And I Learn

by Pete Neilsen

I’m a youngling, at play in the violet tidepools of Gelena, under the muted light of a triple moon dusk, when I snap out of my stasis.

‍ ‍He’s there.

I’m here.

“Earth.”

‍ ‍Be wary.

The pod opens and the cold embraces me under the filtered rays of a sickly yellow sun. Oxygen threatens to choke me. I adjust my scales instantly to filter both down to a tolerable level. They ripple like water under the strange blue light. The air tastes like copper and iron and rot. I step out onto the grey, artificial ground, branded with rows of angled, parallel lines. Many are occupied by colourful metal crafts. Vehicles. Primitive powered transportation. Ugly!

‍ ‍Unimportant. Find it!

My scanner zeroes in on a large structure across the grey. Straight sides of earth and metal with hundreds of square dark eyes looking out. One reflects my confident image moving towards the building on a gelatinous cushion to prevent direct contact with whatever the stains are on the grey. I’m glad the gravity’s similar to home so there’s no embarrassing stumbles.

The building is adorned, no, drenched in symbols and maddening colour. I drink them in, send them to a billion minds to analyse. Southfields Mall. KMart. Woolworths. Supacheap. Chemist Warehouse. Liquorland. Baker’s Delight. National Bank. Loading zone. Disabled parking only. Open every day of the year.

The entrance is shut.

But Suzy’s Nail and Beauty has a chunk of wall missing, and I slip inside.

‍ ‍Relax and let Suzy and the team do their magic. Gels. Acrylics. Nail art. Pedicures. Spa service. Massage. Wedding parties. Bookings essential. Seniors discount.

An inner door leads into a long, open area, bordered on all sides by more mini structures, more signs, more symbols. Back on Gelena, a billion minds read through my eyes, untangling patterns and syntax. Piecing together the local language in its written form. They absorb every notice, every pictograph. Reading and translating symbols I barely register.

‍ ‍A broken, cobbled together language. English, they call it.

I learn what ‘shopping mall’ means.

***

‍ ‍Target, reads the sign above a store entrance.

‍ ‍Target. Objective.

I slither inside. And see them.

‍ ‍Them? But there is only one them?

But three of them stand together, motionless. They don’t flinch when I approach, staring with their strange high set (single) pair of colourless eyes, across racks of garments…clothes. $19.95 $39.95 $59.95 Buy two get one free.

‍ ‍Fees. Lies. Tricks.

The creatures are lies as well, their pale flesh a fabrication. I tap on one and am answered by a hollow knock. No wonder they didn’t prostrate themselves in respect. These are…I wait for the hive of minds to find the word.

‍ ‍Dummies. Mannequins.

I study the anatomy anyway. Long limbed, jointed in simple hinges. Orb headed.

‍ ‍Monsters.

I run my feelers over the fabrics on the racks. Some are natural fibres, some not, some mixed. They feel…pleasant to the touch and I am repulsed by acknowledging it.

‍ ‍Sporting goods. Shoes. Adidas. Puma. Asics. Nike…

This hairless creature is not real either. But the illustration is aggressive, dynamic. He seems to fly while those around him are grounded. A gathering of…humans behind him react with excitement. He wears simple garb, short and sleeveless. More symbols, even on him. Bulls. 23.

I change my cell structure until I look just like the flying human, for surely he is some form of leader or exalted one. My scales easily form the red uniform over my new shape. I view myself in the reflecting panel…mirror…against the wall. I’m twice my normal height and weight. How do these things keep their balance?

‍ ‍Mountain bikes.

There’s a hole in the…ceiling…roof…ceiling and roof above me, clearly not by design. In the dust speckled beam of sunlight, a row of simple machines stand side by side. They are dual disced…wheeled. Some form of crude self-propelled transport…bicycles. Like the mirror, their surface reflects its surroundings, except in spots of roughened, red decay.

‍ ‍Metal destabilizing. Decomposing. Rust.

There’s a flicker of movement and colour and for the shortest of measurable time, I have rare and profound quiet. A billion breaths taken and momentarily held.

And I learn what ‘Earthling’ means.

***

It glares at me from the other end of more metal. Twin tubes and a…lever…trigger…gun. The human has a corona of dark hair and even darker eyes.

“I’ve never shot anyone before. But I’ve also never seen Michael Jordan with more than two arms and two eyes. Though I guess that would explain a few things.”

I retract my extra eyes and arms as the gun remains pointed at my jersey.

“And that is not helping my current mental state a real lot.”

My cells scramble to form sound makers…vocal chords. The words are…sticky…on my tongue.

“I have come to...communicate with you.”

“I think you’ve fucking communicated enough, don’t you? You did this, didn’t you? Killed everyone?”

I try to hide the…satisfaction…in my new found voice.

“Yes.”

The trigger clicks. I am not harmed in any way. I wonder if it would have…hurt…if it was…loaded.

‍ ‍Green and gold plaid long-sleeved shirt. $34.95 or 2 for $60. Wrangler hipster jeans $75.95. Steel Blue heeler pull-on work boot. $278.95.      

“How can you speak my language? Look like us?”

