The crack of a bat echoed over the speaker. Chuck whooped and raised the volume. When a runner scored he raised the can and prepared to chug it all. Suddenly, the game was interrupted by a series of beeps. “Oh come on,” he whined as he pulled the can away from him lips.
Mark speed walked back into the room. “Is that the emergency broadcast alarm? I don’t remember the last time I heard that go off.”
“Probably something stupid, like a bomb went off at some capitol building.” Chuck cupped a hand over his mouth. “Get back to the game,” he shouted at the radio.
“Please don’t joke about that,” said Mark.
Chuck was about to make a retort suggesting that since he was rich now he could make fun of whatever he wanted. Before he had a chance to vocalize his thoughts, a somber voice sounded through the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that this is not a hoax. An Unidentified Flying Object has been sighted over the town of Mill Creek, Oklahoma.”
Chuck and Mark stared at each other. One of Mark’s eyebrows was raised and Chuck was sure he had a similar expression.
“No information on the craft has been confirmed. It is reported to be smaller than an airplane and presence of weapons is unknown. Civilians are urged not to go outside and look for the UFO. Residents of Mill Creek have been issued the following orders…”
Chuck and Mark went outside to look for the UFO. Hands on their foreheads, they scanned the skies. Mark was the first to spot it and pointed a few blocks north of the house. “It looks like an egg,” Mark pointed out. “Or maybe a raindrop.”
“The radio man was right,” said Chuck, “it’s small. And I don’t see weapons.”
The craft moved closer to the house, making only a slight hum as it glided on air, until it was directly above them. “Let’s get out of here,” Mark shouted as he pulled on Chuck’s sleeve.
Chuck pulled his arm free of his cousin’s grip. “I ain’t going anywhere.”
Mark grabbed Chuck’s arm again and pulled harder. “I’m not letting you die like this. I’ll knock you out if I have to.”
Chuck tore his gaze from the spacecraft for a moment to glower at his cousin. “Where do you get off thinking someone flew from another solar system just to kill me?” He craned his neck up again. “Relax. They’re just want to look at our planet, just like we just want to look at their ship. In a few minutes they’ll probably just fly off back to,” he saw a brief flash of light “ow!” He slapped a hand over his left eye and jumped.
Mark grabbed him by the shoulders. “Are you alright?”
A voice came from the spacecraft, echoing as if projected from a loudspeaker. “Charles Dill, please remain where you are. We have come to offer restitution for damage to your property.”
The tip of the raindrop-shaped vehicle wobbled as it descended. Three nozzles ejected from the bottom in a tripod configuration and blasted air to slow the descent. The gust blew dirt in Chuck’s eyes but he couldn’t blink. He used to dream about moments like these. As a child he imagined becoming friends with the other-worldly visitors. As a teenager he imagined a hostile takeover with him becoming the leader of the resistance. As an adult, he couldn’t move or speak. With trembling hands, he smiled open-mouthed as the front of the ship opened and formed a ramp.
Two figures emerged. One that was shorter than Chuck, no more than five feet tall, descended the ramp with quick, short steps. It was pink. Thick strands of hair covered its body. The hair on its head was lightest and the tufts around its feet were darkest, but overall the alien was the color of a flamingo. Its blue, baggy pants reflected light as it walked. Its shirt was tailored in the same design as a suit but had no buttons. A wide, red eye was visible between a gap in the hair, separated by eyelashes that ran vertically. When the creature blinked, the lashes closed in from the sides instead of moving up and down.
The other alien was at least three feet taller and moved more slowly. Its six arms were folded across its chest. Its brown jumpsuit was textured and leathery and covered most of its lean body. Its face was dark red and crusted, as if its skin was a layer of dried blood. Two lines extended from the corners of its mouth to its eyes, like a pair of harelips. It had no nose, and as it sulked behind the hairy alien the space between the two lines flapped in and out.
The pink alien addressed itself first. “Mr. Dill, it is nice to meet you. My name is Muilic.” Its voice had an accent that made it sound like a person from London. “First of all, let me say we are deeply sorry for your loss.”
A pop rang on Chuck’s left. He whipped his head toward Jim, Mark’s neighbor. An avid participant in the town’s civil war reenactment, Jim was armed with a flintlock rifle. Chuck always assumed it was fake, but the smoke billowing from the barrel suggested otherwise. Jim stood rigid with the butt of the gun pressed tight to his body, but he looked confused. Chuck turned back to Muilic who didn’t seem bothered by the sound.
“Don’t be concerned for our safety,” said Muilic. Jim cocked the gun and fired again. This time Chuck saw a spark near the alien’s hair, as if the bullet flashed out of existence before hitting its target. “Metal projectiles can’t harm us,” Muilic expanded.
Jim let out a battle cry and charged at the red alien with a long knife. The wooden handle of the weapon was weathered but the blade was intact and still looked threatening. The creature tilted its head to look at its attacker, but the rest of its body remained firm. Six inches away from the red alien’s flesh, the blade sparked and disappeared. Jim’s momentum carried him forward and he fell toward the large alien’s side. In a smooth motion, two of the leather-clad beast’s arms grabbed Jim and threw him away. Jim tumbled down the pavement. When he stopped his clothes were torn and several parts of his skin scraped.
“My client is Nibolg,” said Muilic. He pulled a penny-sized disk from his shirt and held it against his face. When he spoke again his voice was amplified. “He is only authorized to use force in self-defense. He will not harm anyone if you don’t harm him first.” It repocketed the disk and extended its hand. “Again, I’m very sorry for what transpired on your property. May we enter your house to discuss it?”
Chuck grabbed the wholly hand and shook it vigorously. He felt possibly seven stubby, blunt fingers, but beneath all the hair it was difficult to know for sure. “You better come on in,” Chuck shouted. “If there was ever a time to be a good host, this is it.” He rushed to the front door, held it open, and gestured wildly with his hand for them to enter. Muilic promptly complied while Nibolg was slower to move. Mark stood still and stared at Chuck with ruffled eyebrows. “You too,” Chuck called to his cousin, “get on in here and help me show these two a good time.” As Mark made his way into the house Chuck caught a glimpse of houses across the street. Curtains were pulled back and doors were cracked open. Everyone’s faces portrayed a mix of fear and confusion. Chuck waved to nobody in particular as he went inside.
Chuck led them to the dining room. Muilic sat at the table while Nibolg went to a corner and leaned against the wall. Muilic produced another small disk. It looked just like the one he’d used to amplify his voice, but Chuck was sure it had come from a different pocket. “First, we need to get some preliminary business out of the way.” He laid the disk flat on the table and rubbed it with his palm. When he took his hand away an image of an worn barn hovered above the table. “Charles Dill, can you confirm that this was your house?”
“Sure was, but please, call me Chuck. And let’s not get straight to business. I’m guessing you two a long trip.” He snapped with both hands and pointed an index finger at each alien. “Hey, how about a welcome-to-Earth meal? I’ll make you my namesake: chuck steak with a heaping helping of dill weed.”
“Is that food?” said Muilic.
“You better believe it.” Nearly out of the room, Chuck paused and turned back to the table. “Is that a problem? You eat, don’t you?”
“My species is unique in that regard.” He reached to his chin and lifted a few strands of hair. “These are called rilvers. They take in moisture and nutrients from air. We have no way of digesting solids.”
“Neat,” said Chuck. He turned to Nibolg. “How about you?”
“You carnivores?” the sulking alien muttered.
“Mostly,” said Chuck. “If there’s no meat it’s not a meal. If you want, I’ll hold the dill and just give you the steak.”
Muilic sighed. “He’s just being difficult. His species are omnivores, and the cellular structure of life on this planet is similar to his home. It is likely he can eat anything you give him.”
“Sounds good,” Chuck said as he went to the kitchen. As he turned on the stove and placed a skillet atop a burner he called out “I won’t skip the dill. In fact, I’ll give you extra. Trust me, you’ll like it.” As the skillet heated he began chopping the herbs. Mark entered as he plopped a pat of butter onto the hot metal. “What’re you doing?” he said as he used a spatula to spread the butter, “you should be entertaining our guests.”
Mark grabbed Chuck’s shirt sleeve and pulled him close. In an aggressive whisper he said “stop being so calm! We need to get out of here, let the authorities handle this.”
“I don’t see any cops around here.”
“They’re right out front.”
“Really?” Chuck turned the burner to low and went to the window overlooking the front yard. He pulled back the curtain and spotted a row of police cars with their lights flashing. Some officers were approaching the spacecraft with caution. Others were taking positions around the house. Most were standing by the idling cars, speaking with each other. “Well I be, it is the fuzz.” Chuck opened the window. “Y’all want some chuck n’ dill?” he called.
Mark pulled him back inside and slammed the window closed. “Start taking this seriously,” he ordered, then looked over Chuck’s shoulder at the two aliens in the next room. “Excuse us for a second,” he said as he guided Chuck to another room.
Chuck shook free. “Now hold on, they’re probably interested in what’s happening.” He poked his head back into the dining room. “You two have cops on your planet?”
