CHAPTER 4
ZAREK
Do not communicate directly with humans unless absolutely necessary. Or, if they are cute.
As I peer over to read the human’s texts, I squint, my eyes not used to the warm hue of these glasses as I try to make out the tiny words on her screen.
Jo
Most of what we know about extraterrestrials comes from mythology and fiction, but research indicates that we probably aren’t the most intelligent species in the universe. Personally, I think we can’t find other lifeforms because they don’t want us to.
Ellie’s pace picks up speed, and I struggle to read her next response.
Why is she telling someone about me? What if they report me to their government? Not only could I not help my people, but I would not even be able to help myself.
I can feel my blood pressure spiking, and I force myself to take deep breaths.
There’s a part of me that considers speaking to her about this issue immediately, but there’s another part that knows it might scare her off, which I can’t risk right now.
My DIRC will never get fixed without her assistance.
We’re on a wide avenue, lined with London plane trees, the branches providing a nice amount of shade. There are buses, cars, and bicycles speeding past, and every honk of a horn startles me. This place is nothing like Terilia, where everything is up in the air, rather than on the ground.
We round a corner, turning onto a narrow street, and I catch another glimpse of her phone. I can’t see all of the messages, some are cut off, but I read everything I can.
Ellie
What do I do?
Jo
Well it depends. Is he cute?
Ellie’s body language shifts as if she’s going to look at me, and I turn my head, trying not to be obvious, but I’m a little curious about her response.
Does she find me attractive? Would I want her to?
Of course I do. Everyone, from every species, wants to feel wanted.
But as an intellectual, I also fully understand that it’s likely outside of her genetic coding.
Once I hear the quiet taps of her fingers again, I slowly move until her screen is back in sight.
Ellie
He’s blue. Actually, right now he looks almost Italian.
Jo
A cute Italian?
Ellie
I’m not answering that. He’s a goddamn alien.
Jo
Don’t knock it til you try it. I’d totally sleep with Mothman.
Ellie
You are insufferable.
My cheeks heat, and I wonder what her true opinions of me are.
I can understand how our differences might get in the way of any interest—sexual, or otherwise.
Our species’ way of communicating, thinking, and even living is oppositional.
We’re both carbon-based, bipedal, sentient, and metacognitive; beyond that, we diverge greatly.
Different ear shapes, different skin tones, and even different genitalia. I’m not even sure a sapphiro could…fit.
Not that it matters.
I don’t intend to converse with any more humans than I have to, and this one is clearly put off by my existence. I’m merely hypothesizing. Curiosity is natural.
As much as I still find humans to be boring, I’m realizing they are significantly more intriguing and relatable in the flesh.
And we’re not entirely dissimilar as species.
The way Ellie communicates with her friend reminds me of the way Zul acts toward me.
We’re the greatest of friends, but I always seem to unnerve him with my positive attitude and what he calls an ‘unyielding penchant for getting into trouble.’
It’s not that I want to cause problems, I just don’t love my career. Growing up on Terilia, we were allowed to dream and learn to our heart’s content. If you wanted to play an instrument or memorize otherworldly plant taxonomy, they would make it available to you.
It was much more interest-based and self-directed compared to what I’ve learned of Earthly school systems. That was until I grew up. Then I was expected to follow my parents’ lead and become an archivist, taking over their research, even if my heart was set on something entirely different.
Ellie’s gait slows down, and I realize we’re outside the cosplay shop. I’m not sure what differentiates this from a normal costume shop, but it is larger than I expected. Floor to ceiling windows cover the front wall, revealing an array of different fabrics and costume pieces.
“When we get in here, you are going to stay by my side the entire time. Do not talk to anyone else. I will handle everything,” she says sternly, and I nod in agreement.
She opens the door, gesturing for me to head in, and the inside is even more lively than the exterior. There are brightly colored wigs on human-shaped mannequin heads lining a shelf that spans the entire wall. There is signage, in French, labeling the different areas, and I walk forward, enamored.
I spot a mask that reminds me of a late 1800s Norwegian painting I once learned about, and I go to grab it when I’m interrupted by a giggling couple.
The young woman’s t-shirt is too small for her, stopping above her belly button. It reads I LOVE PARIS in bold letters across her chest. The young man, clad in a black shirt and denim shorts, places the mask over his head and grips her throat as she takes a picture.
