I, Alien

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 reason—and I’d have a serious problem continuing my work in cultural anthropology; indeed, I might even be expelled.

They didn’t consider my reason excellent enough.

“A survey was performed there eight hundred primary rotations ago. No civilization is going to change drastically in so short a time. There is no evidence whatsoever to indicate that this species is developing technologically at a greater rate than any previously known technology-using species.”

Just who did I think I was, questioning the accepted wisdom of my field—me, a mere student, of limited experience. What made me think that this new species was so different from the dozens of other known, thoroughly-studied species?

Somehow, “gut instinct” hadn’t seemed a particularly politic answer at that moment.

It’s cold comfort to me now to know that my fears were absolutely justified—the preliminary survey was even more out of date than I had feared. The rate of change of this society is staggering. It’s grim satisfaction to know that, in learning this, I’ve already made a significant discovery—and I haven’t even begun my initial research. I plan on saying a very loud (and most scientifically phrased) “I told you so” when I face my final exam board.

I am woefully unprepared. The trinkets and toys I’m equipped with, suitable for a pre-mechanized society, are totally unsuitable for a culture at this level of development. Instead of early explorations into metal smelting, these people are essaying their first steps into molecular-level manipulation of biotechnology. My gadgets are useless—simple devices intended to startle and amaze a hostile group just long enough to allow me to escape, or to lure a timid folk from hiding, nothing more. Such things are as out of place here as a medicine woman with her healing broths and spirit chants would be in one of this city’s hospitals.

And I don’t like my body. It’s weak and clumsy now. I have to be so careful when I move in this awkward, heavy gravity. And only two hands! It amazes me the natives were able to develop any sort of technology at all. At least they have opposable digits on both hands.

My Supervisor isn’t particularly sympathetic to my situation. “I would think you’d be delighted, Student Candidate. This is the opportunity you said you were waiting for, a chance to make a significant contribution to our field. You have an entire world’s worth of development at your feet. A tenth-span certainly will not be long enough”—I clench the communication Link in my hand—”but it will serve as a beginning. You had best make the very most of your every moment there. Communication ending.”

Communication is expensive and must be kept brief. Perhaps it’s just as well. One does not gain honor by being disrespectful to one’s Supervisor. And I must not forget, I am representing my species at the prestigious institute of learning I attend. The Mother Supreme pointed this out to me during my audience with her just before I left.

“Very few of us have ventured off-planet. Do not forget that you are an ambassador, even though you do not bear the formal title. For many—indeed, perhaps most—of the species you come into contact with, you will be the first of our kind they have ever met. Conduct yourself with dignity and bring us honor.”

I bowed before her and backed out of her presence, grateful that protocol did not permit me to speak.

My Supervisor is of the school of thought that believes in interaction with a species, provided there is no interference with the society. Thus, I underwent extensive—though reversible—surgery to adapt my body to the conditions on this world, so that I may breathe and move unassisted. Surgery that also changes my appearance so that I blend in with the species I’m studying.

Of course such surgery is costly—as will be the procedure to restore my natural form. Be sure my parents made this clear to me.

“We’re having to borrow heavily against our Family shares to pay for this,” grumbled my father. “I don’t see why you need to be operated on in the first place. Don’t most cultural anthropologists use skin projectors?”

I patiently explain, yet again. “My Supervisor feels it’s vital to her technique of close study of other peoples. ‘There’s no substitute for real interaction,’ she keeps saying.”

“Sounds like a typical scholar to me. No head for finance… no experience of the real world…” His grumbles die away.

“She’s one of the foremost experts in the field,” I say. “I’m extremely lucky that she agreed to accept me.” My parents, concerned but supportive after my first refusal—my clan is known for its indulgence of its young—had been gravely displeased after my second refusal, so there really was no choice left for me.

“Yes, and an extremely high Supervisor’s Fee she charges, too. You’d damned well better win some of those academic awards you talk about and bring us honor.”