“Every civilization has a group dedicated to preserving law and order,” said Muilic. “On Taupler we call them Gnavs and we were expecting an intervention from your planet’s equivalent. I assure you there will be no violence. Our directives include remaining passive. Your efforts to mirror our docility is appreciated, Mr. Dill.”
“Hey, no problem. And again, call me Chuck.”
Mark dragged him away from the room. “This IS a problem. How long are they going to follow that directive? What if they don’t stay docile much longer?”
“Is that what happened last time?” Chuck asked innocently.
“What are you talking about?”
“Exactly. This is the first time something like this has happened. We’re all in uncharted waters. Way I see it, that means any way you want to react is fine.”
“None of what you’re doing is fine. Bullets and knives couldn’t even touch those two. What if there’s more of them orbiting Earth? What if this is all a diversion while they prepare an invasion? What if this is how the world ends?”
“I’m good with it,” Chuck said with a shrug.
“No, you’re not. Nobody should be good with this.”
“Look, all I’m saying is, if I had a heart attack and died yesterday, I would’ve been good with it, because I would’ve died rich.”
“You’re not even all that rich,” Mark interrupted.
“If there’s an invasion today and I die today,” Chuck continued as if he hadn’t heard, “I’m even good-er with it, because I’ll still die rich, and I got to see real aliens before kicking the bucket. But I’m not that worried about it. Far as I can tell, they’re just a couple of nice guys who came to apologize for what happened to my house.”
“You can’t honestly believe that.”
“Hey, if you believe your wife’s coming back, I can believe this.”
Mark shoved Chuck into the wall. Chuck held his arms up and prepared to apologize. Mark cocked his fist back. Before either could complete their intended actions there was a pounding at the door.
“Police, open up!”
A brief pause, and then Chuck said, “we should get that.”
Mark gave Chuck a lighter push as he made his way to the entry hall. When he opened the door a man in uniform placed a foot inside but did not fully enter. “Somebody better tell me what’s going on here. Is this a joke? Some kind of publicity stunt?”
“We are here on official, quite serious business,” Muilic called.
“Come on in and say hi,” said Chuck. “Once you see them you’ll know this ain’t no joke.” The officer entered and the three of them went to the dining room. His jaw dropped when he saw the aliens.
“I realize this is unusual for you,” said Muilic, “but I would very much like to explain the purpose of our presence. I’ve prepared a visual aid.”
Muilic reached into his pocket. The officer reached for his firearm. Muilic paid the threat no mind and calmly placed a disk on the table.
“Don’t bother shooting them,” said Chuck. “Someone tried already. Didn’t work.”
“The first thing you need to understand,” Muilic began.
“Wait!” Chuck rushed to the kitchen where the skillet was now coated with a brown film. “Dang it,” he said loudly, “the butter burned. Sorry, I’ll do the best I can, but these won’t be great.” He crammed three steaks into the skillet and used the knife to scrape the chopped dill on top. It occurred to him the cop would want to partake, but there was no room left in the pan. He returned to the room and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m going to have to check on those in a few minutes.”
“May I continue for those few minutes?” said Muilic. Chuck nodded and rolled his wrist. “As I was saying, the first thing you need to understand is that Nibolg supports the Caxto.” Muilic spat the last word with disgust. “In your language a comparable word is autocrat.”
“Could you suggest a different word?” said Chuck. “Me no speak any language so good.”
“Dictator,” Mark clarified.
“If you would use more than one-word descriptions,” Nibolg cut in, “then you’d find…”
“One word is sufficient,” Muilic said loudly, “since we’re not authorized to discuss the politics of other planets during our stay.”
“Whatever,” Nibolg grunted.
The officer reached for his gun again. “Is that why you’re here? To expand your dominion?”
“There will be no expansion now,” said Muilic, “and hopefully not in the future. To make a very long and complicated story short, there was a war, which the Caxto thankfully lost.”
“Depends on who you ask,” said Nibolg. “The ideas live on.”
Muilic turned in his chair to face Nibolg. “And like all living things those ideas will wither and die.”
Nibolg took a step away from the wall. “Not before yours.” Four of his hands curled into fists.
“There’s no point in fighting,” said Mark. “None of us can take sides without more information.”
“I’ll take a side.” Chuck picked up the disk. A quick examination revealed there was a yellow light on one side while the other side was just a flat ring of metal. He pointed to Nibolg, “you’re light,” he pointed to Muilic, “you’re dark.” He flipped the disk, caught it, and turned it over onto his wrist. “Sorry, Nibolg,” he said as he placed the disk back on the table, “but I have to side with Muilic on this.”
Nibolg’s clenched hands opened and he leaned back against the wall. “If only all disputes were solved that easily.”
Muilic placed his hand over the disk and moved it in a circle over the light. “Back to the war.” He pulled his hand away and an image of a space ship appeared above the table. The picture was more complicated than the one in the front yard. It was thin and V-shaped, like a stealth jet. There were two triangular engines mounted to its back and a cannon on its front. “The Caxto gained much ground after beam constraint technology. Weapons like the one on this ship could fire a burst of pure plasma.” A beam burst from one of the guns on the hologram of the ship. The spacecraft shrank while the light became larger.
“Hey,” said Chuck, “that’s the light that hit my house.”
Muilic nodded as the hologram changed. The single beam of light was replaced with dozens of ships flying every which way and blasting beam after beam from their cannons. “Based on post-battle analysis of ships, and testimony of soldiers, it’s estimated that a minimum of two hundred shots were fired per ship per battle. As long as these confrontations took place a few hundred light years from populated planets, missed shots normally wouldn’t be an issue. The beam would dilate and be reduced to low level radiation before it could threaten anyone.” The hologram zoomed on a single fighter which fired three plasma bolts that missed its intended target. The image followed the beams as they zoomed away from the fight. “The Caxto found a way to prevent this dilation. They could travel tens of thousands of light years without losing intensity. Even after a retreat or surrender, the danger lingered.” A small dot appeared in front of the three beams. As the dot grew it became clear that it was a planet, and the plasma beams were on a collision course with it. “Innocent bystanders were impacted by missed shots decades or even centuries after the battle was decided. That’s why our organization was formed.” The beams and the encroaching planet were replaced by a silver shield with the letters PPC. “I’m a representative of the Phaser Pollution Coalition. We investigate a twenty thousand light year radius from every battle sight. When we find one with sentient life forms, and find evidence that it was harmed by a missed shot, we allow an imprisoned Caxto supporter temporary release and introduce them to those affected by their carelessness.” Muilic rubbed the disk again and the image vanished. “So you see, Chuck, our goal here is to offer justice for the damage to your property caused by this war criminal and his comrades.”
“Cool,” said Chuck. “Hold on, I need to check on the steaks.” In the kitchen smoke billowed around the skillet and juices collected on the top of the meat. When he flipped them, the underside was darker than he would have liked, but they still smelled good. Now that they had shrunk he was able to maneuver them until he found a position that felt optimal. When he returned Mark was hunched over a piece of paper. The officer was on his feet and looking over Mark’s shoulder.
“So wait, he can demand anything?” said the officer.
“Within reason obviously,” said Muilic.
“Within whose reason?” said the officer.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mark, “because I won’t allow Chuck to go through with this. It’s disgusting.”
“Food will be out in a few minutes.” Chuck tossed the spatula so it spun and caught it by the handle. “What’re we talking about?”
“We were just learning what their idea of justice is,” said Mark.
“It’s detailed in the document,” said Muilic. “Chuck, as it is yours to sign, you may read it at your leisure. I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors. The long trip allowed time to become familiar with your language but I fear my translation abilities may still be a bit rough in places.”
Mark thrust the paper toward Chuck. “It says you agree to let Nibolg out of prison.”
“That’s not what it says,” Muilic countered, keeping his voice level.
“It says they’ve got to give you anything you ask for,” said the officer.
“Again, you’re over simplifying,” said Muilic.
“Simple is good,” said Chuck. “Give it to me easy.”
“By signing the form you agree that Nibolg will be under your jurisdiction,” said Muilic.
“Which means he’ll be staying here,” said Mark.
“And you can ask him for favors,” said the officer, “or information. Basically, you can ask him for whatever will make up for wrecking your house.”
“Ok, great,” said Chuck. “I want Nibolg to try my steak.” He left the paper unsigned and returned to the kitchen. Nobody bothered him as he finished preparing the meal. He was aware they were still talking in the other room, but the sizzling meat drown out their voices. As he was plating the food Muilic entered. “Hey, Muilic, you’re just in time. Can you take one plate? I’ll take the other two.”
“Soon,” said Muilic. “Mr. Dill, sorry, Chuck, I want to emphasize my appreciation in you maintaining a calm demeanor. Your attitude is helping this introduction go smoother than I could have imagined. However, there is something I simply cannot keep to myself anymore.” Every rilver darkened as the creature waved its arms above its head, moving them in ways that suggested its bones were softer and its joints looser than a human’s. “Tqybltch Xml’wv liaeitn!”
Chuck retrieved the ketchup from the refrigerator. “Is that a swear? You’ll have to teach me that one. I love learning dirty words in other languages.”
