Confused Aliens - Part One
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I am delivering a speech on the bridge concerning happiness, duty and morale. I have noticed that some of the men have been showing a certain apathy as of late, and it is my belief that the mission to Belvetron IV demands the best that they can muster, not simply for their morale, but for the future of the universe. Think of it! Before us, the small yellow planet looms like a nugget; we are in position; the orbits are beneficial. The scanners have reported high population density and a technologically advanced race of intelligent, sensitive beings. We are prepared to open a dialogue, to greet this fabulous civilization, and welcome it into the greater intergalactic community: we share in common our existence. As I turn for a final flourish, a nice little humorous conclusion to my speech, my tail sweeps across the weapons console, and the computer whistles to inform us that we are in Full Attack Mode.
Lieutenant Gleegluk reaches forward to disarm the big gun. He accidentally presses SALVO.
"Oh," he says. "Sorry everybody."
We all watch the viewscreen as the cannons fire and the little yellow planet explodes into a million pieces.
"Oops," says Lieutenant Gleegluk. "There goes Belvetron IV."
My personal morale plummets. We are bad at what we do, and honestly, we don't know how to run the ship. We try, but usually we make mistakes like this. It's not because we're immoral or lazy; it's just because we get confused: there are so many buttons. You would never be able to guess what they all control (even though we try), and of course there is no instruction manual. We have many different body types, and I do not think this ship was designed with any of them in mind
"How do we chart the course again?" asks Private Navigator Smellvamp after everybody's calmed down and digested the deaths of seventeen billion conscious beings. Ha! He is gazing back in my direction like I know.
I have ordered a full retreat. "Press the green thing," I say. "Then pull that one there." I tell him this with total confidence.
He performs the two actions in reverse order and the computer announces that all of the emergency life capsules have been jettisoned. The viewscreen shows us several close-up shots of the small gray pills drifting off into empty space, their boosters glowing orange against the vast blackness and the starlight. I leave the bridge. The mess hall is nearly empty, and as I inhale my paste I blame myself. This is a problem that I have -- I take too much responsibility for my own actions.
"Admiral Stairs," says Third Engineer Fondugrappler, waddling up to my table, blowtorch in talon. "There you are. I have a few questions about the Overdriver System."
"Now's not a good time, Third Engineer Fondugrappler." I point to my stomachs, then to my anus. I am gassy.
Third Engineer Fondugrappler sighs and waddles away. I watch him move past a few tables, press a button on a wall, and enter a closet. I finish my meal as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. What he doesn't know is that he has locked himself inside. Eventually he will fall asleep, revert to his liquid form, and leak out from under the door. I will get one of the janitor robots to mop him up and return him to the tank in his quarters. Sure. I'll remember to do it. But this is the least of my worries; as I am on my way back to the bridge I realize that my pants are on upside down.
"What are we going to tell the diplomat?" asks Major Droppy, leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom as I change into my best kimono. Major Droppy is a surly realist and a military guru. It's impossible to slip anything past him. Below his feathers he has rippling muscles.
"He's been using the lavatory all this time," he continues, stroking the hanging, fleshy crista below his chin. He raises his brow. "Should we tell him that we blew up his planet?"
Just as I am about to answer authoritatively there is some kind of malfunction and the door tries to slide closed with Major Droppy's head in the way. He cries out and gets his beak in position to keep the panel from crushing his brain, but smoke is coming out of the control box, and I can hear gears grinding and mashing somewhere inside the wall.
"Yes, hold on a second Droppy," I say. "I'm going to get the maintenance man."
By the time we get the whole thing sorted out Major Droppy has shed most of his heavy winter feathers and gone unconscious. We evacuate him to the infirmary and Dr. Sassafrass tells me that everything will be okay, as long as a few circumstances come to pass.
"Circumstances!" I yell, because I am spanking mad now. "What circumstances?" I pause and catch my breath. (Outbursts = terrible morale.) "Droppy is one of my best men," I say quietly.
"There are six circumstances," she says. "First, is his wife responsible?"
"You know as well as I do, Sassafrass, that Droppy's wife was killed by a ceiling fan during our most recent adventure." We were on a delicate mission to revitalize the economy of the struggling yet noble Wet Xaxon civilization.
I sense that she is in some way making a sarcastic, sly suggestion about my own sexuality by her question.
"Well then," she says. "I've already forgotten the other four."
We lock eyes. It is a tense moment. All I need is a power struggle with my best bladder surgeon.
"I should hope, Dr. Sassafrass, that your opacity in this matter has naught to do with whatever personal relationship...you and I may have."
"There you go with your words again," she says. She grins. "I love them. You're so good with them."
She is right, I have a certain alacrity with fantastic vocabulary, but nevertheless I scowl. "Are you treating him as best you can? Are you?"
"Of course, Exit," she says softly. The coquette! Using my first name is a gross violation of conduct. At this time I will let it slip, but I have jotted down a mental check mark with a mental pencil, and I will not forget this moment. "I am a professional," she says.
"I need Droppy at his best, as soon as possible."
"And you'll have him. The question is," she says, stepping closer, "will you have me?"
