Length: 4336 words
Genre/theme: Science fiction
Keywords: Colonialism, environmentalism, giant alien cannibal chickens
Comment: Written in April 2006, following an experience on a small Sardinian wine estate, where the vino is made in the traditional Roman way, and the mould is strong.
__________________________________
The human picks me up outside my roost in an open-top vehicle. It’s just after noon. He looks as fresh as someone who has risen only an hour ago, which in his case is quite possibly true. This human stays up late with his mandolin and his wine. This is why he comes to me. I’m supposed to take him to a vineyard still practising the old ways.
“Knork, my friend,” he greets me. ”How are you today?”
“Fuck off,” I say, refusing to give in to his alien pleasantries. I get in beside him and slam the door shut behind me. When I worked as translator to the first human arrivals, I travelled in just such silly contraptions. I will not be intimidated. “Let’s go, shithead.”
He laughs and pushes his foot down theatrically, making the vehicle lurch on and up. Within seconds, air whistles around my head, fluffing my feathers as if I was in a whirly spa. I wrap the restraining belt around my chest, managing to secure it in place even though it is difficult to operate with my forewings. The seat is made for creatures much thicker than me around the top, and much thinner around the waist. I have always been uncomfortable in these horrible things. Not that I would let on.
The human presses a switch and the seat moulds itself around my back and lower half, adjusting to my big arse. Suddenly, I feel almost comfortable.
“How do you like my new car?” he shouts over the roaring wind. “The latest model. Made for humans as well as Burds. And it’s got fabulous torque.”
Humans and their toys. Even the artistic types like this one are obsessed with technology. He doesn’t know how I hate that name, Burds.
I look over the side and see that we have already left the city behind us. The green and purple tree tops rush by just meters below us. Ahead of us is open sky without a cloud in sight. It is a beautiful day.
“When I suggested an all-terrain vehicle I had something else in mind,” I yell. “How are you going to see anything at this speed, you silly fucker? I can hardly hear you!”
Again he laughs. And again he does something with his hands and with a whirr the sides of the vehicle close around us, bringing silence.
I notice that he is no longer touching the controls in front of him. I know enough not to be alarmed. I know that sometimes the human drives the vehicle, and sometimes the vehicle drives the human.
“Where are we headed?” he asks.
“North,” I tell him. I’d planned to take him a few squares out to this little place I know, travelling in one of their earth-bound contraptions, but of course the human had to turn up in something more grand. I didn’t even know he owned one of these flying things. Usually, we meet on foot at some tavern within stumbling distance of his apartment. At this speed we’ll get there far too quickly. There’s something to be said for a bit of work before the reward. And I don’t want the human to get drunk too quickly. I want some information first. So, thinking on my feet, I decide we should head for old man Olgarth’s place up near the northern coast. I haven’t been there in years, as it’s a day’s travel on kikeback.
Olgarth makes some of the best wine in that area, which is well-known for its wonderful dreaming effect. The human will not have tasted anything like it. I congratulate myself on my quick thinking.
“How far is it?” he asks.
I give him the co-ordinates. I watch him enter the numbers into a panel in the front, using his hands. Humans are helpless without their hands. They need these unsightly appendages for everything from feeding themselves to wiping their hideous skinny behinds. I can’t imagine what’s driven them to develop tool use; they’ve got every possible tool growing out of their ugly bodies already.
My own forewings suddenly seem inadequate and I have to remind myself that despite its many adaptations I’m still in an alien contraption, built for alien bodies. Most of us find hanging out with these humans for longer periods of time demoralizing, because their habitats make us feel insufficient and clumsy. Our psychologists identified this response long ago. Something akin to fluff envy. The most common response is resentment, anger, even violence. I pride myself on being able to adjust.
“Here,” the human says, pulling a stalk-like contrivance out of a panel towards me. I cannot believe it; it looks almost like a mouth organ, the kind of universal interface that controls all our tools. “Do you want to drive?”
And that’s precisely what it is, a goddamn mouth organ, developed by humans for us. By humans, for Us, for the People!
Before I know it, I’m flying the car across the woods and fields, manipulating the controls with my tongue. It is all so easy, like operating any of the household appliances for which we developed this technology in the first place. I’m vaguely outraged that the humans should have adapted our tool so successfully.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “If you lose control, the car takes over.”