“I’m sure there’s no direct translation. What I’m trying to understand is, why aren’t you taking this more seriously? Do you understand what I told you in the other room? I know there have been wars on this planet before. Don’t they mean anything to you?”
Chuck squeezed a heaping dollop of ketchup onto his plate. “You’re right. We’ve had wars. Some lasted hundreds of years. Some consumed the world. Some were fought over things that weren’t worth dying for.” He slipped the ketchup bottle under his armpit and picked up two plates. “Wars have always had an impact on a lot of people, but as far as I’m concerned, they’re old news, even on a galactic scale.” He brought the plates to the table. “Hope all this talk has built up your appetite.”
“It hasn’t,” said Mark, ignoring his food and focused on Muilic. “I don’t know why you’re still here. Nobody wants what you’re offering.”
“Oh, at least let them stay for dinner,” said Chuck as he cut his steak, dipped it in ketchup, and then dabbed it in a pile of hot dill leaves.
“Chuck,” Mark said through gritted teeth, “try to pay attention for five God damn seconds.” He pointed to Nibolg. “That thing is a terrorist who killed hundreds if not thousands in the name of an alien tyrant. Death, or life in prison are the only two suitable punishments, but if you sign that document, neither will happen. The sentence will basically be house arrest, and it will be carried out here, and,” he paused to stare across the table.
Nibolg’s upper lip extended up and out. The two lines on either side of its mouth allowed it to form a right angle to the rest of its face. There were no teeth, but a hole in its upper gums. Nibolg shoved half the steak into the upper hole and its lip flopped closed.
“I predigest my food,” Nibolg explained. “There’s a cavity full of acid in my mouth that breaks it down.”
“Neat,” said Chuck. “Can you taste it? If you can’t, I’ll feel kind of stupid putting those seasonings on it.”
“I can taste with my lower mouth,” said Nibolg. A bulge formed on his upper lip and cascaded down. The bulge disappeared and a moment later Nibolg’s throat twitched. “Mmm. Tastes like hsaip.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Mark. “Everything about you is disgusting!”
“There’s nothing disgusting about that ship out front,” said the officer, who looked at Muilic. “I want to be perfectly clear about this. If Chuck here asks for Nibolg to share weapons or spaceship designs, then they’ve got to be provided.”
“All requests have to be within reason,” said Muilic.
“And we’re not going to request trade secrets from terrorists,” said Mark.
“America’s military could really benefit,” said the officer.
“The document clearly lays out guidelines…”
“…terrorists…”
“…military…”
Chuck cut another bite of his steak. Across the table, Nibolg’s lip bulged as it transferred more food from one mouth to another. The two ate in silence as the others bickered. Muilic, Mark, and the officer didn’t seem to notice when he finished and brought his plate back to the kitchen. To his relief, Nibolg joined him. “Thanks for piping down,” Chuck said as he turned on the faucet. “I hate it when people talk over each other.”
“You’re welcome,” said Nibolg, watching the sink closely. “You know, even though Muilic has the wrong idea about the Caxto, he wasn’t exaggerating about the war. A lot of shots were fired.”
“Yeah, before we were interrupted I meant to ask, what do your guns sound like? In our movies they make a pew sound.” Chuck imitated the sound of a Star Wars blaster a few times. Finished with his cleaning, he put the plate on a towel and held his hands out to Nibolg.
Nibolg shook his head. “This contraption seems simple enough.” He took Chuck’s place and turned the spigot on and off a few times. “You really don’t care,” he said as he held the dish under the water, “about any of this?”
“What do you mean?”
The lines on Nibolg’s face ruffled. “I don’t know. It’s just, I’m used to a different reaction. Using the word Caxto is a sure way to start a fight in most places. Everyone’s either willing to die for it or die trying to stop it. Even if you don’t know what it is, after hearing Muilic’s description, I was expecting you to act like Mark. Nobody ever takes a neutral stance on this.”
“Do you want me to fight?” Chuck half-heartedly pounded his fist on the counter. “Damn that Catsco. I’ve just about had it with that guy.”
“It’s not a guy, it’s an idea, and you didn’t even pronounce it right,” Nibolg said with a chuckle. “And I don’t know what I want. I just said it’s weird. This is the first time I’ve met someone who hasn’t associated the word with violence. I guess, it’s kind of nice.” He turned off the sink and held up the plate. “Is this alright?”
“Yeah, it’s fine, whatever, it’s just a plate.” He handed Nibold a towel. “Hey, I’ll read through that document later, but catch me up. What’s the deal with this whole restitution plan? How do you even know you’re the one responsible for the damage?”
“Well, it’s impossible to link any single blast to an individual ship, but coordinates of the most intense battles are common knowledge. Probes were sent to those locations and scanned for life-sustaining planets in a hundred-thousand light year radius. If they found one, further investigations focused on signs of phaser-related damages.” Nibolg placed the dried plate on the counter. “That storage system you call the Cloud made it easy. A copy of your insurance claim was found on it, which made Earth an open and shut case.”
“But I didn’t mention you in that claim. Before I met you I never used the word Nibolg in a sentence. Mostly because it’s not a word, as far as I know.”
“Prisoners are selected at random. Muilic and his comrades don’t show any distinction between me and mine. Mark is right, it is a way for us to get out of prison, but it isn’t meant to be an easier sentence. From what I hear, the victims usually seize the opportunity to get revenge.”
“You mean they outright kill you? Sounds rough.” Chuck scratched his head. “Wait, did you expect me to kill you? Just for blowing up my house?”
Nibolg drummed the fingers of his highest limbs on the forearms of his middle limbs. “There are limits. You’ll read about them in the document. Murder isn’t allowed, but once a prisoner is assigned to a victim they are required to fulfill almost any request. Rumor has it most demand intense labor and work us to death.”
“Neat,” said Chuck. “What kind of work?”
“That’s it?” said Nibolg. “You’re just going to say it’s neat?”
Chuck paused a moment, pondered the question, and then said “yeah.”
“You don’t have any desire to question whether the victims and their families are justified for taking revenge? Particularly in this manner? You don’t want to tell me I deserve to be punished? Or ask for more information about exactly what I fought for?”
Chuck pondered the other questions. “Nope.”
Nibolg sighed, shook his head, and started to leave the room.
“Wait,” said Chuck. Nibold obeyed and turned around. “I wasn’t always like this,” Chuck explained. “Five years ago I would’ve given you the business about wars and dictators. Back then I would’ve gone off on any kid who had a problem with me chewing tobacco. That’s because I was always stressed, scared of having a bad growing season, or getting fired from my other job, and missing payments.” His eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “That all changed after my house blew up. Sure, it was tough getting that cash settlement, but from the day I put that check in the bank I’ve been living my best life. Haven’t been worried about a damn thing. Been spending days listening to the radio. I don’t even like baseball, really, I just do it because I can. I know the money will run out eventually, but even when it does, I don’t ever want to go back to that life. I don’t ever want to be that stressed again, about anything, personal or bigger.”
“What I’m hearing,” said Nibolg, the right side of his mouth curling into a half-grin, “is that even though I’ve been labeled responsible for causing you harm, you’re actually the one who owes me.”
Chuck laughed and slapped his thigh. “I guess the way I said that it sort of sounds like it. What happens if I turn down this deal, assuming I have that option?”
Nibolg’s grin faded. “I go back to jail, where I’m starved, beaten, and forced to watch re-educational films all day for most if not all my life.”
“Neat,” said Chuck. “Tell you what, I’ll go with the program, and I won’t work you to death.”
Nibolg’s eyes widened, and he regained his smile. “Really?”
“Sure,” said Chuck. “The way I see it, we’re all getting something. Muilic will be happy since on paper it’ll look like you’re making up for the damage. I’ll be paying you back for giving me a new lease on life, so I’ll be happy. You won’t die, so you’ll be happy. While we’re at it, I’ll try and find Mark a girlfriend, see if that makes him happy.” He went back to the dining room where everyone was still arguing. The document was resting near Muilic. Chuck found a pen and leaned over it. “Where do I sign?” he shouted over the others.
Muilic’s eye widened as he stared at Chuck. “I highly recommend you read it first. The first five pages,” he lifted a few sheets and fanned them out.
Chuck snatched the document off the table. “You talk too much.” He brought it to Nibolg. “Where do I sign?”
Nibolg flipped to a page near the back and pointed to a blank line. “Here.” Chuck flattened the document against the wall and scribbled his name. He was about to bring it back to the table but Nibolg stopped him and flipped to another page. “And here.” Chuck did so and handed it back to Nibolg, who found a third page with blank lines. “And here. And that’s it.” Chuck wrote his name the final time and tossed the document toward Muilic, whose eye was still wide as it slid across the table.
“My first demand,” Chuck said as he pointed to the front door, “is you get a drink with me. I know I didn’t even glance at the terms, but I assume you’re allowed to drink.”
“Of course,” said Nibolg.
“Great,” said Chuck, “the guys are going to freak when they see me with an alien drinking buddy.” He started walking to the door, with Nibolg following close behind.
“I need to go with you,” said Muilic, stumbling out of his chair. “I need to make sure you don’t violate any of the stipulations.”
