I, Alien

same.

They come in a wide assortment of sizes, colors, scents, and textures, even though they all approximate the same basic shape. They’re a massive jumble of contradictory data. I mean, the vast majority of otherwise intelligent beings—(Sidebar: yes, I said “intelligent”; they found us didn’t they?)—waste huge chunks of time sleeping, grooming themselves, playing games, copulating, and eating.

Since my rep is that I love to conduct empirical studies on new spacefaring species rather than playing around with theories—(Sidebar: going native, my peerless colleagues—[yes you; you’re still reading this, aren’t you, with some kind of perverse fascination?] may call it)—it wasn’t too difficult to get myself assigned here to check out the latest arrivals into our part of space. So as usual I learned the language and the slang, reshaped my body, donned appropriate female guise and clothing—(Sidebar: the males are easier to manipulate; dare I say it’s the same with us?)— adopted incomprehensible habits, and headed out to experience reality such as they know it. (Sidebar: How else do you really learn a species without getting inside its mind?—and no, don’t tell me it’s easier to use the scanner. This species has no idea why they do what they do, they’re just a bundle of biological wiring. How could a scanner uncover anything of actual value? Besides, laboratory experiments are boring when compared to going into the field.)

So, here I am. In the field. On the inside. Learning by doing. I scouted ships, found a likely one bound for a rimworld called Paradise, bought myself a license, and set up an office.

Pheromones are pheromones, regardless of the species; and yes, even in this guise I receive as well as exude. So I confess—(Sidebar: and won’t that amuse all of you, now?)—to being a sucker for the studly young types who enter my place of business with a lazy grace and try to charm me. Some of them mean it. A few of them don’t.

I’ve gotten very good at sniffing out the skeptics, as they’re called. Some are innocent enough, trying to figure me out so they can say they have; others truly don’t believe a word I say.

And then there are the self-satisfied ones who find immense amusement in poking holes in my job, which also means in my cover. (Sidebar: and yes, they are intelligent enough to figure out I’m dissembling. They may think differently from us, but it doesn’t make them stupid.)

Anyway, it had been a slow day on the job—and in the study—until he sauntered in, all sleek and smug and elegant. Not a hair out of place, not a foot put wrong, with the faintly superior air of one among the blessed, sanctified by whatever power had endowed his kind with enough intelligence to find their way to deep space.

Silver hair flecked with black and brown. Clear hazel eyes. A tilt to his head and a negligent stride as he eased inside my office.

 He halted, letting the door slide closed behind him. He struck a pose, eyed me a moment, then yawned.

Ah. That kind of skeptic.

I arched a brow at him, waiting. When he didn’t offer anything beyond a stare replete with self-indulgence, I smiled and began the game. And the game within the game.

Incense, lighted. A candle brought to flame. Silks and velvets and carpets; an endless supply of cushions. They expect certain trappings in this line of work, and if I want to really get into their heads I have to live up to those expectations.

Lastly, the cards. I took them from the casket, from the scarf, and set them down on the table with its green cloth. I looked at him again, studied him, the attitude, the arrogance—and turned up the Knight of Cups.

“So,” I said, “it begins.”

Now he moved. With an elegant stride of no wasted effort, he arranged himself in the chair across from me. The stare was fixed and unwavering.

His nails were long. With a skilled flexing of tendons he flicked the pile of cards set on the table before him. They toppled, slid, spilled in a river of painted pasteboard across the green surface.

Commentary. Or challenge. Oh, yes, they love their games.

“You must think of a question,” I said.

He blinked, unimpressed—and clearly disinclined to answer.

Inwardly I sighed. Handsome, young, elegant, in-eluctably self-confident. So typical of his kind.

My turn to move quickly, with no wasted effort. The next card, turned up to cover the King of Cups. I opened my mouth to speak—and the card blanked.

I managed not to gasp. Wondered if he’d think it was some stunt J was pulling. Or had someone snuck into my office last night and replaced my cards with another set? That would suggest someone—maybe even he—had learned my true purpose. (Sidebar: Nobody likes to discover they’re the subject of a study, after all)

I shot him a quick searching glance from lowered lids, raising my pheromone levels to distract him. (Sidebar: trust me, it’s worked before, even with a few of you.) He merely stared back at me, undistracted. Patience personified.

With economical haste, I worked my way through the balance of the deck: covering, crossing, crowning.

And all of them went blank.

My mouth dried. I summoned the slang. “Okay,” I said, “give. What’s the scoop?”

One slow, casual blink. Then he leaned forward, hooked a nail beneath the edge of the card that had once been the King of Cups, and flicked it from under the other.

He yawned. Displayed teeth in a feral grin. Fixed me again with a stare. “You should know better,” he said. “I and my kind make our own fortunes.”

And with a disdainfully high hook in his tail, the cat jumped down from the chair and sauntered out of my office.

NATURAL SELECTION by Laura Frankos

I MADE MY WAY into what the Terrans had dubbed the Drones Club, the refectory of the Selection Center to which I had been assigned. Some of you are no doubt aware that “Drones” is one of the numerous—and often rude—appellations the Terrans have given us Hripirt. Unlike many of my colleagues, I see no point in taking offense at these jibes. They aren’t a bad race, not compared to some. My assignment, screening potential Terrans to find those best suited to journey to Hripirt, is largely a pleasant one. The Terrans tried submitting lists of candidates chosen by their governments, but our leaders quickly rejected those. As if we’d let just anybody visit our home, without meeting proper criteria and being able to contribute to our society!

That was one reason I enjoyed relaxing in the refectory after a long day evaluating humans. It was exclusive even by our standards, and offered a fine array of both Hripirt and Terran food. I hadn’t gotten much past the entryway when someone noticed what I was wearing. “By the spoon of my great-aunt, Mullnor, what is that you’ve got on your foretabs?”

Such a screeching voice could only belong to one Hripirt: Bingokk. He was at his customary table, feasting on the usual greasy lavender mound of frobrill eggs. I don’t know why he goes to the added expense of ordering them. Terran chicken eggs aren’t that different in texture, and the fried salty pig-meat that often accompanies them is quite tasty.

His noisy remark caused everyone in the refectory to stare at me. Afttabs buzzed far above the level of ordinary conversation; one could understand why the rare human visitors had deemed this a Drones Club.

I addressed the room at large. “They are an example of a Terran handicraft called knitting, purchased from a human in my survey region. I find them quite fetching.” I removed one with a finger-tentacle, waved it about, then slid it back on. The articles are small, and shaped rather like right angles, so they fit nicely on my foretabs. As foretabs are relatively useless appendages, the covers do not interfere with communication, as they would if placed on afttabs. My demonstration concluded, I joined Bingokk and his shipmate, Delip, at their table.

“That is most intriguing,” Delip said. “When I first saw you, I was reminded of those long-gone days when rebellious youths tattooed their foretabs or had glimmer-nodes surgically attached to them, all for the sake of