“Of course he will,” says my mother soothingly. “He’s our son. He’s always lived up to our expectations and beyond.” She beams proudly. “And he will again.”

Yes, I will. I will be a dutiful child and do well. My father complains about expense but it’s pure ritual. I’m expected eventually to make good on all the loans and fees that are paid out on my behalf. Duty and obligation, over and over, the watch-words of my culture.

Maybe that’s why I went into this field of study— to learn about other societies and see if they’re any freer. The crushing burden I owe my parents and my clan…

These are unworthy thoughts and I’m glad my family is not privy to them. I should not be having such selfish feelings. A mature individual is able to school his feelings, focus on his duties, and take satisfaction from fulfilling his obligations. Obviously I have a long way to go to reach maturity.

This culture is as unlike my own as any storyteller could imagine. Chaotic, noisy, the natives rush frenetically about, ever busy, even at night—the lights of the city drown out the stars overhead. I spend hours, too many of them, by the ocean—this is a seaport—when I should be in the libraries and museums, learning about these creatures. But I find the frantic pace they live at overwhelming. The sea brings me a measure of peace as I watch it ebb and flow and crash and murmur. It reminds me of home, even the natives swimming—they call it swimming, at least; to me it is clumsy thrashing, fighting the water rather than being one with it.

I take out the Link and stare at it. Among the decorative elements on its surface there is one stud that is meant for Recall, in case of such unforeseen and serious emergencies such as civil unrest, natural catastrophe, or war. Definitely not for use by homesick scholars.

We were originally a seafaring culture. Perhaps because the sea is so vast, and accidents are so random and sudden, my kind developed a formal and structured society: every situation noted, every situation with its appropriate actions, every situation accounted for.

I know in my heart I don’t fit in very well. I liked to test myself against the sea too often. This was a sorrow to my family. When I should have been attending to my share of the clan duties, I was inattentive, my mind on the waters.

I am ashamed of this. I owe my family much, for they have supported me in the study of other cultures, a study I love. Many clans decide the paths their youthful members should tread, without taking personal preferences into account. But I am fortunate, for my clan is different. Our Mother Supreme is very old and very wise, and feels that children work harder and more willingly—and thus are more likely to do well—when they work at something they enjoy. So she indulges us. I owe it to her and to my parents to repay their trust and confidence in me.

I’m beginning to feel smothered under the weight of all these obligations and expectations.

I was daring today. The waves were high, crashing on the shore. I longed so much for the feel of the sea that I dared to venture into the water, yes, into the water in this temporary form I wear. I swam.

I attempted to swim, rather. Oh, but it is a feeble reed, this body. Clumsy, awkward in the water, un-streamlined, no harmony with the currents. Worst of all, no way to stay below the surface for more than seconds at a time—as I discovered, choking and spluttering. Of course, no water-breathing structures. Why didn’t they warn me against this?

Because it never occurred to them. When the thrice-ignorant fools who surveyed this world did so, they reported no cities by the sea. I am certain they never bothered to look.

I staggered from the water and collapsed on the beach. I was fortunate it was early morning, and the beach was almost deserted. There was no one to see my humiliation.

But as I regained my breath, I noticed there were a few swimmers out there. No, wait, not swimming. They were balanced on long narrow boards, balanced on the very crests of the waves surging to shore, balanced like dancers.

My jaw dropped. My people have never even dreamed of such a thing. These people call it “surfing.”

I inquire at the library. “I wonder if you can help me. I’d like to learn about the history of surfing, and I don’t really know where to begin.” When I explain I was inspired watching the surfers at the nearby beach, the librarian laughs.

“Oh, we don’t have serious surfing here—those are just baby waves. I think a tape of last year’s Hawaiian championships has just come back in…” The helpful librarian brings me audiovisual records of surfing contests held in other parts of the world. I’m astounded when I view them. The local waves are indeed just “babies,” and the surfers I saw are far from expert. The award-winning surfers do things I wouldn’t have believed possible. Of course, I find the size of the waves they’re riding almost impossible to believe as well, but the librarian assures me these are factual records, no trickery involved.