I do not comprehend what is happening. Part of me wants to rescue this human, but Ellie’s words repeat in my head like a warning.
Do not talk to anyone else.
I know I should listen, but I also believe that if Ellie is a decent enough person to help me fix my DIRC, she is a decent enough person to want to save this young woman.
“Are you okay?” I ask, staring at where the man’s hand splays across her neck. “Is this a French custom…or perhaps a ritual I am unaware of?”
“Huh?” the man asks as he removes the mask.
My brows furrow. “Are you harming this woman?”
She chuckles, and relief fills my chest. I’m glad she’s alright. “I have a thing for masks, you weirdo. Mind your fucking business.”
That did not go well.
Her accent is clearly North American, though not distinct enough for any particular region.
When studying humanity, I learned a lot about their dialects and language patterns.
If I had to guess, based on the sun-tanned skin and information available to me, I’d hypothesize she’s from California or Florida, but the lack of forward vowel shift leans me toward Florida.
Every state has different accent markers and cultural phenomena, but they are united in one thing: a hatred for Florida.
“Zarek!” I hear Ellie call from a few aisles down, and I quickly dart toward that direction.
“Yes, dear?” I say as I see her around a corner.
“Don’t ever call me that again,” she quips.
“It seems like a lot of couples come here, so I thought we could disguise ourselves as one,” I say, voice dropping to a whisper. She shakes her head. “Or we could be siblings. A brother-sister duo exploring the streets of Paris together.”
“I’m actually not sure which sounds worse,” she sighs. “No. We are portraying friends, I guess. Normal friends looking for contacts, which—by the way—the cashier is searching in the back for as we speak.”
Friends actually has a nice ring to it.
“Great.”
Ellie pushes up her square-rimmed glasses, her mouth curling to one side. “She did warn me these contacts will be uncomfortable, as they’re designed in a way that’ll conceal your strange sclerae.”
I shrug. “I just crash-landed my space pod. My entire body aches, and I have no idea how I’m getting home. I’m positive I can handle contact lenses.”
There’s a creaking of a door, and the shopkeeper comes out holding a small, rectangular container.
“Cela fera quarante euros,” she says, and I cock my head, unsure of what she’s saying. Currency? I believe we owe her currency.
Ellie fishes for something inside her leather bag and pulls out a plastic card, handing it to the cashier. “Ici, merci.”
The shopkeeper—whose hair is a vibrant green—places the container of contacts into Ellie’s hands. I thought everyone on Earth put products into plastic bags, but it’s possible some of our research is outdated or incorrect.
I follow Ellie out of the shop as she strides toward a nearby deep green bench. I place my DIRC down and take a seat, opening my eyes as wide as I can.
“What are you doing?” she asks, and I gesture for her to come closer.
“Waiting for you to put the contact lenses in,” I say, my muscles tired and achy.
Ellie lets out a sound that is almost a groan. “Why would I do that?”
I allow myself to blink, relaxing my posture for a moment. “You wear glasses, have you not used contacts?”
She nods. “I have, I just prefer my glasses.”
“Well, I have not. I don’t know where to begin,” I confess, a little nervous she’s going to judge me, but she simply sighs and opens the container.
Ellie stands between my legs, hovering above me, as she places the first contact into my left eye. It pops out, but she shoves the lens back in until it seems to settle in place, before starting on the next eye.
I was wrong. I was so incredibly wrong it is not even remotely humorous. These contacts feel itchy and constrictive and not at all like something I can handle.
“Do I have to wear these?” I grit out.
“We can try to get you darker sunglasses, but yes, I would recommend wearing these if you’re going to interact with any other humans. You don’t need anyone else finding out you’re an alien.”
“How come you told your friend?” I ask, deciding it’s finally time to question her.
“I knew you were trying to read my texts,” she says, backing away from me.
I blink a few times, my vision a little tunneled, and distress seeps into my tone. “Trying and succeeding. Why would you tell someone else? If The Intergalactic Unity Senate finds out, I’ll—”
“Zarek. I need you to understand something. I did not think you were actually an extraterrestrial.”
“What?”
