Alien Nation #4 - The Change Read online

  Another student, a pretty human girl, held up her hand and said, “I bet I know where Emily is.” There was a distinctly catty tone to the girl’s voice.

  Mr. Rafferty held his head back and looked at the girl through his glasses. “Go ahead, Barbara. Where do you think she is?”

  “She’s in the back study room of the library—”

  “I know where it is,” Susan said, and ran from the room. She slid to a stop in front of the fire stairs, pushed open the door, and clattered down to the first floor.

  There were Kyra and Pida, the children of Torumeh, the Overseer who administered pain. Pain for education; pain for punishment; pain for the amusement of Torumeh. Torumeh deserved to die. All of the slaves cheered silently in their hearts when the Ahvin Yin executed Torumeh. But Kyra and Pida, they were such beautiful children, too young to have had their compassion killed. She had seen them after they had been killed by a tracked mechanical loader. The vehicle, still carrying a heavy load of scrap metal, had been left parked on top of the children’s crushed bodies. The vikah ta spared no one with a kind memory of the target of the revenge.

  Susan slid to a stop through the library’s open door and looked around for the librarian. No one, however, was in the room or at the stacks she could see. She walked a few paces past the door and heard a thin, reedy voice coming from another door at the back. “This will see the end of you, girl, and the end of that monster you love.” She heard her daughter scream.

  “Emily!” Susan shrieked as she ran toward the back into the darkened study room. Emily was on the floor, her eyes closed, her face and chest smeared with red. The handle of some wooden weapon protruded from her chest. “Emily!”

  A dark-clad figure stepped out of the shadows, and Susan instinctively picked up a Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary and smashed it into the person’s face. She lifted the heavy book again and was stopped by a shriek.

  “Mother! Mother! Stop it! You’ll hurt him!”

  Susan turned and saw Emily standing, the weapon still protruding from her chest. Mr. Rafferty, the librarian, and several students came to a halt at the door. The figure on the floor struggled to its feet, its hand held to its bleeding nose. “Rick?” Emily said, taking his arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, right,” he said as he pulled his arm free.

  “Okay,” Mr. Rafferty said to the students at the door, “the show’s over. If there isn’t a place you should be right now, I can find a spot for you in study hall.”

  As the crowd thinned, Susan could hear the girl named Barbara giggle and say, “I said she was down here with Ricky.”

  Susan looked at the boy with the bloody nose. “Ricky Martin?”

  “Yeah,” the boy said. “You must be the mother of Dracula’s daughter.” The librarian went over and held a wad of tissues beneath Ricky’s nose.

  Susan could feel her eyes change color from embarrassment. “The school play. Vampires. You’re in it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He plays Dr. Van Helsing, the vampire killer,” the librarian said.

  “And Emily cut her class to help you with your lines.”

  The boy removed the tissues, turned to a fresh piece, and held it to his nose. It was clear that he was going to have two black eyes as a result of his introduction to Emily’s mother. Susan looked at Emily. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Oh, Mom. How could you?”

  “I’m sorry, darling. It’s just that . . . You see, there’s an emergency that . . . Darling, I’m really terribly sorry.” She turned to the boy. “Ricky, I’m very sorry about this. I really am. There’s an emergency, and I thought—”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Francisco,” the boy said as he wiped his nose with a gentle touch. It looked as though his nose was broken, as well.

  “I really am so sorry.” She reached out her hand to touch the boy, and he took a step back to keep away from her.

  “It’s okay, lady. I understand. I really do. I got a buddy. His mom’s got a drug problem too.” He waved a fistful of bloody tissues and said, “It’s been a lump talking to you, but I got to go see the nurse now. Bye.” He turned to Emily. “Be sure to call me in a couple of hundred years.” With the librarian leading him, the boy gave Susan a wide berth and left the study room.

  “Mother,” Emily said through her tears, “how could you? He’ll never want to speak to me again. Why did you do it?”