“Not like that new movie—I hear they used a lot of special effects in that one to make the waves look so huge.”

Movies? Special effects? I decide to leave that for another day. I want to view the sequence called “shooting the curl” again.

There is clearly more to this species than I realized.

I wander the streets. Fortunately, the weather is mild this time of year and I can sleep outdoors, provided I stay out of the way of others. I am equipped with food concentrates and there are public water sources. But this is only a short-term solution; I need a place to store my equipment and belongings, to archive my research records, and—most importantly— to have a little solitude and be able to meditate. It is only by merest chance that I am lucky enough to stumble into a niche where I can support myself and study this culture more closely.

I see a street performer, who entertains the passing crowd; in return they drop money into a basket at his feet. He’s a conjurer—misleading the audience by the skill of his hands and his clever patter. I realize my gadgets will be useful after all. It appears magic tricks can be entertaining, even if the culture no longer believes in magic… or at least claims it doesn’t. And a street performer doesn’t need an elaborate background history.

I become a magician. My tricks with lights and smokes and colors fascinate them, and they pay well, far better than I expected. They come again and again, bringing friends. I discover, to my relief, I don’t have to talk. Indeed, my silence seems to add to my mystique. And I learn, also to my relief, that my evasive answers to questions after my performances are considered entirely appropriate. No one really wants to know how it’s done.

My Supervisor is pleased with my inventiveness. “Well done, Student Candidate! I believe your achievement is unique—an illusionist in a technological society. Continue your research—this will make a fine presentation at the next colloquium. Communication ending.”

Research. I should be spending much of my time studying this world’s past and present knowledge. Its history, its science and art, everything about it. But there’s so much knowledge. I could spend far more than a tenth-span just assimilating the knowledge of the one library near the apartment I now rent, let alone every library in the city. I could spend a lifetime.

I like performing; it’s much more fun than doing research. It’s rewarding to see the awe on the faces of the audience and hear the delight in their laughter at the climax of a trick. Children are the most fun of all. Their eyes grow huge and they squeal with joy and clap their hands. I find it impossible to resist them.

I watch my spectators carefully, and learn better pacing and timing. I begin to study magicians and the history of illusions in the library, and try to develop better tricks. I become a fixture among the street performers and begin to make friends. I have the usual cover story ready: a traveler from a distant country, learning about this one. Friendships form easily in this culture; apparently there is nothing like the cautious negotiation of mutual obligations that accompanies such a relationship on my world.

I have become such a fixture, in fact, that I’m beginning to recognize some of the regular attendees of my performances. The other artists tease me—they say I have a “fan following.” (The concept is new to me, and I learn it has nothing to do with devices for moving air.) These “fans” strike up friendly conversations with me. One of them invites me “to the bar for a drink.” I accept, somewhat nervously.

My nervousness was unnecessary. Bars are fascinating; there’s no equivalent on my world. There, one can have relaxed social interaction with close family members of the same age cohort, but not with those of different ages—and certainly not with complete strangers in a public place. Let alone while ingesting intoxicants. I would never have believed that a social species could be so casual about such things.

But here… I can go into the Overtime Bar and Benny, the owner and bartender, will yell a greeting over the din of the chat and broadcasts, and have my favorite beer—I’ve become very fond of Coors, an extraordinary brew—waiting for me by the time I sit down. There are always people ready to discuss anything, from politics to sports to entertainment to local gossip to, well, anything. Invaluable for a cultural anthropologist. All I need to do is listen and pay for an occasional round of beers. Everyone loves a good listener; I’m one of the most popular regulars in the place.