“Great,” said Chuck. “The more the merrier.”
When the three were outside Nibolg pointed at the rusted Camero. “I take it that’s your method of transportation?”
“Usually,” said Chuck, “but what do you think I am, crazy? We’re taking your ship.”
“Excuse me?” said Muilic. “No, you’re not. This is a Tetralometric Suspension Vehicle with a Quadrahelical engine that runs on ultrapure madroniol. You are not using it to smack the town!”
“I think you mean hit the town,” said Chuck.
Nibolg interlaced his fingers while approaching the ship and the ramp descended. “And this request is in within the limits.” Both Nibolg and Chuck entered the craft.
“I disagree,” said Muilic as he followed close behind them. “You are not authorized to share technology, especially with a species as primitive as humans.”
“Hey,” said Chuck, “I’d take offense to that if it weren’t true.”
Nibolg pressed a series of buttons. “And it’s not sharing if he doesn’t know how it works.”
“Nibolg Tenfrdy,” said Muilic, pointing so hard the arm hairs thrashed like ivy in a breeze, “I’m warning you, if this TSV lifts off, I will report it to my SS.”
“What’s a SS?” said Chuck, “and what happens if it gets a report?”
“Superior Supervisor,” said Nibolg, “and there’ll be discussions, followed by forms being signed, followed by more discussions, and then, maybe, some disciplinary actions.” Nibolg’s lower right hand curled around a lever. “But I like you, so I’ll risk it.”
The lever pulled away from the panel and the TSV rose gracefully into the sky. Chuck whooped and pressed his hand against the wall for support.
“Where’re we going?” said Nibolg when they were above the roofline.
Chuck pointed to a neon sign. “See that green light down there?”
“That’s it?” said Nibolg.
“You’re in Mill Creek,” said Chuck. “Everything’s a ten-minute walk away.”
“Well, can we fly around a little? I didn’t get the chance to pilot on the way here.”
“And you shouldn’t be piloting now,” said Muilic. “All of this is going in my report!”
“Then I’d better make the most of this,” said Nibolg.
The TSV jolted North. It climbed to the clouds and Nibolg pivoted a wheel so it spun in circles as it rose.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it,” said Nibolg as Chuck grabbed the back of a seat for support. “In here, gravity is altered. No matter which way the ship faces, down is always down.”
Chuck eased his hands away from the seat and was able to keep his balance. Their surroundings spun as Nibolg performed loops and figure-eights, his feet stayed planted. It was disorienting, but he quickly adjusted. When they were above a forest Chuck issued a challenge to drop lower and see how close they could get to the tree line. Nibolg complied. They skimmed the tops of the lowest trees and headed on collision courses with taller ones. Only when they were within spitting distance did Nibolg swerve around the trunk. Muilic never stopped complaining. When they narrowly avoided crashing into the last of the tall trees Chuck got another idea.
“I was wondering earlier, does this ship have weapons? I didn’t see any.”
“They’re concealed,” said Nibolg, “but yes, this vessel is armed.”
“Can I, um, see them? You know, in action?”
Nibolg slowed the ship until they were leisurely gliding over the trees. “Do you have anything to shoot?”
“Of course not,” said Muilic. “He absolutely does not.”
Chuck pointed away from the forest. “I mean, there’s plenty of land around here that’s not really populated. Over yonder there’s miles of roads with no houses on either side. What if we just blasted the crap out of the ground?”
“I don’t see the harm in that,” said Nibolg.
“There’s a great deal of harm in that,” said Muilic. “It would damage their ecosystem, which we’re not allowed to do.”
“Oh please,” said Chuck, “do you have any idea what we do to our ecosystem? Nobody’s going to care about another hole in the Earth. Besides, for years I’ve been telling people to go crawl in a ditch and die. I’ll feel better saying that if I can refer to an actual ditch. One that I’m responsible for making is even better.”
“So by providing a ditch I’d be bettering your life,” said Nibolg. The ship sped in the direction Chuck had indicated. “Making your life better is why I’m here.”
“This was clearly a mistake,” said Muilic. “When I’m done with my report, the PPC will rush to strip you of this assignment. You’ll be transferred to a different planet, serving victims who truly appreciate the severe costs of the war.”
“That’s not a threat until you write it.” Nibolg flipped a set of switches and a humming sound came from the ship’s exterior.
Chuck pressed his face against the window and looked around. On the underside of the ship, he saw the end of a long metal cylinder. There was a rumble like a motorcycle engine, and then a bright green light burst from the end. Chuck whipped his head to follow it. When it struck the ground, it propelled a wall of dirt, grass, and weeds skyward. “Awesome,” he shouted, “let me try!”
Nibolg rose from the pilot seat. “Why not? You did say you wanted to make it yourself.”
“This is dangerously close to sharing technology,” Muilic protested.
“I guarantee he has no idea how the gun works,” said Nibolg. “All he knows is that it’s activated by the red button.”
“Actually I didn’t,” said Chuck as he sat and noticed the red trigger-like button on the wheel, “but thanks for letting me know.” He pressed the button and quickly released them. There was another rumbling but no light. He pressed the button again, clenching his fist tight as he did so. He kept the pressure until the light was projected again, more intense this time. The shots were fired in rapid bursts like a machine gun and each beam sent another cloud of dust high into the air. Chuck competed with the rumbling guns as he shouted “yeeeee-hooooo!”
“You’ll regret this,” Muilic hollered. “Both of you! Just wait until you see my report!”
All three of Nibolg’s hands slapped the back of the pilot chair. “This is going to be the best prison sentence ever!”
Chuck slapped down the flaps on the cardboard box. “Dang cheapskates can go crawl in a ditch and die,” he said as he carried the container to his rusty pickup truck. The weight of the unsold potatoes slowed him down and made his joints ache. As he slid the box into the truck bed a man and a woman passed by, though he needed a moment to tell which was which. The man had his hair in a bun and disk earing that stretched his earlobes into circles at least three inches in diameter. The man pulled a glass jar not much larger than his palm out of a cloth bag. Without being able to see the label, Chuck recognized the container as a product from Fanny’s, who sold honey. That’s what customers wanted at farmer’s markets these days. Instead of crops like potatoes, a hardy food ten times tastier than anything available at a chain store and sold at a competitive price, people threw away big bills on condiments that were barely enough to cover a morning’s worth of biscuits. “A deep ditch,” Chuck mumbled under his breath as he returned to his tent, “full of rats and roaches and rattlers.”
Without any help, his withered body needed twenty minutes to pack up his tent along with the boxes of carrots, beets, and turnips. Hot days like this made him anxious to lose his hair. Without his bandana the stiff, gray strands would get trapped in his bushy eyebrows and render him nearly blind. As he climbed into his front seat he noticed other customers with bulging reusable bags that were likely stuffed with more than honey. He wondered if his problem was with his supply. Perhaps root vegetables just weren’t trendy enough to sell.
He clambered behind the wheel and groped under the seat for the plastic bag of cured leaves. Tobacco was the one crop he grew that he kept for himself, although some days he was tempted to offer it. He knew kids these days were doing all kinds of things to avoid telling their parents they were smoking cigarettes. Most were inhaling nicotine vapor diluted with water, or smoking electronic cigarettes, or whatever going to Hookah bars, whatever the hell that stuff was. Maybe it was time to bring back the classics; locally grown, hand picked leaves that weren’t sold in tin cans. He popped a pinch into his mouth and compressed it tightly between his tongue and palate. He turned the ignition as the fluids accumulated. The engine sputtered but even in its old age the vehicle was reliable and soon roared to life. Chuck rolled down his window and spat as he put it into the appropriate gear.
“Did you just spit on the ground?”
Chuck squinted against the light as he swung his head toward a teenager in a plaid shirt and pressed khakis. “You got a problem with that, pretty boy? Don’t wanna get dust in your done-up hair or goop on your fancy pants? Back when I was your age a real man didn’t have any problem getting dirty. Also didn’t mind spitting in another man’s face, or shoes.” He emphasized his point by directing a blob of sputum at the teen’s feet.
The kid leapt away from the wet projectile. His disgusted and shocked face in the rearview mirror lifted Chuck’s spirits for a moment as he sped down the street, but the feeling subsided when he looked at his gas gauge. The feeble profit from the day’s sales would barely be enough to fill up the tank. He decided to drive out of Oklahoma City and fill up at a cheap station he knew along the highway. As he traveled south he could feel the atmosphere shift. Quite a few parts of the city had been changing over the years to attract the younger generation. The town of Sulphur, where he got gas, was not quite as big and busy but still bustling just a tad too much for his taste. His hometown of Mill Creek was most comfortable. There weren’t any cash grabbing events like plays in a park or all-day concerts. The main attractions were a post office and a church, and he could walk from one to the other with his eyes closed. Best of all, nobody in Mill Creek confronted him about his spitting. He snatched some fresh leaves and curled his lips up as he gnashed them between his teeth.