  “Well, dear,” her mother answered, taking a deep breath and rubbing her eyes, “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  C H A P T E R 7

  BUCK STARED INTO the tiny pool, attempting to sort his thoughts, as a gentle breeze moved a dead leaf across the water. Some thoughts, however, would not sort. He sighed and allowed his gaze to drift upward. The garden of the Rama Vo was surrounded by high brick walls, which were cracked, pitted, and scorched. Inside the walls were flagstone paths lined by ornamental trees, flowers, and mineral specimens. At the door of the building, a Hila emerged and regarded the day. Although not frail, the Elder was incredibly ancient, at least to Buck’s eyes. Buck picked up his rucksack and put his right arm through the shoulder strap as he turned to face Aman Iri.

  Buck Francisco had never seen many elders. Few of them existed. Before the crash, the Overseers used to dispose of most of those who passed physical prime. The Tenctonese were genetically designed to live for 140 Earth years, but maintaining hundred-year-old slaves was simply not efficient, save for the few dedicated to mental tasks. Before the crash, the “old ones” were simply taken away somewhere and never seen again. Those who would dare to mention the subject presumed that the remains of the old ones were recycled. Before the crash, it was not a crime by the law of the ship. Buck glanced at the Hila as he approached.

  Aman Iri wore nothing that indicated his authority, wisdom, or the esteem in which he was held by others. In fact he wore human slouch: jeans, joggers, T-shirt, and a ragged, straw cowboy hat. Buck looked down at his own “mad monk robes” and felt foolish. The spiritual goals he sought seemed to demand some outward sign of his aspirations. It was why soldiers, priests, and lawyers wore their particular uniforms and medals.

  Yet the Hila, one who had attained the serenity and wisdom of an Elder, felt no need to make any outward sign of anything. He was who he was. No perception, judgment, or opinion of another had any bearing on Aman Iri’s existence, meaning, worth, or future. Hence, what was the point of medals, uniforms, printed buttons, bumper stickers, and other such attempts to manipulate the feelings or opinions of others? Buck’s mind knew the lesson by heart. His hearts, however, still felt that, in part, what others thought of him made him what he was. He did not feel very successful as a student of the Rama Vo.

  “Good morning, Hila.”

  The Elder regarded Buck’s expression with kind amusement. “A generous sentiment, Buck, although I see that such a morning has yet to find you.”

  “I guess I still have a problem or two, Hila.”

  “Have you told your parents yet about your attendance at the Rama Vo?”

  “No. I mentioned something about it to my father a few months ago, but he wasn’t really listening. It’s real important to him that I complete a human university.”

  “When are you going to tell him?”

  “Believe me, Aman Iri, today wasn’t the right time. Mom and Dad were late, and Dad’s gone super weird, blowing up, picking bizarre colors to wear, forgetting to set his alarm. Mom says his nemeh glands are puffed. She thinks he’s got nia.”

  “Oh? How old is your father?”

  “In Earth years, almost sixty.”

  “He’s closing his third fav, then. It’s quite early, but conditions on Earth are considerably different.”

  “Early for what, Hila? Do you know what’s happening to my dad?”

  “I could be wrong, but it appears to be life. Feel joy for him, not concern. If he does not have a Hila of his own, it would be good if your father could talk to someone here at the vo.” He raised his eyebrows
. “When the time is right, of course. Now, how did your meditation on acceptance go?”

  “Nowhere. Those things I talked about yesterday, they still bother me. I know they shouldn’t, but they do. It’s not just what’s happening to Newcomers. The humans have nothing left to teach me. I’ve been to their schools, listened to their professors and political leaders. I’ve seen kids in school beat up because they’re black or yellow. Cruelty by some done to others simply because they’re white or red. And now that the slags are here, everybody has someone they can hate. A black kid at the student union called me ‘space nigger.’ He didn’t get physical, but he acted as though he wanted to. I never saw him before, and he hated me enough to try and hurt me. How can I put all this aside? How can I forget the names, the looks, the beatings? Especially the names. Even from before, how can I forget the things the Overseers did to us? The things they’re still trying to do to us? And they’re running around free. What about the Thunderbolt Poet carving up Newcomers just to write a little poem? What about the slaughter just this morning over on Soto? Where is the fairness in all this? Where is the justice? Where is the sanity? How am I supposed to put all this aside and meditate? I just don’t get it.”

