Illegal Alien

Bob slid the blue plastic stepstool next to the shelf, mounted it, and then spent a few moments rummaging through various papers, gadgets and other bric-a-brac until he found the universal remote.

"Stupid house," he muttered as he climbed down. He keyed the apartment AI — the SENTRY 7 — and waited for it to first check remote protocols and then beep to acknowledge his request.

"Computer," said Bob, "I'd like to dictate a letter."

"Proceed," said the gender-neutral voice.

Bob sighed and paced slowly from the sofa to the kitchen and back, absently holding the remote behind his back.

At length he began like this:
"I address these words — my story — to whatever human being finds it. There may be no humans left by then, considering the state of this world in my day, but I hold out hope - I gamble on my faith by placing this recorded message in a sealed time capsule, which shall emerge from the earth one hundred years from now. May its words ring true."

Bob stared at the ceiling, lips pursed. Then he said, "My grandfather was president when the aliens arrived. They came in their seed ship, almost fifty thousand of them, across an astounding vastness, to beg for aid and a place to live.

"At that time we had hardly left the planet: a couple of missions to the moon, some unmanned vehicles sent out to explore our lifeless solar neighbors, but nothing so grandiose as crossing the depths of space. Grandfather was too frightened to do anything but welcome them. He and his peers gave them land and taught them how to coax it to crop."

"The aliens were vagabonds - homeless creatures thousands of light-years from their original star. We took pity when perhaps we should have taken pains."

Bob played the recording back. He was no writer and certainly no orator, but he thought it sounded good for all its faults — a nice beginning to a bad end.

"Even grandfather knew they wouldn't stay in their place — they birthed too quickly, much faster than our people. Of course that wasn't their fault. It was their nature. Do we blame the deer for her fawn? Do we worry the fox for her kit? No. And yet… and yet we cull them don't we? We suppress their numbers for fear of famine. But neither my grandfather's nor father's generation would dare shepherd an intelligent species. They weren't cattle — not property."

"Grandfather knew the aliens would one day join our society, live in our cities, take part in our schools. Like a fuse once lit that cannot be snuffed, it was destiny."

"Computer, I want a brandy," said Bob. "But only a small glass, mind you."

A glass of golden brown liquid appeared in the dispenser on the counter. Bob stood on a chair to reach it.

"They were so big," he said, after taking a few sips. "Computer, are you recording this? I'm still making the letter."

"Yes, I am recording."

"So big." He finished the drink and placed the glass and remote on the sofa. "I've seen videos of the first encounter: they trudged down that gangway from their enormous ship like giant beasts, with their strange clothes and swarthy faces. Hardy, that's what they were. Bearded and… well, good God, they were hairy — all over hairy. And yet they were kind in their way."

"Within two decades they were driving taxis and running restaurants and taking citizenship. Could we deny them? That would have been the worst form of bigotry!"

"Our children adored them — worshiped their prowess on the field of sport where we could not compete. They made raps about them. After all these hundreds of years you can still hear 'Coming on Large' on the radio. It was their anthem during those first two decades of assimilation."

Bob stood by the window. The teeming city below smoked and fumed with industry and grime.

"At first it was just their graffiti — just a few of their foreign words creeping into our language, our mannerisms, our culture. But it wasn't long before we didn't recognize our own world. Doorways were larger, hell, buildings were giant, our language became pidgin, we elected one mayor in the capitol."

"They out birthed us seven to one. In just a few generations we were speaking more their tongue than our own. For Pete's sake my own name is a testament to their influence! Robert Thelsis Morghaz. My grandfather wouldn't have had such a name!"

Bob started to slam his palm against the glass, thought better, and pressed it over his face instead.

It took a moment, but once he was certain his voice wouldn't quaver, he said, "They took everything from us without raising one weapon, without making one threat."

The door chime rang.

"Cassandra Blair at the door," said the computer.

Bob stood before the large portal and it slipped quietly open.

"Just checking on you, dear," said the red-headed warden.

"I'm well," said Bob, his face stony, though he could tell his antennae were drooping — a sure sign of his foul mood.

Cassandra sighed. "Bob, you are not under arrest, you know that. We gave you this apartment for your protection. You're one of the last of your species. Humankind isn't about to let our greatest benefactors die out. We are doing everything we can to save your people."

"Right."

"Well, if you need anything, you just tell the computer and I'll come running."

"Fine."

The door slid shut.

"Computer, I will close the letter this way: I seal this message with a stiff warning to any human who might find it in the future. Beware any guests that wish to share this, your adopted home. They may not be so kind as you humans were to my people.

Find more by David Alan Jones in the Author Index.

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