Most of the roads in Mill Creek were paved and well kept. His property was somewhat outside of the town and the gravel road was a different matter. He usually slowed down to minimize the damage and annoyances of driving over the ridges and potholes, but at the moment he didn’t really care one way or another. After a day of seeing kids in their tight clothes and strange piercings, barely making any money, and spending most of it on gas, a few jolts to the spine weren’t likely to drop his mood any lower. The only thing that would lift his spirits would be getting home, turning on the radio, and opening one of his homebrewed ales. He wanted to get all those things done as fast as possible.
Chuck passed the crest of a hill nearly eight miles away from the property, and the familiar sight of the old house came into view. It was two stories, longer and wider than it was tall, with walls made of staggered wood panels. Since he knew what to look for, he could spot the blemishes from a distance, like the chunk missing from the chimney or the slight lopsidedness that began last year when the house started sinking. He still needed to call somebody about that.
An unfamiliar sight came from above. Chuck slammed on the brakes as a flash of light surrounded his house. At first he thought it was green, but it might have been blue or turquoise. It was difficult to be sure since it only lasted a moment. The light struck the ground near his house and was shrouded by a cloud of dust that was kicked up by its impact. The dust began spreading slowly, but its rate increased and in there was an internal orange glow. Chuck stared with his mouth open as the dust continued to expand and subside. He started to choke on his chewing tobacco, and he lurched his head outside the window. He spat the leaves out by the front tire and kept his face toward the ground as he continued spitting. When he looked back at his house the dust had nearly subsided but tall flames burst from the ground and were growing taller. “Gas line broke,” Chuck said aloud to nobody. He craned his neck toward the sky. “What the hell was that?” He only saw clouds and smoke above his house.
Five Years Later
Chuck helped himself to his fourth beer of the day and flopped on the couch. As the cushion compressed the radio was obscured by static. He raised the beer can above his head and waved it around, hoping to find a sweet spot that would improve the signal. Every possible position yielded no results. With a sigh he slid to the arm of the couch and reached for the antennae. Without getting up, he was only able to hook his middle finger around the metal rod. As he wiggled it some of his beverage splashed onto the seat and floor. His shoulder popped as his cousin entered with a broom. “See this, Mark,” Chuck said as he found a position that allowed the announcer’s voice to come through, “this is why we need an extension cord.”
“Or you could start carrying napkins with you.” Mark pulled a rag from his back pocket and dabbed at the wet spots. “Or find your own place.” He pointed a finger at Chuck. “And don’t start that sob story about some sky laser blowing up your house. I’m sorry for your loss, but tragedies only count for three years. After that they become a crutch.”
“Oh, go crawl in a ditch and die.” Chuck placed his elbow on the armrest and leaned closer to the radio. “Now get out of here. I gotta pay attention. There’s only 113 games left until playoffs. This is when things really start getting interesting.”
Mark sighed and left the room to continue his bimonthly cleaning elsewhere. Chuck knew his cousin didn’t approve of him spending his days loafing about and listening so sports radio, but Chuck didn’t mind what anyone thought of him. After the explosion he’d spent months making and receiving calls from his insurance agency. He’d been truthful from the beginning and told them about the strange beam of light from the sky. Nobody believed him, but none of the investigations found evidence of foul play or irresponsibility on his part. The crater in the earth, ruptured gas line, and damage to his house had clearly been caused by an external force. He’d received a check for his losses larger than all his profits from every farmer’s market combined. He could have used the money to rebuild, but even using the cheapest materials and workers would deplete his payment. He was nearly seventy years old and had spent most of it working himself to the bone. He saw what could be his only opportunity at living the high life and seized it. He moved in with Mark and hadn’t worked a day since. The money mostly went toward food and home improvement projects. Chuck even offered to help cover a chunk of Mark’s mortgage, but the offer had been turned down several times.
The crack of a bat echoed over the speaker. Chuck whooped and raised the volume. When a runner scored he raised the can and prepared to chug it all. Suddenly, the game was interrupted by a series of beeps. “Oh come on,” he whined as he pulled the can away from him lips.
Mark speed walked back into the room. “Is that the emergency broadcast alarm? I don’t remember the last time I heard that go off.”
“Probably something stupid, like a bomb went off at some capitol building.” Chuck cupped a hand over his mouth. “Get back to the game,” he shouted at the radio.
“Please don’t joke about that,” said Mark.
Chuck was about to make a retort suggesting that since he was rich now he could make fun of whatever he wanted. Before he had a chance to vocalize his thoughts, a somber voice sounded through the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that this is not a hoax. An Unidentified Flying Object has been sighted over the town of Mill Creek, Oklahoma.”
Chuck and Mark stared at each other. One of Mark’s eyebrows was raised and Chuck was sure he had a similar expression.
“No information on the craft has been confirmed. It is reported to be smaller than an airplane and presence of weapons is unknown. Civilians are urged not to go outside and look for the UFO. Residents of Mill Creek have been issued the following orders…”
Chuck and Mark went outside to look for the UFO. Hands on their foreheads, they scanned the skies. Mark was the first to spot it and pointed a few blocks north of the house. “It looks like an egg,” Mark pointed out. “Or maybe a raindrop.”
“The radio man was right,” said Chuck, “it’s small. And I don’t see weapons.”
The craft moved closer to the house, making only a slight hum as it glided on air, until it was directly above them. “Let’s get out of here,” Mark shouted as he pulled on Chuck’s sleeve.
Chuck pulled his arm free of his cousin’s grip. “I ain’t going anywhere.”
Mark grabbed Chuck’s arm again and pulled harder. “I’m not letting you die like this. I’ll knock you out if I have to.”
Chuck tore his gaze from the spacecraft for a moment to glower at his cousin. “Where do you get off thinking someone flew from another solar system just to kill me?” He craned his neck up again. “Relax. They’re just want to look at our planet, just like we just want to look at their ship. In a few minutes they’ll probably just fly off back to,” he saw a brief flash of light “ow!” He slapped a hand over his left eye and jumped.
Mark grabbed him by the shoulders. “Are you alright?”
A voice came from the spacecraft, echoing as if projected from a loudspeaker. “Charles Dill, please remain where you are. We have come to offer restitution for damage to your property.”
The tip of the raindrop-shaped vehicle wobbled as it descended. Three nozzles ejected from the bottom in a tripod configuration and blasted air to slow the descent. The gust blew dirt in Chuck’s eyes but he couldn’t blink. He used to dream about moments like these. As a child he imagined becoming friends with the other-worldly visitors. As a teenager he imagined a hostile takeover with him becoming the leader of the resistance. As an adult, he couldn’t move or speak. With trembling hands, he smiled open-mouthed as the front of the ship opened and formed a ramp.
Two figures emerged. One that was shorter than Chuck, no more than five feet tall, descended the ramp with quick, short steps. It was pink. Thick strands of hair covered its body. The hair on its head was lightest and the tufts around its feet were darkest, but overall the alien was the color of a flamingo. Its blue, baggy pants reflected light as it walked. Its shirt was tailored in the same design as a suit but had no buttons. A wide, red eye was visible between a gap in the hair, separated by eyelashes that ran vertically. When the creature blinked, the lashes closed in from the sides instead of moving up and down.
The other alien was at least three feet taller and moved more slowly. Its six arms were folded across its chest. Its brown jumpsuit was textured and leathery and covered most of its lean body. Its face was dark red and crusted, as if its skin was a layer of dried blood. Two lines extended from the corners of its mouth to its eyes, like a pair of harelips. It had no nose, and as it sulked behind the hairy alien the space between the two lines flapped in and out.
The pink alien addressed itself first. “Mr. Dill, it is nice to meet you. My name is Muilic.” Its voice had an accent that made it sound like a person from London. “First of all, let me say we are deeply sorry for your loss.”
A pop rang on Chuck’s left. He whipped his head toward Jim, Mark’s neighbor. An avid participant in the town’s civil war reenactment, Jim was armed with a flintlock rifle. Chuck always assumed it was fake, but the smoke billowing from the barrel suggested otherwise. Jim stood rigid with the butt of the gun pressed tight to his body, but he looked confused. Chuck turned back to Muilic who didn’t seem bothered by the sound.
“Don’t be concerned for our safety,” said Muilic. Jim cocked the gun and fired again. This time Chuck saw a spark near the alien’s hair, as if the bullet flashed out of existence before hitting its target. “Metal projectiles can’t harm us,” Muilic expanded.
Jim let out a battle cry and charged at the red alien with a long knife. The wooden handle of the weapon was weathered but the blade was intact and still looked threatening. The creature tilted its head to look at its attacker, but the rest of its body remained firm. Six inches away from the red alien’s flesh, the blade sparked and disappeared. Jim’s momentum carried him forward and he fell toward the large alien’s side. In a smooth motion, two of the leather-clad beast’s arms grabbed Jim and threw him away. Jim tumbled down the pavement. When he stopped his clothes were torn and several parts of his skin scraped.
“My client is Nibolg,” said Muilic. He pulled a penny-sized disk from his shirt and held it against his face. When he spoke again his voice was amplified. “He is only authorized to use force in self-defense. He will not harm anyone if you don’t harm him first.” It repocketed the disk and extended its hand. “Again, I’m very sorry for what transpired on your property. May we enter your house to discuss it?”