  The Elder’s eyes studied Buck for a moment. When Aman Iri had come to his conclusion, he turned, went to his flower bed, squatted, and picked two plants from it. Still squatting there, the Hila held the plants up for Buck to see. “What are these?”

  “Plants. A flower and a weed.”

  “Which one is the flower? Which one is the weed?”

  Buck suspected a trick answer would be necessary to answer a trick question. The first lesson Buck had learned at the Rama Vo, however, had been not to compete with the Hila by attempting to foil his riddles. It had been to learn about himself by answering the questions as honestly as he could.

  “The plant with the blue blossom is the flower, Hila. The dark green one with the tiny leaves is the weed.”

  “Why?”

  Buck frowned, shrugged, and held out his hands. “They just are. That’s how they’re classified.”

  Aman Iri shook the plants at the youth. “Take them. Did you bring the things I asked you to bring?”

  “Yes.”

  Buck took the two plants. The Elder stood and faced the youth. “Show me.

  Buck reached into the zip pocket of his rucksack and pulled out four small printed cards. Holding them out to the Hila, he said, “At the paint store they had hundreds of these chips in all different shades.”

  “These are the ones you need.” Aman Iri took the four paint chips and placed them in a row on his open palm. He picked up one of the chips and held it out to Buck. “This is yellow?”

  “Sure. Yes.”

  Aman nodded, shook the chip and said, “Here. Take it.”

  Buck took the yellow paint-color sample and frowned as the Hila held up the black chip. “This is black?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take it.” The exercise was repeated for the red chip and the white chip. When Buck had all four chips, Aman explained, “I wanted to make certain we were in agreement.” The Hila thought for a moment and smiled. Turning from Buck, he went down one of the paths, bent over, and returned holding something in his right fist. He stopped in front of Buck and handed him a small green stone with a glassy luster. “Take this, as well.”

  Buck took the small stone and watched as the Hila folded his arms and stared into the depths of the tiny pool. “Buck, today your study is on the city streets. The subjects are words, slavery, freedom, and the beings who live on this planet. You are on a quest for truths. We live by truths and we die trying to live by fictions. Are you ready?”

  “Sure.”

  “You have seen our modest collections of minerals, leaves, insects, and so on, as well as similar collections in museums, at the high school you attended, and at the university?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the primary purpose of such collections?”

  Buck thought for a moment and then said, “They’re teaching instruments.”

  “And the system of instruction?”

  “They provide examples—objective referents—for the terms we use. That’s so you can show someone what quartz is like, rather than just use other words to describe it.”

  “Yes, in part.” The Hila nodded and held a hand out toward the building that housed the vo. “One of our collections here, Buck, is woefully incomplete. What I want you to do is to bring us the specimens to complete one of our most important collections.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  Aman Iri tapped the paint-color samples with a bony finger. “Now that we are in agreement as to terms, I want you to go forth and find me one of each.” He pointed at the black chip. “A black man.” His finger moved to the next chip. “A red man.” His finger moved to the next chip. “A white man.” His finger moved to the remaining chip. “And a yellow man. To induce them to come here, you have my permission to offer up to ten thousand dollars apiece. The Rama Vo will be pleased to pay much more than that to see genuine specimens of white, red, yellow, or black men in its collection.” Buck slumped in disgust. “Is there a problem?” the Hila asked.

  “I don’t intend any disrespect, but isn’t this a little childish?”

  “Childish?”

  “Well, of course I know that whites aren’t really white and blacks aren’t really black.”

  “As you know hot isn’t really hot and light isn’t really light.”

  “It’s not the same thing, Hila.”

  “Go out and search for them, Buck: a white man, a black man, a red man, and a yellow man. I want you to keep looking for them as though your life and freedom depended on finding them, for indeed they do.”

  “I already know I won’t find them.”

