Happy Snak Page 4

  Back into the packing peanuts she plunged, fishing until her fingers touched something cold and metallic.

  She frowned. The object was triangular, like a police badge, but with the dangling chains of a necklace. Gaia didn’t own any necklaces.

  One chain hung from the center of the badge, like a kite string, the other two chains were attached to the upper corners of the badge-shape.

  She pulled the object out of the box and still didn’t know where it came from. It was a necklace, big, heavy and solid gold. It was the pit guard thrown at her. Cheryl must have found it somewhere and packed it with Gaia’s things. As she turned the object over in her hands, her hands began to throb.

  Gaia wouldn’t have called herself traumatized by Kenjan’s death, but being handless had nearly driven her crazy. She had no idea how profound an impact her appendages had on her psyche. Not only did she speak with them and work with them, she thought with them. She was at her calmest while folding takeout boxes or crimping won tons. With her hands occupied by work, she was free to let her mind wander.

  Even delving through packing boxes was enough to trigger a thousand tangents of thought. Though now, every thought ended with Kenjan, Oziru and the Kishocha.

  At first she’d focused on the business aspect of her interactions with the aliens. She’d dreamed of the vastness of the untapped Kishocha market and nearly drooled in excitement. Then worrying thoughts of death, pain and nausea would wiggle into her consciousness. A vision of Kenjan’s last moments would cloud her thrilling new business venture. She would find herself confused and apprehensive, yet still excited. Not like herself at all.

  Microbe had found his way to his second nest chamber and was busily digging and peeing in his bedding. Her hamster had made himself at home and seemed to be settling down to sleep. She dropped Kenjan’s necklace into her desk drawer. When she next saw Oziru, she’d return the thing.

  Gaia glanced over at her plain black and white clock hanging on her human-made wall by the bathroom. Time to go to work. It was Roy’s first day on the job and she didn’t want to set a bad example by being late.

  Blum arrived like an ill-tempered wind. She flung Happy Snak’s gate up, ducked beneath it and knocked aside a yellow plastic chair in her haste. Before Gaia could even say hello, Blum slung her briefcase onto a table, sat down and said, “Has Fitzpatrick arrived yet?”

  Gaia had been instructing Roy on the intricacies of the point-of-sale system.

  “No, he—” Gaia began.

  “He’s late, that’s what he is,” Blum finished. It was one minute before Blum’s scheduled arrival time. Her gaze settled on Roy.

  “PCVs are not authorized to attend this meeting.”

  “What’s a PCV?” Gaia asked.

  “Peace Corps Volunteer,” Roy supplied. “Actually, Cheryl and I are both moonlighting at Happy Snak part-time.”

  Blum raised one slim eyebrow. “And that’s relevant because…?”

  “I asked him to come to this meeting,” Gaia said. “He’s going to be in the store dealing with the aliens too. I thought it could be like an orientation.”

  “I see.” Blum slid the top of her briefcase open. “While that’s an interesting idea, I’d prefer that you weren’t here, Roy. You understand?”

  “Of course.” Roy rose to leave. As he stepped behind Blum, he rolled his eyes at Gaia.

  Fitzpatrick lunged under the half-closed door at thirty seconds past the hour, clearly out of breath. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Blum laid her red-rimmed glare on Fitzpatrick. Gaia had now met Blum on several occasions and had concluded that she suffered from chronic, nagging weariness that propelled her compensatory briskness, impatience and industriousness. Gaia reacted with contrarian laziness. She always felt the urge to slouch and talk in long, meandering sentences to make up for the other woman’s fascist aura of efficiency.

  “Are you ready to begin, Ms. Jones?” Blum tapped her pen against her briefcase.

  “Sure.” Gaia lounged back in her chair. “Oh, wait. Would you like something to drink? We’ve got the cold-drinks station up and running.”

  “Thank you, no.” Blum removed a hand-held from her briefcase.

  “I’d like a Frosticcino.” Fitzpatrick was immediately skewered by Blum’s withering glare. “It’s my preferred coffee-like beverage.”

  Gaia served up two Frosticcinos and handed one to Fitzpatrick.

  Fitzpatrick tasted his drink, while expertly avoiding eye contact with his boss. “Delicious.”

  “If we could get back on task,” Blum said. “The ceremony tomorrow is, without question, the most important alien/human interaction since first contact. I want to make sure you understand.”

  “I think I do.” Gaia knew she didn’t. To remain calm and to maintain her sanity, she relied on a complete denial of political comprehension. Now Blum meant to shatter her peaceful ignorance. Determined to resist, Gaia deliberately turned her thoughts to the meaningless task of unlikely soft-serve ice cream flavors.

  Peaches-n-Lard.