Chuck grabbed the wholly hand and shook it vigorously. He felt possibly seven stubby, blunt fingers, but beneath all the hair it was difficult to know for sure. “You better come on in,” Chuck shouted. “If there was ever a time to be a good host, this is it.” He rushed to the front door, held it open, and gestured wildly with his hand for them to enter. Muilic promptly complied while Nibolg was slower to move. Mark stood still and stared at Chuck with ruffled eyebrows. “You too,” Chuck called to his cousin, “get on in here and help me show these two a good time.” As Mark made his way into the house Chuck caught a glimpse of houses across the street. Curtains were pulled back and doors were cracked open. Everyone’s faces portrayed a mix of fear and confusion. Chuck waved to nobody in particular as he went inside.
Chuck led them to the dining room. Muilic sat at the table while Nibolg went to a corner and leaned against the wall. Muilic produced another small disk. It looked just like the one he’d used to amplify his voice, but Chuck was sure it had come from a different pocket. “First, we need to get some preliminary business out of the way.” He laid the disk flat on the table and rubbed it with his palm. When he took his hand away an image of an worn barn hovered above the table. “Charles Dill, can you confirm that this was your house?”
“Sure was, but please, call me Chuck. And let’s not get straight to business. I’m guessing you two a long trip.” He snapped with both hands and pointed an index finger at each alien. “Hey, how about a welcome-to-Earth meal? I’ll make you my namesake: chuck steak with a heaping helping of dill weed.”
“Is that food?” said Muilic.
“You better believe it.” Nearly out of the room, Chuck paused and turned back to the table. “Is that a problem? You eat, don’t you?”
“My species is unique in that regard.” He reached to his chin and lifted a few strands of hair. “These are called rilvers. They take in moisture and nutrients from air. We have no way of digesting solids.”
“Neat,” said Chuck. He turned to Nibolg. “How about you?”
“You carnivores?” the sulking alien muttered.
“Mostly,” said Chuck. “If there’s no meat it’s not a meal. If you want, I’ll hold the dill and just give you the steak.”
Muilic sighed. “He’s just being difficult. His species are omnivores, and the cellular structure of life on this planet is similar to his home. It is likely he can eat anything you give him.”
“Sounds good,” Chuck said as he went to the kitchen. As he turned on the stove and placed a skillet atop a burner he called out “I won’t skip the dill. In fact, I’ll give you extra. Trust me, you’ll like it.” As the skillet heated he began chopping the herbs. Mark entered as he plopped a pat of butter onto the hot metal. “What’re you doing?” he said as he used a spatula to spread the butter, “you should be entertaining our guests.”
Mark grabbed Chuck’s shirt sleeve and pulled him close. In an aggressive whisper he said “stop being so calm! We need to get out of here, let the authorities handle this.”
“I don’t see any cops around here.”
“They’re right out front.”
“Really?” Chuck turned the burner to low and went to the window overlooking the front yard. He pulled back the curtain and spotted a row of police cars with their lights flashing. Some officers were approaching the spacecraft with caution. Others were taking positions around the house. Most were standing by the idling cars, speaking with each other. “Well I be, it is the fuzz.” Chuck opened the window. “Y’all want some chuck n’ dill?” he called.
Mark pulled him back inside and slammed the window closed. “Start taking this seriously,” he ordered, then looked over Chuck’s shoulder at the two aliens in the next room. “Excuse us for a second,” he said as he guided Chuck to another room.
Chuck shook free. “Now hold on, they’re probably interested in what’s happening.” He poked his head back into the dining room. “You two have cops on your planet?”
“Every civilization has a group dedicated to preserving law and order,” said Muilic. “On Taupler we call them Gnavs and we were expecting an intervention from your planet’s equivalent. I assure you there will be no violence. Our directives include remaining passive. Your efforts to mirror our docility is appreciated, Mr. Dill.”
“Hey, no problem. And again, call me Chuck.”
Mark dragged him away from the room. “This IS a problem. How long are they going to follow that directive? What if they don’t stay docile much longer?”
“Is that what happened last time?” Chuck asked innocently.
“What are you talking about?”
“Exactly. This is the first time something like this has happened. We’re all in uncharted waters. Way I see it, that means any way you want to react is fine.”
“None of what you’re doing is fine. Bullets and knives couldn’t even touch those two. What if there’s more of them orbiting Earth? What if this is all a diversion while they prepare an invasion? What if this is how the world ends?”
“I’m good with it,” Chuck said with a shrug.
“No, you’re not. Nobody should be good with this.”
“Look, all I’m saying is, if I had a heart attack and died yesterday, I would’ve been good with it, because I would’ve died rich.”
“You’re not even all that rich,” Mark interrupted.
“If there’s an invasion today and I die today,” Chuck continued as if he hadn’t heard, “I’m even good-er with it, because I’ll still die rich, and I got to see real aliens before kicking the bucket. But I’m not that worried about it. Far as I can tell, they’re just a couple of nice guys who came to apologize for what happened to my house.”
“You can’t honestly believe that.”
“Hey, if you believe your wife’s coming back, I can believe this.”
Mark shoved Chuck into the wall. Chuck held his arms up and prepared to apologize. Mark cocked his fist back. Before either could complete their intended actions there was a pounding at the door.
“Police, open up!”
A brief pause, and then Chuck said, “we should get that.”
Mark gave Chuck a lighter push as he made his way to the entry hall. When he opened the door a man in uniform placed a foot inside but did not fully enter. “Somebody better tell me what’s going on here. Is this a joke? Some kind of publicity stunt?”
“We are here on official, quite serious business,” Muilic called.
“Come on in and say hi,” said Chuck. “Once you see them you’ll know this ain’t no joke.” The officer entered and the three of them went to the dining room. His jaw dropped when he saw the aliens.
“I realize this is unusual for you,” said Muilic, “but I would very much like to explain the purpose of our presence. I’ve prepared a visual aid.”
Muilic reached into his pocket. The officer reached for his firearm. Muilic paid the threat no mind and calmly placed a disk on the table.
“Don’t bother shooting them,” said Chuck. “Someone tried already. Didn’t work.”
“The first thing you need to understand,” Muilic began.
“Wait!” Chuck rushed to the kitchen where the skillet was now coated with a brown film. “Dang it,” he said loudly, “the butter burned. Sorry, I’ll do the best I can, but these won’t be great.” He crammed three steaks into the skillet and used the knife to scrape the chopped dill on top. It occurred to him the cop would want to partake, but there was no room left in the pan. He returned to the room and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m going to have to check on those in a few minutes.”
“May I continue for those few minutes?” said Muilic. Chuck nodded and rolled his wrist. “As I was saying, the first thing you need to understand is that Nibolg supports the Caxto.” Muilic spat the last word with disgust. “In your language a comparable word is autocrat.”
“Could you suggest a different word?” said Chuck. “Me no speak any language so good.”
“Dictator,” Mark clarified.
“If you would use more than one-word descriptions,” Nibolg cut in, “then you’d find…”
“One word is sufficient,” Muilic said loudly, “since we’re not authorized to discuss the politics of other planets during our stay.”
“Whatever,” Nibolg grunted.
The officer reached for his gun again. “Is that why you’re here? To expand your dominion?”
“There will be no expansion now,” said Muilic, “and hopefully not in the future. To make a very long and complicated story short, there was a war, which the Caxto thankfully lost.”
“Depends on who you ask,” said Nibolg. “The ideas live on.”
Muilic turned in his chair to face Nibolg. “And like all living things those ideas will wither and die.”
Nibolg took a step away from the wall. “Not before yours.” Four of his hands curled into fists.
“There’s no point in fighting,” said Mark. “None of us can take sides without more information.”
“I’ll take a side.” Chuck picked up the disk. A quick examination revealed there was a yellow light on one side while the other side was just a flat ring of metal. He pointed to Nibolg, “you’re light,” he pointed to Muilic, “you’re dark.” He flipped the disk, caught it, and turned it over onto his wrist. “Sorry, Nibolg,” he said as he placed the disk back on the table, “but I have to side with Muilic on this.”
Nibolg’s clenched hands opened and he leaned back against the wall. “If only all disputes were solved that easily.”
Muilic placed his hand over the disk and moved it in a circle over the light. “Back to the war.” He pulled his hand away and an image of a space ship appeared above the table. The picture was more complicated than the one in the front yard. It was thin and V-shaped, like a stealth jet. There were two triangular engines mounted to its back and a cannon on its front. “The Caxto gained much ground after beam constraint technology. Weapons like the one on this ship could fire a burst of pure plasma.” A beam burst from one of the guns on the hologram of the ship. The spacecraft shrank while the light became larger.
“Hey,” said Chuck, “that’s the light that hit my house.”