“My…species…shares knowledge. Learns as one. Adapts. Transforms if necessary. Somewhat like yours.”

The creature tilts its head sharply to one side. There’s an audible cracking sound from its neck, and I briefly wonder whether it is attempting to end itself.

“To be honest, my species is only good at fucking and fighting.”

‍ ‍Procreation and causing harm. Fucking is a spoken profanity.

“Was,” I say, to much approval back home.

It drops the gun on the floor and turns away, apparently unaware of the numerous vulnerable areas it exposes.

“I need a drink.”

I follow. Does it not respect the 23? Does it not fear me?

‍ ‍Renatos. 17. Menu.

It sits at a square podium…table. In a supporting mechanism…chair. It beckons me to use the other chair.

‍ ‍A ceremony of consumption in public. Dinner. Drinks. Tea. Brewed from plant matter, beans…leaves. A tea party. Tea for two. Customary. Cordial. It will relax if you use the chair as it does.

The creature pours two measures of liquid from a transparent container.

“Is this tea?” I ask.

It looks at me with a new expression. Lips upturned, teeth slightly exposed. A small wrinkling of flesh on the outer sides of the eyes.

“Sure,” it says, as I fold myself carefully onto the chair.

And I learn what ‘smile’ means.

***

It sips from the…glass, topping it up as the level drops. I do not do the same, as my voices have some indecision.

‍ ‍It is custom to drink. It is more likely to cooperate. No! It is certainly a poison or sedative.

The Earthling wobbles its glass in front of me. The clear line of fluid angles back and forth. It has an odour similar to pod fuel. Perhaps it is poison. But the human drinks it…willingly. Perhaps it chooses a slower death than breaking its own neck?

“You should have some.”

‍ ‍See! It is non-threatening! Welcoming!…No! It tries to coerce you.

Its smile falls away, becomes another thing. It doesn’t seem like coercion. The collective are quiet about it. Their hushed murmurs enough to make me feel…uncomfortable.

“I’m Leslie,” the Earthling says. “And you are?”

‍ ‍A title of self. A label of address: Target. National Bank. Southfields Mall. Leslie.

“We…are Gelena.”

“We?” The Leslie taps its skull. “You’re all in there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Wow. Must get pretty noisy.”

We have no response to this observation, so none is given.

“How many of you are there?”

“Approximately one billion by your numerical system.”

“So how come it’s you that got to come here?”

“A random selection. Pure chance.”

“So, like a lottery? How did they announce the winner if you’re all ‘Gelena’?”

The Leslie seems to be asking all the questions. It looks me up and down and tips down more tea.

“I’m gunna call you MJ,” it declares.

The Leslie scans the mall slowly, as though another like it might come along. Perhaps a delusion caused by shock and isolation. Perhaps…

“I’m the last one, aren’t I? The only one?”

I give it a few moments to…hope before answering.

“Yes.”

“How? Why? What did you do and why didn’t it happen to me?”

“That is one of the main questions we wish to be answered. The liquefier should have reduced all vertebrates to, well…liquid. What you call water.”

The Leslie nods her weird orbed head slowly. Remembering? How terrifying it must have been.

“Hey, you said all vertebrates! So penguins? Dogs? Even KOALAS?”

I haven’t quite mastered smiling yet, but I attempt one anyway.

“Haven’t you…gone outside of this place? It has been…five months by your time measurement system.”

The Leslie has another undecipherable expression. Its eyes face me but appear to look beyond me somehow. The hinges at the top of her arms…shoulders…slump forward. My voices murmur but tell me nothing useful. The human gulps another drink and hands me the dry glass.

And I learn what ‘empty’ means.

***

The bottle is smooth to touch, molded and rounded and as my head tells me, once a liquid itself…glass. I pour more tea for the human.

“Thanks,” says the Leslie.

‍ ‍Genuine gratitude…No, it is mocking you.

“Can you tell me what happened on…that day six months ago?”

“Only if you have a drink with me, MJ.”

“I’d rather n…” Do it! It’s about to tell us! Secrete it from your anterior vent later!

“Very well.”

I pour a half glass for myself. Take a drink. It burns my throats as it descends, while the vapor rises, stinging my eyes and forcing another set to open as a defence mechanism. My anterior vent dilates and refuses to properly open. I retain most of the liquid, dispersed from one protesting cell to another like fire. My red uniform reads, Balls.2E

“What plant matter is your tea made from?” I gurgle.

“Potatoes.”

‍ ‍That’s a real smile.

“I was in there,” it points.

‍ ‍Suzy’s Nail and Beauty.

“I’ve known Sue for years. She sometimes uses me as a guinea pig for her new ideas. She had me in a full mud pack, a cast from head to toe. Something about silica and silver and hemp bandaging and ultimate pore cleansing…anyway she talks really fast but I needed the fifty bucks.”

Leslie watches me tense as countless voices excitedly discuss the science and the genius behind it. The tea…vodka…is not helping.

“What are your billion MJ’s telling you?”

“That it’s a perfect defensive armour. That they’d like…love to speak to Suzy.”