“I thought you were some overly-dedicated cosplayer, or that maybe an amoeba was eating my brain, so I texted the only person I know who would talk to me about this without committing me,” she explains, her hands flexing out.
“And even now, I’m not positive this isn’t folie à deux or some sort of mass hysteria. ”
“The rapid brain destruction that would occur from a brain-eating amoeba would likely render you unable to communicate,” I share, and she squints at me. “What? I like amoebas, they enhance plant growth.”
Ellie grabs her bag off the bench in a huff. “I can’t deal with this. There is a computer repair store a few streets away, let’s head there and get your device fixed.”
I grab my DIRC and follow suit. “Do you really believe they’ll be able to fix my DIRC?”
“I don’t know, but it’s worth a shot,” she says as her fingers shift, zooming in on the map on her phone. “Up this way.”
We get to the end of the long, winding road, and my vision is filled once again with stoplights and large crowds of pedestrians.
“Hey,” she says as we stop for traffic at a crosswalk with distinct white lines painted across the asphalt. “Why is it called a DIRC?”
I hold it up for her to read before I realize she can’t read Terilian. “Digital Information Retrieval Console.”
“Retrieval from where?” she asks as we cross another busy avenue.
At her curiosity, both corners of my mouth curve up. “I upload and pull information from our cyber…highway.”
Her forehead crinkles, and we turn onto an incredibly narrow cobblestone road.
“There isn’t a good word for it in English, or any human language really, but it’s similar to the internet.
I am an archivist of humanity, so I primarily collect, preserve, and retrieve records and data regarding Homo sapiens sapiens, but there is an inconceivable amount of information available.
We have historical data on nearly every species, spanning at least four thousand planets. ”
Her dark brown eyes widen. “There are four thousand planets with sentient life?”
I shake my head. “Negative. There are four thousand planets with sentient life that are within a close enough distance for us to study.”
“Jesus Christ.”
This street looks…historic. I walk behind Ellie, shifting my shoulder to avoid brushing up against any of the other humans mulling about.
“I’m tasked with focusing on the American continents, but my parents archived other locations on Earth,” I share.
We continue walking until a very old, mildly decrepit looking technology store comes into view. “And you can pull up materials collected from anywhere?”
“Everywhere on Earth is available to me,” I say and nod.
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “How far back?”
“Since before the dawn of humanity,” I answer as I reach for the door, opening it for her, and a cheerful chime goes off.
We walk up to the front desk, which is covered in paperwork and scraps of metal.
Ellie and the man sitting behind the counter begin conversing in French, and I’m struggling to figure out how I’m going to survive this country without her.
I know a lot of Parisians speak English, but I wonder if it’s the same in the countryside.
“Je ne sais pas comment dire…processing chip,” she says, and grabs my DIRC. “Désolé, son ordinateur est très vieux.”
“Let me see what I have,” he says, his accent thick. The man is short and soft looking, with a friendly smile, and we watch as he swivels to search the shelves behind him.
Ellie pulls out her phone, careful to turn so I can’t see what she’s typing. I fiddle with my hands as I watch the clock for what feels like minutes—hours even. But it’s only sixty seconds before the man sighs and gets up to check somewhere else.
There’s a queasy, nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Gamma-aminobutyric acid. It’s part excitement, part anxiety surrounding the unknown.
If he has the part I need, Ellie and I will split up and I will go on my way…
which seems ideal, except I don’t want to do this alone.
I thrive while researching the things I’m interested in, sure, but I also need conversation and companionship to feel like myself.
But if I can’t fix my DIRC, I don’t know how I’ll go about collecting documents or data, or ever managing to get the information back home.
I might be fucked.
The tech guy returns, a grim expression lining his features.
He says a few things to Ellie in French, and she nods, pulling a folded piece of paper from her bag.
As she unfolds it onto the countertop, I realize its train routes, leading all the way up to the French Alps.
The man points to a city called Nevers, and she smiles.
“Merci, monsieur,” Ellie says, gesturing for us to head outside. She crosses toward the door, and I follow suit.
“He didn’t have a processing chip?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
She shakes her head. “No, but it’s not all bad news. He said there’s another computer store deeper into the suburbs. It’s north of here, but we could take the train.”
“We?”
Ellie exhales. “Yes, we. I have decided I would like to make a deal with you.”