I, Alien

If you cannot publish the story yourself, at least you could submit it to Analog the Magazine of Science Fiction and Fact! Once it is accepted, I can return to Asimov V and continue my studies!

I am disappointed in you, Mike. I thought we were allies.

Disappointingly,

Torthan V.

1625.5 ABR, Ender I

Dear Mike,

I have decided to terminate interaction for the meantime while I prepare for my judgment <trans: trial>.

I am still hoping you will publish my story in any anthology, or will at least present a datamail I may take to the board which will admit your complete responsibility for this situation. The lack of adequate training I received from you is obviously largely to blame in this humiliation. Although such remedies are rarely considered, my castigants <trans: lawyers, judges, fellow prisoners> believe it might be of some help.

Please provide me with a clear, concise description of why you cannot present my chronicle, also explain how you could have prepared me better, and save me!

Mike, I come to you on curled <trans: bended> knee with this request.

Your old friend,

Sincerely,

Tor

1625.96 ABR, Penitence II

Dear Mike,

Well, thanks for nothing as you would say, though

why anyone would thank another sentient for the absence of anything is nontranslatable to me.

I have not been harvested, obviously, since the reviewers determined that I had been led astray by your false promises. It did not hurt that, being totally unfamiliar with your own history, and unwilling to believe a truthful account of that history, you were judged mentally unfit.

Do not ever think of visiting me, as you will be culled the moment you set chroma on any civilized planet. It is in the records now!

Instead, I am sent to Penitence II, which is one pace <trans: step> up from Penitence I. It is hoped that after many years of study, I may redeem myself enough to return to my Natural History classes, although gratitudes to you, propogation will be out of the question.

Further use of the MicroMac is, of course, not part of the inquiry <trans: out of the question> any longer. Unfortunately, this means I will not get to read your later work, which I hope is not devastating to your pride.

Of course, I assume that anyone who treats a fellow sapient in the manner you have treated me will embezzle my ideas for his own use, but there is nothing I can do about it from here.

Please do not attempt to contact me as we have nothing to speak about.

Torthan Volbiss

1628.93 ABR, Penitence IV

Dear Mike,

I am permitted to hurl this final datamail in order to complete my penitence.

As a portion of my reeducation, I am ordered to forge amendments <trans: make amends> with those I have behaved uncharitably toward. Unfortunately, since the lectern here has access to all of my datamail records, this includes you. I am therefore remorsing <trans: apologizing> with willing chambers <trans: heart> to the best of my ability.

I apologize for my remarks about your reptilian ancestry. It was uncalled for, and prejudicial toward the inhabitants of Campbell II.

I am also apologetic for any reference I may have made to the apneate habits of your wive(s). I did not realize that in your backward culture, discussing another being’s bedroom habits might give offense.

I am sorry for stating that you could never star in a holivision commercial. It may be that someday they will be looking for a being of your genotype, whose RNA is not culturally recommended but who is capable of destroying entire lives with his shoddy, unwarranted criticisms. If that is the case, it will certainly star you.

Finally, I am apologetic for thumbing my nasal passages at you. I should have merely expelled my nose in your direction and hoped for the best.

As a last comment, in response to the datamail you kindly provided the court, which stated that I was “about as aware of human emotions as a bullfrog,” and accusing me of “a complete inability to understand human nature, human behavior, or human passion”— Mike, what in galaxies made you think I was human?

Sincerely,

Torthan Volbiss

RESIDENT ALIEN by Barbara Delaplace

I DREAMED OF HOME again last night. I was swimming with my family. It was so vivid I could almost taste the tang of the ocean, feel the blood-warm water against my skin, hear the surging of the waves against the rocky beach of the cove, where my clan has lived for generation upon generation. We swim against the lithe currents, hthe as the water ourselves.

It was a happy occasion, the celebration of the birth of new life. After we swam, we feasted, and then as it grew dark, we kindled the flames and danced for joy. I remember hearing the voices of the clan seniors, the laughter of my siblings, as we teased the new parents. They had done well—twins! Multiple births are extremely rare, and the Mother Supreme was very pleased with them. As were we all—they have brought honor to the clan.

My disappointment was bitter when I awoke and realized where I truly was. I envy the natives here their ability to release unhappiness in what they call “crying.”

Perhaps my scholarship advisers were correct about me. They felt I was too full of myself, particularly when I tried to turn down this assignment. It was unheard of, they told me sternly, for a candidate at my scholarship level to turn down two possible planet assignments, let alone three. My Supervisor was blunt: “May I remind you, Student Candidate, that you’ve already turned down the first two species offered to you for study? I would certainly have serious reservations about continuing as your Supervisor if you were to turn this down for reasons as frivolous as your previous excuses.”

Frivolous! I had gritted my teeth, raging inwardly at that. Spending the next tenth of my life in a protective atmospheric suit to study a possibly emergent intelligent life-form at the bottom of an ammonia sea had not struck me as worthwhile, no matter how many hardships those in my chosen profession have endured over the slow eons of accumulation of knowledge. I had exercised my option and turned down the first assignment.

The second offering was even worse. Granted, the species lived in an oxygen atmosphere, though the overall planetary climate was uncomfortably warm to my people. But the Tsaavii had been studied to death already. While I could undoubtedly contribute to the already large scholarly literature written about the race, it wouldn’t be the ground-breaking work I knew I was capable of, that was expected of me. I wanted— indeed, needed—to make a splash, capture scholarly awards for advancing the understanding of the development of technological society. Justify my parents’ faith in me, my clan’s financial investment in my education, the expectations of my sibs and cohort.

Refusing a third planet without an excellent reason— by which they meant a sun-about-to-go-nova type of