I now know what movies are: a flat, nondimensional audiovisual projection; holographic projection is still in its infancy. This species is ingenious, I have to admit; it never occurred to me that one could use such projections to record fictional stories. Movies are a very popular form of entertainment in this society, and there are dozens available in a variety of genres at any time. I plan to sample each genre at least once. The one I saw today is classified as an “action picture”; apparently this involves much gunfire and racing about in automobiles. Why automobiles—and not bicycles, which would seem to me to be a more accurate measure of the stamina and determination, and thus the heroism, of the characters involved—is not clear to me. My new-found friends at the Overtime tell me that if I want to see special effects, I should sample the latest in the “science fiction” or “fantasy” genres; I’m not sure of the distinction between the two.

My Supervisor interrupts me as I am enthusiastically describing the latest Trek film. She is displeased with me. “You should be studying the culture, not immersing yourself in it, Student Candidate. By all means, attend one of these… movies. Attend several. Entertainments, particularly fiction entertainments, reveal much about a culture’s values and way of life, far more than their creators recognize. The assumptions behind the fiction’s underpinnings; the styles of dress, adornment, transport, housing…”

Despite the expense, the Supervisor is carried away into lecture mode, lectures I have heard many times through my student career. I find my attention drifting. There is a new James Bond film coming, and a popular young actor is taking over the legendary role. There’s been a lot of discussion about it at the Overtime, with much speculation as to how he will handle the character. Will he have the sly, double-entendre charm of Roger Moore? The more serious and subtle sophistication of Pierce Brosnan? The bluntly honest and somewhat primitive style of the original, Sean Connery? I’m a Brosnan fan myself, but I’m looking forward to seeing how the new actor interprets the famous spy.

It opens next week—I can’t wait to see it.

“Hey—I’ve got a spare ticket to today’s game. Want to go see your very first baseball game? It’s the season opener.” Dave, one of my fellow buskers, makes the invitation. I haven’t any idea what “baseball” is, but of course I accept; a study opportunity like this is invaluable.

It’s as unlike the dignified sporting events on my own world as could be imagined. Attendees wear the colors of the team they support, of course, but in a wild variety of fashions. Some of them actually paint their face and body in team colors—unthinkable in my species, but I admit having fur is a barrier to such a form of self-expression; this species has generally hairless skin. (I wasn’t able to determine whether paint is acceptable in lieu of clothing in this social situation. This society has taboos about dress and undress that are utterly confusing.)

The din is incredible. There is noisy music. There is shouting. There are announcements about players and their statistics. People react loudly to the play on the field—some even have portable amplification devices to make certain they are heard. There are vendors hawking food, beverages, and mementos. And to my shock, complete strangers will assist in such transactions by passing money or purchases back and forth the packed rows of spectators.

Despite such apparent chaos, I find the crowd around me is genial, and happily willing to explain the game to a newcomer. Though the finer points elude me, I do learn the city’s team is called the Giants (though Giant what, I don’t know), and that they’re doing well in “the pennant race,” whatever that might be. We cheer and applaud when a player performs well, and shout rudely at the officials when we disagree with their officiating. At first I’m reluctant to be so discourteous, but am assured by my companions that this is all part of the game, and indeed, the officials seem to take no notice. I get so involved that I find myself on my feet, shouting with everyone else, when a Giants’ player hits the gaming-winning “home-ee.”

I had a wonderful time. The next time I go, I’m buying myself a team jersey.

“Student Candidate, you have spent enough time studying this culture. It is time you moved on to another.”

“But—”

The Supervisor ignores my protests. “You’ve become fond of these natives and their style of life. I warned you about this before you departed—it’s a common reaction for a student’s first time in the field, though I had not expected it of someone as gifted as you. Remember, these beings are not friends, they are study subjects. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Supervisor.”

“Good. Make plans to move on. Let me know within three local days what your destination will be. Communication ending.”

I’m upset. I find my way to the ocean and watch as the full moon rises over the waters, brilliant even in the light-washed sky.

I don’t want to leave this city. It is heresy to disagree with one’s Supervisor, but she’s wrong: I do have friends here. Heck, I have fans here.