We are high above the trees, whistling along through the pale sky, my tongue commanding our trajectory. The human chatters away happily. And that’s another thing I can’t stand about them. They can talk and tool at the same time. With most of our tools mouth-operated, we find that difficult. Not to mention rude.
My anger has grown until it has reached the tipping point and now it is time for the feathers to fly. Let’s have a hen party, I decide. I flick my tongue sharply and we go into a nose-dive. Within seconds we are spiralling down towards the surface below, the vehicle’s engines screaming like a girl on her first egg. I see with satisfaction how the human is flung into the corner of his seat and how his mouth opens in a soundless scream. Try talking now, fucker!
The car disables my control, brings us out of the dive at the last possible moment and puts us back on course. The human sits in the corner, his eyes closed, breathing fast. Finally, he turns to me, his face ashen. I feel much better.
“Why did you do that, Knork?” he asks.
“I’m a Burd, aren’t I? Burds like to fly.”
We park the car outside Olgarth’s house. It’s a typical old crock, round, with thick, white-washed walls and a pointy straw roof. A steep slope leads down into the wine pit below.
The noise of the landing brings the old man running, holding a forewing over his eyes to guard against the swirling dust from the dying engine. Olgarth hasn’t changed much. If anything, he looks even more dishevelled that he did the last time I saw him; and he has grown grey all over.
He stops in his tracks when he sees me. “What do you want, Knorkator?”
“Wine,” I tell him. “This human is a pisscat. And I told him you’ve got the best stuff around.”
Olgarth was a friend of my mothers. She probably laid quite a few of his eggs. Not me, though. My father was a gangster. Either that, or the prison warden after mum got caged. I was smuggled out of prison shortly after mum died and raised by the Red Crest rabble. The cock who was supposed to be my father never talked to me. I never talked to him, either.
Anyway, Olgarth contacted me shortly after I shed down, inviting me to visit. I didn’t have to be asked; the rabble were full of shit, always fighting, always demanding tears, feathers and blood oaths. I spent many summers on Olgarth’s farm. He gave me lots of grief, trying to make me into a wine grower. If there had been any chance of him being my father, I would have hated him. As it was, I thought he was tolerable.
Olgarth touches my head with his withered fore-wing. “He a friend of yours?”
I hesitate. The human walks around his vehicle towards us, grinning broadly. He always grins. I suddenly realise I’ve forgotten his name.
“Acquaintance,” I say. “Business potential.”
“Say no more,” Olgarth says.
“So, Steen,” Olgarth mumbles, operating the cheese cutter while talking at the same time. It would be rude if he was talking to a person instead of a human. “How long have you been here on Porouse?”
I translate, then peck at a chunk of cheese. Olgarth makes his own from his small stable of kikes, using berry juice and local herbs for flavour. I’ve forgotten how tasty the stuff is.
“Two years,” the human says, nibbling a small piece suspiciously. “I came here with the 2nd wave.”
Now that I didn’t even known. That means he is one of the earlier arrivals.
We are still outside, the human having expressed a preference for the outdoor ambiance. What a shithead. We are sitting around a wooden table not far from where the ground slants down to the vineyards, enjoying the late afternoon… well, ambiance. By now Olgarth has cut a large bowl of cheesy chunks for us, but he still hasn’t produced any wine from his pit.
“What made you stay?” he asks.
“The quality of life,” the human called Steen says.
Shortly before we landed, the human explained to me how his ambassador allocates those valuable trade contracts to us. Something to do with local suppliers and equal treatment of workers. This information is pure yolk. The rabble will pay good money for this. We can easily fake all this shit. We’ve got it made.
I’m ready to relax, my mission accomplished. “Olgarth you old fart,” I say. “Bring out the vino. We’re not here for your charming conversation.”
“You wouldn’t know charming conversation if it sat on your face, Knork,” the old man says.
But he does produce the wine, and Steen the human likes it instantly.
Olgarth emerges from his pit pulling along a large pitcher of wine on a rolling platform. Steen jumps to his feet. “Let me help,” he says.