  “You have already found them, Buck. That is why you referred to the boy who called you ‘space nigger’ as black. That is why you call men and women by color names that have no relation to their respective colors. You have already found them. Your task is to keep looking for them until they are lost forever.”

  The Elder went to the solid gate set into the garden wall and pulled it open, revealing the pedestrians on the street outside the vo. “Out there, child. Do you see any blacks? Do you see any whites?”

  The youth looked down at the paint chips and back at the people on the street. A black man who was not really black was winding down the awning in front of his small grocery store. A white man who was not really white was talking to him. “Hila, black is just a way of saying Afro-American.”

  “And Afro-American is just a way of saying what, Buck?”

  “It means those Americans whose ancestors came from Africa.”

  A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Aman Iri’s mouth. “With the exception of Libyan Americans and Egyptian Americans?” The Hila shook his head. “According to the science of this planet, Buck, every human you see out there has his or her biological origins in Africa, including those called ‘white,’ ‘yellow,’ and ‘red.’ All human Americans, then, are Afro-Americans. All Afro-Americans are black, hence black is white. Is that what you mean?”

  Buck glowered at the Elder. “I’m not sure what I mean.”

  “Truth is at last stalking you, my child.” Aman nodded toward the street. “Now, do you see any blacks out there? Do you see any whites?”

  “You’ve got to call them something.”

  “Them,” snorted the Hila. “That is the collection you must build. Find me the objective referents for ‘them.’ There is no them, unless you too are part of them, in which case the term means nothing.” He lifted his arm and pointed toward the street. “Buck, do you see a black man out there?”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  “When your hearts agree with your head, you may come back to the vo and explain to me about the flower and the weed.”

  Buck looked at the rapidly wilting plants in his hand. “Explain what?”

  The Elder smiled. “When yo
u have the answer to that question, Buck, you may return.”

  Buck tossed the green mineral specimen into the air and caught it again. “What about this rock?”

  “That’s some waste from a copper smelting process. Pretty, isn’t it? It’s called slag. You don’t have to find a slag, you see. You already have some. However, if you should find someone who resembles that specimen, you be certain to bring him along for your collection.” He placed his hand on Buck’s shoulder.

  “Remember, child, it’s not the words used by others that enslave your mind. Your chains are forged by the words you choose, and the powers you assign them.”

  C H A P T E R 8

  SING FANGAN PUSHED the legs of the body into the motel room’s closet, stood, and placed his hand on the sliding door’s handle as he regarded the corpse. The body in the closet was a Newcomer carrying the immigration joke name of Brick Wahl. When Maanka Dak had heard the name, he’d said, “For that alone he forfeited his right to exist. He had no respect for himself or for what he was.”

  But, Sing thought, the late Mr. Wahl was a sales representative for a worldwide industrial construction firm. Perhaps the name Brick Wahl broke the ice with new customers. Perhaps it amused him. Perhaps the late Mr. Wahl didn’t take himself as seriously as did Maanka Dak. Sing Fangan looked down at the pale Tenctonese blood staining the fingers of his right hand.

  Unconsciously he wiped his hand on his trousers. It really didn’t matter about the name. Wahl hadn’t died because of his failure to change his name to something acceptable to Tenctonese purists. By the time Maanka had heard the fellow’s name, Brick Wahl was already a corpse. The only reason he was a corpse was because he was one of the few patrons at the Holiday Inn with a modern-equipped, laptop mega-computer compatible with Maanka’s system.

  Sing shook his head at the lack of choices marking the turns of his possible futures. Years ago their former brother of the Ahvin Yin, the Newcomer police officer Francisco, had arrested them and had killed Sita Dak, Maanka’s brother. Francisco deserved to die. Perhaps those who loved the traitor condemned themselves by their own feelings. That was the oath of the vikah ta. They deserved to die, as well. The human officer, Duncan, also had to suffer the vikah ta. Warden Rand was part of the authority the Ahvin Yin had sworn themselves to destroy. He deserved to die. The late Mr. Wahl, however, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with the right piece of equipment.