  Cran-Liver Surprise.

  Taco.

  Blum slid the hand-held over to Gaia. “This first volume contains all the basic information regarding protocol. Cover your mouth when you yawn. Don’t refuse water, etc., etc. I’m sure you know all this already from your initial orientation.”

  Gaia hadn’t attended the mandatory orientation. She’d given Fitzpatrick coupons for ten free Frosticcinos to sign her off. Fitzpatrick apparently remembered the bribe, because he injected a little extra nervous cheer into his smile. He opened his own briefcase.

  “In order to give you a more in-depth look at Kishocha culture, we decided to bring the film Kenjan made for the embassy. Are these full-wall screens?”

  “No.” Gaia despised restaurants with mammoth screens dominating the walls. She preferred walls to be walls, not interactive shopping networks. In that way, Happy Snak was old fashioned. She did, however, have a few freestanding games. “We can play the film on my Cherry Bomb game.”

  A few minutes passed while Gaia loaded the film. Blum and Fitzpatrick dragged their chairs over. Gaia hit the start button. The screen went black. Then the words Kishocha For Humans appeared, followed by several bars of chiming, gurgling music and footage of a shimmering ocean sunset.

  “Wow! Is that their home world?” Gaia asked.

  Blum shook her head. “No, it’s stock footage of the sun setting off the coast of Fiji. The Kishocha don’t use video technology. No pictures exist of their home world.”

  “Oh.” Gaia slumped down in her chair. On-screen, the sunset dissolved, and Gaia found herself staring at the set of A-Ki Today, a rather dull talk-and-news show that aired every Tuesday night. The studio set contained a desk, two chairs and a fake window framing a fake spacescape. A very tall, extremely thin Kishocha sat at the desk. Its cranial tendrils were long, like Kenjan’s. The tendrils were not striped. They alternated, one pure white and the next pure black. Its face was entirely white, except for an adorable spot over its left eye. It wore no pit covering, which Gaia noticed immediately because the flesh was bright red against its white throat. It wore no clothing and had mismatched eyes—the right was purple and the left gold. The alien’s hands were huge.

  “Hello to you, friendly humans.” The alien spoke remarkably unaccented English. “My name is Wave Walker, and I am a humble servant here to tell you about the race of the Kishocha.” The alien paused to lean forward, obviously reading the teleprompter. “This informative monologue will help humans better understand the Kishocha way of living.

  “First, an introduction. I am the servant of elegant and lovely Kenjan, who is consort to glorious Oziru, our Imperial Monarch.” Wave gestured to a screen, which displayed a picture of Kenjan sitting next to Oziru at the Embassy Club. Both aliens wore garments made entirely of golden chains, pearls and uncut gemstones. Three servants supported Oziru’s massive cranial tendrils. “This is Kenjan and this is Oziru. Do you know who is more exalted
?” Wave paused, as if waiting for an answer. “You cannot tell? Well, it is easy to tell who is more exalted. See the cranial tendrils? Oziru’s are beautifully huge. This means that Oziru is of divinity.

  “‘But Wave,’ you say, ‘what is divinity caste?’ Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything. The Kishocha have many, many castes, but there are six main levels, the same as the number of fingers on your hand.” Wave held out its massive webbed hand to emphasize its six digits. Off-camera a voice whispered, “Humans only have five fingers, Wave.”

  Wave cowered. “I’m sorry, my master. I forgot the humans are bereft of a finger.”

  “It’s all right. Just keep going,” the voice said.

  Gaia paused the film and looked at Blum. “Why didn’t they edit that out?”

  “Kenjan liked the raw quality,” Blum said.

  “Is that Kenjan talking behind the camera?”

  Blum nodded curtly.

  Fitzpatrick said, “Let’s press on.”

  Wave pulled its hand back, concealing its fingers beneath the desk.

  “The six levels of Kishocha are like this: divinity, structure, priest, soldier, servant and cleaner. Divinity is the highest rank. The divine have a very hard job. They sing the prayers that move the currents of the sea and the currents of the wind. They dance the sacred motions that invoke gravitation. They are closest to the god, and most holy, and most important. On A-Ki Station there is only one divine Kishocha, and that is Oziru. Remember that we must all bow down in supplication to Oziru. Without Oziru, we would be lost and sick with no hope and die. Let’s all say, ‘Thank you, Oziru! We love you!’ Okay, go!” Wave held its hand up to its ear, as though waiting for a response from the imaginary audience.

  “Thank you, Oziru. We love you,” Fitzpatrick whispered.

  Wave continued.

  “Next beneath divinity caste is structure caste. This sphere we live in, that you humans call a ship, is really just another kind of Kishocha! There are five big Kishocha called structures whose loving embrace creates Ki Island. We must thank, love and care for the structures, because without them we would float naked in the void without water or shelter.