Muilic nodded as the hologram changed. The single beam of light was replaced with dozens of ships flying every which way and blasting beam after beam from their cannons. “Based on post-battle analysis of ships, and testimony of soldiers, it’s estimated that a minimum of two hundred shots were fired per ship per battle. As long as these confrontations took place a few hundred light years from populated planets, missed shots normally wouldn’t be an issue. The beam would dilate and be reduced to low level radiation before it could threaten anyone.” The hologram zoomed on a single fighter which fired three plasma bolts that missed its intended target. The image followed the beams as they zoomed away from the fight. “The Caxto found a way to prevent this dilation. They could travel tens of thousands of light years without losing intensity. Even after a retreat or surrender, the danger lingered.” A small dot appeared in front of the three beams. As the dot grew it became clear that it was a planet, and the plasma beams were on a collision course with it. “Innocent bystanders were impacted by missed shots decades or even centuries after the battle was decided. That’s why our organization was formed.” The beams and the encroaching planet were replaced by a silver shield with the letters PPC. “I’m a representative of the Phaser Pollution Coalition. We investigate a twenty thousand light year radius from every battle sight. When we find one with sentient life forms, and find evidence that it was harmed by a missed shot, we allow an imprisoned Caxto supporter temporary release and introduce them to those affected by their carelessness.” Muilic rubbed the disk again and the image vanished. “So you see, Chuck, our goal here is to offer justice for the damage to your property caused by this war criminal and his comrades.”
“Cool,” said Chuck. “Hold on, I need to check on the steaks.” In the kitchen smoke billowed around the skillet and juices collected on the top of the meat. When he flipped them, the underside was darker than he would have liked, but they still smelled good. Now that they had shrunk he was able to maneuver them until he found a position that felt optimal. When he returned Mark was hunched over a piece of paper. The officer was on his feet and looking over Mark’s shoulder.
“So wait, he can demand anything?” said the officer.
“Within reason obviously,” said Muilic.
“Within whose reason?” said the officer.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mark, “because I won’t allow Chuck to go through with this. It’s disgusting.”
“Food will be out in a few minutes.” Chuck tossed the spatula so it spun and caught it by the handle. “What’re we talking about?”
“We were just learning what their idea of justice is,” said Mark.
“It’s detailed in the document,” said Muilic. “Chuck, as it is yours to sign, you may read it at your leisure. I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors. The long trip allowed time to become familiar with your language but I fear my translation abilities may still be a bit rough in places.”
Mark thrust the paper toward Chuck. “It says you agree to let Nibolg out of prison.”
“That’s not what it says,” Muilic countered, keeping his voice level.
“It says they’ve got to give you anything you ask for,” said the officer.
“Again, you’re over simplifying,” said Muilic.
“Simple is good,” said Chuck. “Give it to me easy.”
“By signing the form you agree that Nibolg will be under your jurisdiction,” said Muilic.
“Which means he’ll be staying here,” said Mark.
“And you can ask him for favors,” said the officer, “or information. Basically, you can ask him for whatever will make up for wrecking your house.”
“Ok, great,” said Chuck. “I want Nibolg to try my steak.” He left the paper unsigned and returned to the kitchen. Nobody bothered him as he finished preparing the meal. He was aware they were still talking in the other room, but the sizzling meat drown out their voices. As he was plating the food Muilic entered. “Hey, Muilic, you’re just in time. Can you take one plate? I’ll take the other two.”
“Soon,” said Muilic. “Mr. Dill, sorry, Chuck, I want to emphasize my appreciation in you maintaining a calm demeanor. Your attitude is helping this introduction go smoother than I could have imagined. However, there is something I simply cannot keep to myself anymore.” Every rilver darkened as the creature waved its arms above its head, moving them in ways that suggested its bones were softer and its joints looser than a human’s. “Tqybltch Xml’wv liaeitn!”
Chuck retrieved the ketchup from the refrigerator. “Is that a swear? You’ll have to teach me that one. I love learning dirty words in other languages.”
“I’m sure there’s no direct translation. What I’m trying to understand is, why aren’t you taking this more seriously? Do you understand what I told you in the other room? I know there have been wars on this planet before. Don’t they mean anything to you?”
Chuck squeezed a heaping dollop of ketchup onto his plate. “You’re right. We’ve had wars. Some lasted hundreds of years. Some consumed the world. Some were fought over things that weren’t worth dying for.” He slipped the ketchup bottle under his armpit and picked up two plates. “Wars have always had an impact on a lot of people, but as far as I’m concerned, they’re old news, even on a galactic scale.” He brought the plates to the table. “Hope all this talk has built up your appetite.”
“It hasn’t,” said Mark, ignoring his food and focused on Muilic. “I don’t know why you’re still here. Nobody wants what you’re offering.”
“Oh, at least let them stay for dinner,” said Chuck as he cut his steak, dipped it in ketchup, and then dabbed it in a pile of hot dill leaves.
“Chuck,” Mark said through gritted teeth, “try to pay attention for five God damn seconds.” He pointed to Nibolg. “That thing is a terrorist who killed hundreds if not thousands in the name of an alien tyrant. Death, or life in prison are the only two suitable punishments, but if you sign that document, neither will happen. The sentence will basically be house arrest, and it will be carried out here, and,” he paused to stare across the table.
Nibolg’s upper lip extended up and out. The two lines on either side of its mouth allowed it to form a right angle to the rest of its face. There were no teeth, but a hole in its upper gums. Nibolg shoved half the steak into the upper hole and its lip flopped closed.
“I predigest my food,” Nibolg explained. “There’s a cavity full of acid in my mouth that breaks it down.”
“Neat,” said Chuck. “Can you taste it? If you can’t, I’ll feel kind of stupid putting those seasonings on it.”
“I can taste with my lower mouth,” said Nibolg. A bulge formed on his upper lip and cascaded down. The bulge disappeared and a moment later Nibolg’s throat twitched. “Mmm. Tastes like hsaip.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Mark. “Everything about you is disgusting!”
“There’s nothing disgusting about that ship out front,” said the officer, who looked at Muilic. “I want to be perfectly clear about this. If Chuck here asks for Nibolg to share weapons or spaceship designs, then they’ve got to be provided.”
“All requests have to be within reason,” said Muilic.
“And we’re not going to request trade secrets from terrorists,” said Mark.
“America’s military could really benefit,” said the officer.
“The document clearly lays out guidelines…”
“…terrorists…”
“…military…”
Chuck cut another bite of his steak. Across the table, Nibolg’s lip bulged as it transferred more food from one mouth to another. The two ate in silence as the others bickered. Muilic, Mark, and the officer didn’t seem to notice when he finished and brought his plate back to the kitchen. To his relief, Nibolg joined him. “Thanks for piping down,” Chuck said as he turned on the faucet. “I hate it when people talk over each other.”
“You’re welcome,” said Nibolg, watching the sink closely. “You know, even though Muilic has the wrong idea about the Caxto, he wasn’t exaggerating about the war. A lot of shots were fired.”
“Yeah, before we were interrupted I meant to ask, what do your guns sound like? In our movies they make a pew sound.” Chuck imitated the sound of a Star Wars blaster a few times. Finished with his cleaning, he put the plate on a towel and held his hands out to Nibolg.
Nibolg shook his head. “This contraption seems simple enough.” He took Chuck’s place and turned the spigot on and off a few times. “You really don’t care,” he said as he held the dish under the water, “about any of this?”
“What do you mean?”
The lines on Nibolg’s face ruffled. “I don’t know. It’s just, I’m used to a different reaction. Using the word Caxto is a sure way to start a fight in most places. Everyone’s either willing to die for it or die trying to stop it. Even if you don’t know what it is, after hearing Muilic’s description, I was expecting you to act like Mark. Nobody ever takes a neutral stance on this.”
“Do you want me to fight?” Chuck half-heartedly pounded his fist on the counter. “Damn that Catsco. I’ve just about had it with that guy.”
“It’s not a guy, it’s an idea, and you didn’t even pronounce it right,” Nibolg said with a chuckle. “And I don’t know what I want. I just said it’s weird. This is the first time I’ve met someone who hasn’t associated the word with violence. I guess, it’s kind of nice.” He turned off the sink and held up the plate. “Is this alright?”
“Yeah, it’s fine, whatever, it’s just a plate.” He handed Nibold a towel. “Hey, I’ll read through that document later, but catch me up. What’s the deal with this whole restitution plan? How do you even know you’re the one responsible for the damage?”
“Well, it’s impossible to link any single blast to an individual ship, but coordinates of the most intense battles are common knowledge. Probes were sent to those locations and scanned for life-sustaining planets in a hundred-thousand light year radius. If they found one, further investigations focused on signs of phaser-related damages.” Nibolg placed the dried plate on the counter. “That storage system you call the Cloud made it easy. A copy of your insurance claim was found on it, which made Earth an open and shut case.”
“But I didn’t mention you in that claim. Before I met you I never used the word Nibolg in a sentence. Mostly because it’s not a word, as far as I know.”
“Prisoners are selected at random. Muilic and his comrades don’t show any distinction between me and mine. Mark is right, it is a way for us to get out of prison, but it isn’t meant to be an easier sentence. From what I hear, the victims usually seize the opportunity to get revenge.”
“You mean they outright kill you? Sounds rough.” Chuck scratched his head. “Wait, did you expect me to kill you? Just for blowing up my house?”