“Then it’s a real fucking shame I mopped her down the drain then, isn’t it?”

‍ ‍Be cautious. Anger.

I gesture to the damage of the ceiling and walls at Lucy’s Nail and Beauty.

“Did you destroy the premises with your powerful armor?”

Leslie’s eyeballs rotate upwards. It takes a breath I feel I’m meant to notice.

“Not everything on this planet happens at ground level. Planes started falling out of the sky. Within a couple of months, satellites and space junk as well. I’m not sure what came through the roof where the bikes are but thank Christ it didn’t take out Liquorland.”

Gelena is trying to decipher satellites, thank Christ and Liquorland (and still coming to terms with alcohol) as Leslie continues.

“The mud had hardened; I was up on the bed. Noise was muffled through the cast, but I could pick out Suzy’s voice, the other girls, the chime when the door opened. And then I couldn’t. There was still faint music from the mall, but that was all. It felt instantly, irreparably wrong. I leaned on the bed control until it tipped me off onto the tiles, smashing the cast. The floor was wet, and now I know why.”

“Our weapon was extremely impressive, yes?”

“Well, it did get rid of all those pesky babies that posed such a threat to you.”

“Yes! It…babies, infants…younglings…oh.”

Leslie nudges the glass closer to me.

“They actually told us about it. They were finally honest with the people and told us. We don’t share thoughts like you guys, and we usually find out about things well after they happen. This time they spoke up, perhaps because it didn’t matter anymore.”

The vodka sits warm in my digestive tract, but my scales close to keep back an unseen chill.

“They?”

“It was on TV, though most of the world wrote it off as AI. It had gotten so hard to tell; there’d been so much bullshit around. The US, Russian, Indian and Chinese leaders together, didn’t seem real, you know. They said something was coming from deep in space, targeting us. They told us not to worry, that they’d prepared for an eventuality like this. They said the threat would never get near us. We launched these missile things two days before it happened. They called it Project Falling Star.”

I feel another burn of vodka and find myself with the glass at my lips.

‍ ‍Falling Star.

“Well…they…failed. And lied to you.”

“Guess we were only good at war with each other.”

I learn what ‘counterstrike’ means.

***

I push myself up from the chair. A small wobble as I stand, that may not be from vodka.

“I need to check something in my space pod.” Although Gelena has never lied, this must be what it feels like to tell one.

Leslie shrugs. She’s busy setting fire to a paper wrapped tube of dried foliage. Thanks, Leslie. My head buzzes in discussion as I attempt to casually walk to Lucy’s Nail and Beauty. I detect a small sound from behind me. Amusement. A chuckle? Giggle? Snicker? Perhaps the original MJ does not move like this.

Once outside, I reset my cells to their natural arrangement. The red clothes dissolve into silver-blue scales. My awkward gait becomes an eight-legged gallop to the pod. We’d been excited by the glowing indicator that showed how close we were to the last Earthling. A billion brilliant brains and not one urged me to follow procedure and check the flight log.

My fingers split into tendrils, racing over the scanner readouts. All eight eyes are open. Recounting my journey.

Those bumps.

‍ ‍There.

Out past the edge of their system, while I’m cocooned in stasis. Five specks on the screen going the opposite way. Our weapon had long ago liquefied their population.

Their missiles are not for interception.

I don’t need to enter Gelena’s coordinates to check; it’s already been done many times over.

‍ ‍Their weapons will not strike us!

‍ ‍They will miss.

I return to the Southfields Mall. To Renatos.

To Leslie.

Uncertain, Uneasy. I transform into something between MJ and my real self. Leslie has its feet up on the table.

“That’s better,” it says. “Wow, those scales are beautiful.”

My glass is full and waiting.

“Thanks,” I hear us say.

But Gelena is not contemplating whether I return the compliment or take the drink.

“MJ? You haven’t told me why.”

They’re watching the sky.

Watching five streaks in the night skim by our planet, just beyond our protective shield. Our gravity is the last step in guiding the bombs to their final target.

From behind Gelena, our mighty blue sun emerges to begin a new day, with five dark spots that look like rust on its bright new face.

“MJ?”

The spots grow smaller. Become a single speck.

It’s so loud, so bright. So quick.

My head goes impossibly quiet. It doesn’t empty; it’s taken from; instant scraws and scratches and snatches and last gasps. Torn away. I am reduced to one billionth of myself, devoid of everything but simply me in this moment. When I need them most, they’re gone. The silence crushes me.

I’m uncertain how much time passes in the cold, cold black beyond the bright. But a soft voice brings me back.

I can feel my mother’s tendrils stroking my face. Hear the lap of the tide on the violet shores of Gelena, under the muted light of the triple moon dusk. I don’t quite understand her words, and though they are the most important I have ever heard, it doesn’t matter that I don’t.

I’m on the floor beside the chair. Under Table 17 at Renatos Restaurant, Southfields Mall, Earth. Leslie is with me, cradling my head with her arm. She smells of smoke and potato tea. I await a chuckle, a giggle, a snicker, to echo in my quiet head; but there is none. There is only another lesson.

I learn what ‘empathy’ means.