If he knew anything about us, he wouldn’t have done that. We don’t like this kind of condescension, especially from humans. We’ve managed for millennia without their help; why would we need them now? We can still pour our own wine, thanks.
Olgarth pours him a wooden bowl full of the rusty purple stuff and Steen takes a careful sip. His face transforms. Without a word, he moves over to a wooden bench and sits down. He turns away from us and takes another sip. At least he’s honouring the taste of his host, although he seems to be doing this not out of politeness, but simply involuntarily. That’s its own compliment, I realise; and then it comes to me that this may well be the nature of true courtesy.
Olgarth pours us each a bowl and we settle down to watch the alien get pissed. Steen sits on the bench, staring out over the purple vines and the forest beyond. His eyes roam away into the distance; and as he takes his second deep sip his large ungainly frame begins to move slightly, ripples passing through him. His body judders in gentle undulations as it tries to make sense of so much alien sensation. And that is another thing I suddenly realise; to him, all this must be alien, just as he is alien to us. I turn to Olgarth, impressed by my own sensitivity.
“You do realise that he can understand some of our talk,” Olgarth whispers. “He’s not as stupid as he looks.”
So much for my sensitivity. I curse and look over at the ungainly figure of the human. “You’re right, he does look stupid.”
Now slumped forward, the human stares down at his feet, the small wooden pitcher empty in his hand. There’s a dreamy look on his face. He looks like an idiot.
“Have another, human,” Olgarth says loudly and Steen jerks awake, gets to his feet and ambles over with his bowl.
“Knork, my friend,” he says holding out his container. “I want to thank you. This is special stuff. Beyond anything I imagined.”
Olgarth’s wine is a rusty purple like his grapes and very fresh. There is a sparkle and lightness to it that is utterly deceptive. Have too much of it and you will feel it for a week. The mould in this part of the world is strong. Some say it makes you mad, though that is also said of half a dozen other areas specialising in the traditional methods.
The human has had two bowls and I can already detect a slight slurring of his voice. He has brought his mandolin from the vehicle and sits facing us, plinking away.
“I’m surprised you people don’t have any string instruments,” he says. “You could easily play with those hands of yours. All it takes is a bit of strumming. You can do strumming.”
“Hands? We don’t have hands, you fucking idiot,” I say. “That’s an insult.”
“Sorry.” He is unperturbed. “But with those flipper things you could play something like a mandolin. I could teach you if you want.”
“Young Knorkator here has a great talent for mimicry,” Olgarth says. “His mother was like that, too.”
“No thanks,” I say. Flipper things indeed. Our forewings are highly dexterous winglets. Not as kleptomaniacally dexterous as human hands, of course. But still….
“Speaking of the devil; my mother owns one of the big supply chains,” the human says, strumming away at his instrument. “Intergalactic Hydroponics Inc. She brought me here to manage this humble end.” He laughs. “I am a great disappointment to her.”
Olgarth refills the human’s bowl. Steen’s eyes are fixed on the dark liquid as it splashes into the bowl. He moves off again to the bench, where he takes a sip before continuing to play to himself.
“Unless you know how to fly this thing back, you should tell him to slow down,” the old man says. “I will not have him spend the night, stinking up the place.”
“The car flies itself,” I say. It may even be true.
“That figures. Stinking fucking alien technology.” I am surprised at Olgarth’s anger. Some consider him to be a bit of a wise man; I doubt wise men are supposed to go off like that.
“The human does smell a bit,” I admit. “But I would have thought you’re used to that, with your kikes stabled just over there.”
“You oaf,” he says. “Kikes don’t smell like humans at all.”
“All milkers smell the same to me.”
“Humans are milkers?” Olgarth looks incredulous. It occurs to me that Steen is the first human he has met. So why does he hate them so much? I suppose they are easy to loathe, even if you’re a wise man.
“Of course they are milkers. Can’t you tell just by looking at them? Are you going blind?”
“Kikes may be milkers, but they look much more like us than these stinking, corrupting aliens,” he mutters. “Even chingles look nothing like humans, and they are the ugliest milkers of them all.”
“True. There isn’t anything indigenous to Porouse that’s quite as ugly as a human.”