Nibolg drummed the fingers of his highest limbs on the forearms of his middle limbs. “There are limits. You’ll read about them in the document. Murder isn’t allowed, but once a prisoner is assigned to a victim they are required to fulfill almost any request. Rumor has it most demand intense labor and work us to death.”
“Neat,” said Chuck. “What kind of work?”
“That’s it?” said Nibolg. “You’re just going to say it’s neat?”
Chuck paused a moment, pondered the question, and then said “yeah.”
“You don’t have any desire to question whether the victims and their families are justified for taking revenge? Particularly in this manner? You don’t want to tell me I deserve to be punished? Or ask for more information about exactly what I fought for?”
Chuck pondered the other questions. “Nope.”
Nibolg sighed, shook his head, and started to leave the room.
“Wait,” said Chuck. Nibold obeyed and turned around. “I wasn’t always like this,” Chuck explained. “Five years ago I would’ve given you the business about wars and dictators. Back then I would’ve gone off on any kid who had a problem with me chewing tobacco. That’s because I was always stressed, scared of having a bad growing season, or getting fired from my other job, and missing payments.” His eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “That all changed after my house blew up. Sure, it was tough getting that cash settlement, but from the day I put that check in the bank I’ve been living my best life. Haven’t been worried about a damn thing. Been spending days listening to the radio. I don’t even like baseball, really, I just do it because I can. I know the money will run out eventually, but even when it does, I don’t ever want to go back to that life. I don’t ever want to be that stressed again, about anything, personal or bigger.”
“What I’m hearing,” said Nibolg, the right side of his mouth curling into a half-grin, “is that even though I’ve been labeled responsible for causing you harm, you’re actually the one who owes me.”
Chuck laughed and slapped his thigh. “I guess the way I said that it sort of sounds like it. What happens if I turn down this deal, assuming I have that option?”
Nibolg’s grin faded. “I go back to jail, where I’m starved, beaten, and forced to watch re-educational films all day for most if not all my life.”
“Neat,” said Chuck. “Tell you what, I’ll go with the program, and I won’t work you to death.”
Nibolg’s eyes widened, and he regained his smile. “Really?”
“Sure,” said Chuck. “The way I see it, we’re all getting something. Muilic will be happy since on paper it’ll look like you’re making up for the damage. I’ll be paying you back for giving me a new lease on life, so I’ll be happy. You won’t die, so you’ll be happy. While we’re at it, I’ll try and find Mark a girlfriend, see if that makes him happy.” He went back to the dining room where everyone was still arguing. The document was resting near Muilic. Chuck found a pen and leaned over it. “Where do I sign?” he shouted over the others.
Muilic’s eye widened as he stared at Chuck. “I highly recommend you read it first. The first five pages,” he lifted a few sheets and fanned them out.
Chuck snatched the document off the table. “You talk too much.” He brought it to Nibolg. “Where do I sign?”
Nibolg flipped to a page near the back and pointed to a blank line. “Here.” Chuck flattened the document against the wall and scribbled his name. He was about to bring it back to the table but Nibolg stopped him and flipped to another page. “And here.” Chuck did so and handed it back to Nibolg, who found a third page with blank lines. “And here. And that’s it.” Chuck wrote his name the final time and tossed the document toward Muilic, whose eye was still wide as it slid across the table.
“My first demand,” Chuck said as he pointed to the front door, “is you get a drink with me. I know I didn’t even glance at the terms, but I assume you’re allowed to drink.”
“Of course,” said Nibolg.
“Great,” said Chuck, “the guys are going to freak when they see me with an alien drinking buddy.” He started walking to the door, with Nibolg following close behind.
“I need to go with you,” said Muilic, stumbling out of his chair. “I need to make sure you don’t violate any of the stipulations.”
“Great,” said Chuck. “The more the merrier.”
When the three were outside Nibolg pointed at the rusted Camero. “I take it that’s your method of transportation?”
“Usually,” said Chuck, “but what do you think I am, crazy? We’re taking your ship.”
“Excuse me?” said Muilic. “No, you’re not. This is a Tetralometric Suspension Vehicle with a Quadrahelical engine that runs on ultrapure madroniol. You are not using it to smack the town!”
“I think you mean hit the town,” said Chuck.
Nibolg interlaced his fingers while approaching the ship and the ramp descended. “And this request is in within the limits.” Both Nibolg and Chuck entered the craft.
“I disagree,” said Muilic as he followed close behind them. “You are not authorized to share technology, especially with a species as primitive as humans.”
“Hey,” said Chuck, “I’d take offense to that if it weren’t true.”
Nibolg pressed a series of buttons. “And it’s not sharing if he doesn’t know how it works.”
“Nibolg Tenfrdy,” said Muilic, pointing so hard the arm hairs thrashed like ivy in a breeze, “I’m warning you, if this TSV lifts off, I will report it to my SS.”
“What’s a SS?” said Chuck, “and what happens if it gets a report?”
“Superior Supervisor,” said Nibolg, “and there’ll be discussions, followed by forms being signed, followed by more discussions, and then, maybe, some disciplinary actions.” Nibolg’s lower right hand curled around a lever. “But I like you, so I’ll risk it.”
The lever pulled away from the panel and the TSV rose gracefully into the sky. Chuck whooped and pressed his hand against the wall for support.
“Where’re we going?” said Nibolg when they were above the roofline.
Chuck pointed to a neon sign. “See that green light down there?”
“That’s it?” said Nibolg.
“You’re in Mill Creek,” said Chuck. “Everything’s a ten-minute walk away.”
“Well, can we fly around a little? I didn’t get the chance to pilot on the way here.”
“And you shouldn’t be piloting now,” said Muilic. “All of this is going in my report!”
“Then I’d better make the most of this,” said Nibolg.
The TSV jolted North. It climbed to the clouds and Nibolg pivoted a wheel so it spun in circles as it rose.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it,” said Nibolg as Chuck grabbed the back of a seat for support. “In here, gravity is altered. No matter which way the ship faces, down is always down.”
Chuck eased his hands away from the seat and was able to keep his balance. Their surroundings spun as Nibolg performed loops and figure-eights, his feet stayed planted. It was disorienting, but he quickly adjusted. When they were above a forest Chuck issued a challenge to drop lower and see how close they could get to the tree line. Nibolg complied. They skimmed the tops of the lowest trees and headed on collision courses with taller ones. Only when they were within spitting distance did Nibolg swerve around the trunk. Muilic never stopped complaining. When they narrowly avoided crashing into the last of the tall trees Chuck got another idea.
“I was wondering earlier, does this ship have weapons? I didn’t see any.”
“They’re concealed,” said Nibolg, “but yes, this vessel is armed.”
“Can I, um, see them? You know, in action?”
Nibolg slowed the ship until they were leisurely gliding over the trees. “Do you have anything to shoot?”
“Of course not,” said Muilic. “He absolutely does not.”
Chuck pointed away from the forest. “I mean, there’s plenty of land around here that’s not really populated. Over yonder there’s miles of roads with no houses on either side. What if we just blasted the crap out of the ground?”
“I don’t see the harm in that,” said Nibolg.
“There’s a great deal of harm in that,” said Muilic. “It would damage their ecosystem, which we’re not allowed to do.”
“Oh please,” said Chuck, “do you have any idea what we do to our ecosystem? Nobody’s going to care about another hole in the Earth. Besides, for years I’ve been telling people to go crawl in a ditch and die. I’ll feel better saying that if I can refer to an actual ditch. One that I’m responsible for making is even better.”
“So by providing a ditch I’d be bettering your life,” said Nibolg. The ship sped in the direction Chuck had indicated. “Making your life better is why I’m here.”
“This was clearly a mistake,” said Muilic. “When I’m done with my report, the PPC will rush to strip you of this assignment. You’ll be transferred to a different planet, serving victims who truly appreciate the severe costs of the war.”
“That’s not a threat until you write it.” Nibolg flipped a set of switches and a humming sound came from the ship’s exterior.
Chuck pressed his face against the window and looked around. On the underside of the ship, he saw the end of a long metal cylinder. There was a rumble like a motorcycle engine, and then a bright green light burst from the end. Chuck whipped his head to follow it. When it struck the ground, it propelled a wall of dirt, grass, and weeds skyward. “Awesome,” he shouted, “let me try!”
Nibolg rose from the pilot seat. “Why not? You did say you wanted to make it yourself.”
“This is dangerously close to sharing technology,” Muilic protested.
“I guarantee he has no idea how the gun works,” said Nibolg. “All he knows is that it’s activated by the red button.”
“Actually I didn’t,” said Chuck as he sat and noticed the red trigger-like button on the wheel, “but thanks for letting me know.” He pressed the button and quickly released them. There was another rumbling but no light. He pressed the button again, clenching his fist tight as he did so. He kept the pressure until the light was projected again, more intense this time. The shots were fired in rapid bursts like a machine gun and each beam sent another cloud of dust high into the air. Chuck competed with the rumbling guns as he shouted “yeeeee-hooooo!”
“You’ll regret this,” Muilic hollered. “Both of you! Just wait until you see my report!”
All three of Nibolg’s hands slapped the back of the pilot chair. “This is going to be the best prison sentence ever!”
