myself, in solitude with my senses. My life—my lives—and their particular details, their shape and contour, their fits and starts, and this final faltering, were of little importance. All that mattered was that I was alive. I was here. I saw, I experienced. From this I derived an immense satisfaction, wordless and incommunicable.
But what of the life I had supplanted, usurped? That individual—Charles “Charlie Fish” Bonanno—was gone, and his demise posed an ethical problem, for all that he had possessed the morals of a slug. What rankled most was that it had all been in vain. “Juliano” could have been a transplant himself, an agent, an assassin sent by the galactic criminal organization I had betrayed eons ago, in another star system at the other end of the starry swarm of the Milky Way. Their tentacles were infinitely long. They were still reaching for me.
There was no remedy for it. I had no way of communicating to my protectors. There was no instrumentality on this planet capable of sending a distress signal. I was trapped here. The trouble with the Witness Protection Program was that it was a one-shot affair, so to speak. You got one chance to escape and hide. It was useless. If they could find me once, in time another assassin would come. Of that I could be quite assured.
I took a deep breath, then walked back to the car. I wedged my stocky frame into the front seat, and took out my primitive firearm. I slid out the clip, looked at it, then shoved it back into the handle.
Releasing the safety on the automatic, I glanced at the still form on the floor beside me. Was he or was he not an agent sent by the Organization? I didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. It was only a matter of time before such a one appeared. My only recourse was clear.
Holding the gun upside down, I placed the barrel between my lips and fired a bullet up through the roof of my mouth and into my tiny human brain.
ALIEN GROUND
by Anthony R. Lewis
IT’S STRANGE TO BE on a starship instead of on Mrrthow. It’s even stranger when you realize that no one on Mrrthow has any starships. Still, I am onboard a starship, so somebody has one. The people who own this one aren’t from Mrrthow. They aren’t
As a practical person, I am cleaning the tables in the galley. My reading of cautionary romances on Mrrthow led me to believe that this would be done by machines, but I am informed that machines cost more than General Maintainers (Probationary) and it is not half so satisfying to hit machines. I don’t know how I know this language nor how my credentials were in order. I suppose I am a pawn in a game with many Hidden Players behind the scenes. I’d worry about it, but the first thing to do is survive.
Lady Susan came into the galley, ducking to avoid hitting her head. She’s a human and they run to height. She drew her five-fingered hand along the tabletop. “Not clean
Humans don’t like vavacq. (Yes, there are vavacq out here. This puzzled me at first.) Lady Susan takes this cultural trait and nurtures it. “Vavacq,” she said. “If your race practiced genetic engineering and forced culling for a few million years, they might be eligible to apply for a junior partnership in a lichen. You,” she sneered, “would not have made it to the second generation.” When she sneers, her shiny white omni-vore teeth contrast with her brown face.
I finished my cleaning and returned to my cubicle. I passed other crew on the way; none of them are vavacq, but none of them are human either. I think Lady Susan is on some sort of a training mission. I didn’t expect so many species. Our scientists said this was highly improbable; another good theory done in by facts. “Never thought about it,” was the majority opinion (this fits in with my new definition of people). This was followed by “It’s always been that way.” A few of a more mystic persuasion believed that an Elder Race had seeded the galaxy with life-forms for their own unknowable purposes. These were referred to as the Eldest Ones, the Gardeners, or the Causal Ones, depending upon the particular sect involved.
My quarters are small. My current possessions are two uniforms and a toilet kit. I have been accessing the available sections of the ship’s computer memory. Most of that seems to be pornography. There is background information in other languages, but I don’t know them. I don’t know how I learned this language I’m speaking. I’m going to sleep.
The captain is a Lobote—descended from a pack carnivore; we are the surrogate pack. I’m avoiding Lady Susan; she must dislike me as a vavacq specimen. I have not had a chance to be personally offensive to her. Given her size and obvious strength, I think the proper retort to her rudeness is a dignified silence or a “Yes, ma’am.” I’m the only vavacq on the ship. I know there are others in the galaxy. No one thinks I’m unusual. There are references to vavacq in some of the novels. Favorable, unfavorable, or background depending upon the author’s species or personality. It’s clear that vavacq are not the Master Race by any means.
I don’t think being a General Maintainer is why I am here. Someone or something put me here for another reason. I wish they would let me know what I am supposed to be doing. It would not be. a clever idea to broach my situation to anyone on board. They all know what I ought to be doing.
I hear we are going to reenter RealSpace tomorrow and dock at some orbital station. We don’t land on planets because it would cost too much. I’ll get station leave if I don’t screw up.
The cook ordered me to catch some small vermin that have been stealing food. I built three vermin traps. Lady Susan kicked me while I was crawling into a raided cabinet to place them. One snapped on my paw and I yelped. I think she smiled at that. It takes very little to please some people.
We’re docked. I drew some of my pay tokens. The tokens are silvery with a numeral on one side and a serpentine orgy on the other. I bought some sort of smoked meat with them. The meat seller warily directed me to the local equivalent of a library. Not too many General Maintainers (Probationary) look for that kind of diversion.
I stepped through menus on political galactography and entered my home planet’s name as nearly as I could transliterate it.
+Unknown+
I tried the name from other languages—RRgol, Hssthat, Mrr IV. And back came the answer every time.
+Unknown+
Conclusion: Mrrthow doesn’t exist and all my memories of it were hallucinations. I decided to investigate the Gardener Mythos. I reached that query point and the library came back with
¦Logical Exclavity+
I must have made a mistake; so I tried again and again it returned
¦Logical Exclavity+
I thought,
¦Logical Exclavity: a volume of space removed from all records, databases, references. The space of a logical exclavity, and all objects in it have no existence with respect to the galactic knowledge. Note: the existence of this phrase and its definition are not included in any record, database, or references
A datum telling me that it did not exist. What next?
¦Hello, did you enjoy the trip?+
I jabbed my claws into my I/O device, recovered, and entered “Not particularly.”
¦Unnecessary; just talk.+
“You’re the one who set me up?” - +1 am the not-specific sentient who transported you. I am involved in the project.+
“Why?”
+We have a task for you.+
I could ask who “we” is or I could ask what the job is. “Who are you that you want me to do what?” That didn’t come out the way I expected it to.
¦Continue your job on the ship. More details will be available later.+
“No!”
+No?+