And here's another human oddity – they won’t lend us the equipment to exterminate the chingles that plague farmers in the remote areas. I have first-hand experience of their menace. Olgarth tells the story of how a big old chingle broke into his kike pen and spoiled the whole next generation of hatchlings. He claims it snapped at me when we went to investigate the ruckus, but I was too young to remember. Olgarth tells of heroically defending me with a branch against the chingle, which was voraciously hungry after fucking all those kikes, but that’s probably made up. Anyway, chingle fights are now illegal and hardly anyone cares for chingle hunting anymore, so what good are they? It wouldn’t take much human technology to eradicate them, but no, they won’t hear of it. They have the weirdest ideas, the fucking pansies.
The path from the house winds down the hill through the vineyard and to the edge of the forest, where it joins the main road. Heading east, the road snales around the hills and then turns north towards the coast. Heading west, it leads to a large village deep in the forest just a few hours ride from here, where some of Olgarth’s family live. None of them are interested in making wine, so he’s kicked them out of the house. He does not tolerate free-loaders, does old Olgarth. I assume once he dies the forest will slowly reclaim these fields. It’s a pity. There aren’t that many producers left who practice the old methods.
A long procession of kikes tied tail to neck and laden with sacks has appeared from the eastern forest. There is only one attendant rider and he stares up at us as the line of nodding pack animals slowly makes its way west. He must wonder at the glinting metal vehicle. By tomorrow the entire area will know that Olgarth has had a human visitor.
The old man and I move over to the human who still sits playing his mandolin on the bench, staring down at the caravan. “Supplies from the coast,” I tell him.
“Like a huge chicken riding an ostrich,” Steen mumbles, moving his back awkwardly. He keeps slumping forward. He puts his mandolin down, leans forward and rests his elbows on his legs as if his back has become unable to support his upper half. We call this the jelly back. It’s the first stage of drinking this stuff. From now on it’s downhill, and quick.
“Tell him if it wasn’t illegal for us to own land on this planet, I would buy this vineyard,” Steen says. “I would pay anything he asked.”
At first I do not fully understand what he has said, but then it begins to sink in. I am so stunned I have to turn away. To buy some time I ask Olgarth for something more substantial to eat. He waddles off into the gathering dusk, tutting.
And so here it is, out of the blue. My big chance. I have a flash of inspiration. Humans may not be allowed to own land, but why shouldn’t there be a partnership between us and them, with shared assets and some proxy ownership structure of some kind? There should be a way for this silly human to own his vineyard, should some amenable middleman agree to fiddle the books. And I am anything if not amenable.
“You know that these vineyards are family heirlooms,” I say, refilling his bowl. “Even if it was legal for humans to own land, this vineyard could never leave the family. Uncle Olgarth could never sell to you, directly.”
“All I want is to sit here and drink and breathe in this air,” Steen says, staring out into the descending gloom. What is it that transfixes him so? His little mandolin stands propped against the bench. He is no longer able to play, his co-ordination gone. This is the second stage, called jelly legs. If he were to try and stand up, he would fall flat on his ugly face.
“We can talk about you buying something like a shared residency,” I say. “But it would be very expensive. Are you rich?”
“Filthy rich,” he slurs. “I can do anything I want, as long as I do it here. Mother insists I stay here. Where I cannot embarrass her.”
“Listen, shithead, you should eat something more,” I say. “Or you will not last another hour. Olgarth has gone to fetch us something.”
“What? An omelette made from your little sister?” The human laughs, shaking his head, spittle flying. He is drooling. The beginning of stage three, the final stage; jelly brain. All control and restraint gone. Normally placid beings turn nasty in a flash. And normally nasty beings turn placid. Fortunately, none can walk by this time, so property damage is limited. Go figure this stuff.
“What are you talking about, you silly fucker?” I ask.
“Mother thought it would be funny to leave me stranded on the Planet of Giant Cannibal Chickens,” the human mumbles, not lifting his head off his chest where it seems anchored.
“Cannibals?” I have never heard such insult.
“But she has no idea. This is paradise.”
The human called Steen has begun to slide down the bench. With an effort he stops himself and ends up lying draped over the bench in what looks a very uncomfortable way. He is still holding on to his bowl. “Cannibals, is what I said. Do you or don’t you eat your own eggs?”