I take out the Link and stare at it. Then I put it back in my pocket and look out at the crashing waves for a long time.

Much is expected of me. I am a Prime. Always, I have been given the first choice at meals, the first choice of playthings, of worship position on holy days. I have been allowed to choose which course of study to follow. I have been given first choice of mates.

But “choice” for me is not the same as it is for these busy, chaotic, noisy human beings. For them, choice really is a choice. Even so simple a thing as food: any individual here may choose a meal, any meal, at any of a myriad of eateries catering to a wide range of tastes and income levels.

My choices were not like that. Clan and caste, honor and obligation, all form ever-narrowing circles limiting my range of choices.

Here, life partners select each other. My selection was limited to Primes of appropriate age from appropriate clans. And my parents and the Mother Supreme discussed my preferences—they care for me and want me to be happy. But far more than my personal happiness is at stake in this. Political alliances play a role; status of the particular clan of a candidate; financial means; and of prime importance, fertility, for children are the foundation of a clan. It turned out that my “choice” and I were not compatible.

The Mother Supreme was gentle with me. “Child”— she used the honorific that meant an especially beloved child, to show that she attached no blame to me—”such incompatibility happens. It is a bitter blow. We will make the necessary regret gifts to the other clan. And you will make another choice.”

Regret gifts. My clan is known for its impeccable courtesy, but naturally rumors immediately circulated that the infertility was my lack and fewer clans were eager to offer candidates. Eventually a suitable mate was found for me. The preliminary ceremonies were performed before I left; our final union will take place when I return. And of course I will have to assume the burden of recompense for the regret gifts—it is the courteous thing to do.

Damn courtesy. Is there no room for me in my life?

“Your disobedience is unheard of, Student Candidate. I insist you move on to another culture at once.” My Supervisor is angry with me. Her crest has even changed color.

“Forgive me, Supervisor.” I use the most respectful tone I can summon. “You are right—I have allowed myself to become fond of this culture. I see now that my objectivity has been compromised, as you feared. I apologize.” I watch carefully and see her intense coloring begin to fade. “I will gather my belongings and records and move on at once.”

“See that you do so, or I will Recall you immediately.”

I realize that I must act quickly or yet another “choice” will be forced upon me. For there is another aspect to Recall—it can be activated at the other end as well. Occasionally, in the long history of the study of other cultures, scholars like myself have “gone native”—a rarity, admittedly, but the institute is meticulous in planning for every contingency. Except surveys, I think wryly.

“It will take me several days to pack my belongings, sever my housing agreement, and arrange transportation. The island archipelago that looks the most intriguing is at some distance from this land mass. I will contact you as soon as I arrive there. Communication ending.”

I go down to the seashore. It’s a stormy day, cold and blustery, with few people on the sand or in the water. I sit on a log and stare out over the steely waves.

I take out the Link. The Recall field is effective at some distance, I have been told, and is tuned to me alone. (It would be unthinkable to accidentally bring along unintended passengers.)

I reach back and hurl it as far as I can into the roaring surf. The currents here are particularly fierce. It will be carried away in the endless roll and beat of tides.

Perhaps I will be thought of as one of those scholars who paid the ultimate price for attempting to enlarge my people’s body of knowledge. My clan will mourn my loss; I was a promising youth tragically snuffed out before I had a chance to fulfill my potential. Other clans will sorrow with my family.

Or perhaps my Supervisor won’t be deceived by the dying of the Link’s signal. She will remember my behavior and report it to the governing board. My parents will be informed that I “went native,” and will be shamed. My disappearance will bring dishonor to my clan.

I realize I don’t care.

A great weight lifts from my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I’m utterly free! No obligations or duties to the endless line of the generations. I feel light and giddy. School’s out!

There’s a Padres verses Giants game this afternoon— an important one in the pennant race. Benny’s pulling two-for-one drafts and offering hot wings to all comers who show up in team colors. I must go home and get my Giants’ cap and jersey.

I may even learn to surf one of these days.