“Only the duds!”
“Same thing,” he says, trying to right himself. I don’t try to help. “But I guess it keeps the numbers down. I guess it’s a small price to pay for what you’ve got here. If only we, we….”
“Given half a chance you’d wrap us in vine leaves and fry us in oil,” I say.
“That’s not what I meant; but gladly, I would. I’d personally do it, to get all this.” He waves his arm and promptly begins to slide again. “But the governor… the government. Ethical engagement, you know?” He finally slips to the ground and sits propped up against the bench, somehow still holding his almost empty bowl. He takes a small sip, but it’s way too late for restraint, the damage is done.
“You don’t have this on your planet?” I’m beginning to understand. What kind of a shithole must their home be for this human to go gaga over some fresh air and a bit of purple and green.
“What we’ve lost,” he slurs, “you’re eager to lose, too.” He slumps forward and the pitcher tumbles off his lap into the dark, spilling wine onto the earth. He falls forward and starts to crawl on all fours, looking for his container. Crawling on all fours like a bug; another useful thing to do with your hands, I suppose.
“Don’t,” he mumbles, an indistinct shape in the dark. “Don’t do it.”
“Whatever,” I say. “It’s ours to loose. You fuck off.”
“Yes. It’s yours to loose. For us, it’s too late.”
“Not here,” I say. “Plenty left to loose here.”
He doesn’t reply and I realise he’s crying. “True,” he whispers and rolls over onto his back. Night comes quickly here. The stars will be out in a few minutes.
Full-on jelly brain, there it is. It will last until morning. But it happened so quickly, I’ve never seen that before. Fucking humans. They’re too soft. They’ll never make it here. We’ll fuck them over sooner or later.
Olgarth appears with a large plate grasped between his forewings, covered in tasty bits of omelette, cheese and seeded wraps, all on a bed of purple leaves.
“You have told your car how to get back, haven’t you?” I ask the human. I really don’t fancy a night out here with Olgarth, who’s surlier than ever. I’ll be seeing more than enough of him once my plan goes into action. Once I own this vineyard with Olgarth working for me, the human having paid me an exorbitant residence fee, followed by exorbitant regular instalments for life.
“Yes,” Steen says from the ground, his words hardly audible. “But I need supplies.”
I turn to the old man, who is standing there like a dud, not knowing what to do about his catatonic human guest. “We’d be honoured, Olgarth,” I say. “If you would sell us some of your excellent produce, for medicinal purposes mainly.”
Shaking his grizzled head, the old man swivels around. He walks off without a word, taking the food with him.
A few moments later the carrier trundles out of the pit, laden with one of the biggest pitchers I have ever seen. “Eight gallons, my scheming little friend,” Olgarth says. “Stoppered and sealed. That should keep you out of shit for a good few weeks, and him deeply in it.”
“I can’t lift my head,” Steen says, drool spilling onto his shirt. He doesn’t even realise he’s flat on the floor. He still thinks he’s sitting down, the silly fucker. “Knork, how do I pay this gentleman?”
“I will hear none of it,” the old man says without me having to translate.
Time to go. I’ve had enough. I have to make a few calls once I get back. “Let’s fly.”
Together, Olgarth and I wrestle the human to his car where he slumps into his seat and falls asleep immediately. With a groan and a sigh, the seat stretches and nestles around him. The wine is stored in the rear, strapped in like a fledgling.
“Well, I’ll see you soon,” I say to the old man.
“You, of course, do owe me for the wine,” Olgarth says. “You know that.”
“You should be glad to get rid of that poison,” I mumble and fork over a few silver eggs.
“You still owe me,” Olgarth says. “For better or worse, he’s now in your pocket, you realise.”
“I suppose,” I say and get into the car. Olgarth isn’t as dumb as he looks. But wise?
I touch the panel like the human did earlier and the mouth control appears. The co-ordinates of the city blink on the display and I flip us into the air amidst a thunderous roar. With a flick of my tongue we streak upwards and Olgarth disappears into the dark and dust below.
I don’t think I’ll have any trouble flying this thing all the way back. It’s as if I’ve known these controls all my life.
THE END
No comments:
Post a Comment