  “You humans may not live inside the structures, as we do, but the name of the structure upon whose back the buildings that make up your human space station ride is Protective Cradle Everlasting. Please sometimes say thank you to Protective Cradle Everlasting for allowing your buildings to live, like barnacles, upon its back.”

  Gaia stopped the show. “I am completely lost.”

  “The Kishocha orb is made from five interlocking biological entities called structures,” Fitzpatrick said. “They call it Ki Island.”

  “I got the words okay. But what do they mean? Are the walls alive? Are they…you know, watching me?”

  “We don’t think so,” Blum said. “Not any more than your hand or lung is watching you. From what we can surmise, the structures are sentient beings but not intelligent. They respond to injuries and stress, but aren’t able to speak except to Oziru.”

  Gaia glanced askance. No wonder that Kishocha had been so pissed off when she’d hammered a nail into the wall.

  Fitzpatrick went on. “We think these structures are simply massive, shelled organisms. They are huge creatures the size of whole continents. It has been suggested that the structures are themselves colonies of smaller organisms that act synchronously like sentient coral might behave.”

  “Sentient coral?” Gaia felt a helpful surge of extra blood rushing to her brain as she struggled to comprehend.

  “We do not, however, know anything for certain,” Fitzpatrick said.

  “Does that clear it up?” Blum asked.

  “Um… yeah.” Gaia pushed play again.

  Wave scratched its muzzle. “After the structures, come the priests. My master, beautiful Kenjan, is a priest who also holds the rank of divine consort. Every day, my master sings songs and makes love to the eminent Oziru. Please, my master, show yourself to the disconnected-eye camera device so that the humans can see true beauty.”

  “If I go, no one will be here to hold the camera,” Kenjan’s voice responded.

  “The human there can hold the disconnected-eye.” Wave pointed off-screen. While arrangements were being made, Gaia mechanically rose and refilled Fitzpatrick’s Frosticcino. Finally, Kenjan appeared on-screen.

  The alien glided forward and lowered itself into the upholstered chair next to Wave’s desk. As Kenjan approached, Wave lay across the desk in a supplicant bow.

  Kenjan wore no adornments on its cranial tendrils. They tumbled freely over Kenjan’s shoulders and over a broad collar of gold and green stones that began at the alien’s throat, covered its shoulders and spilled down its chest. Kenjan also wore a wide, low belt hung with white silk panels. The effect was like seeing some ancient, animal-muzzled god reclining on a cheap, overstuffed beige chair.

  As Kenjan spoke, Gaia began to notice a marked difference in Wave’s and Kenjan’s demeanors. Kenjan’s speech and movements were languorous and sensual. But that made sense; it was Kenjan’s job to be sensual.

  “You may rise, Wave.”

  Wave’s head popped back up. “How lovely you look today. Say, are you wearing the clothes of the human designer called Nidal Habibi?”

  “Yes, how sensitive of you to notice.”

  “So, my master, what is the priest caste?”

  “The priest caste is the law-making class of the Kishocha.” Kenjan’s voice was low and smooth. “We hear the laws from the god and relate them to our subjects.”

  “Who is the most important priest on Ki Island?” Wave asked ingenuously. “Besides you, oh most beloved one.”

  “I am merely the consort, Wave. My job is to make Oziru happy. The ruling priest is Seigata, my noble sibling, purest of heart and hearing. Seigata also is the personal priest to Oziru and myself. Everything we touch is blessed by Seigata.”

  “Except the profane human things.”

  “Why point out facts which are better ignored, Wave?”

  Wave looked embarrassed and coughed, then perked back up. “We happen to have a picture of Seigata. Secretly obtained! How exciting…” Wave gestured to the tiny screen that was used for news clips from Mars or Earth. The human cameraman had enough sense to zoom in close.

  Through a thick tangle of deep green vines, they saw Seigata kneeling on a smooth blue floor next to a small pool. The high priest was speaking and dipping objects into the water. Some objects resembled dishes, others, jewelry or clothes. A tiny yellow bird flapped by, startling Seigata.

  Gaia frowned. “They have birds inside the orb?”

  Fitzpatrick leaned forward, obviously excited by the prospect of the internal biosphere of the orb. “We suspect they have much more than that. We know there’s a lot of water flowing through there, and Kenjan told us that there is quite a bit of vegetation, although it wasn’t very specific. Kenjan could verge on caginess.”

  “I wouldn’t call it cagey,” Blum said. “More like extremely arrogant. Talking about the Kishocha part of the station bored it, and so Kenjan never did. I don’t think the alien was deliberately trying to withhold information. After we persisted in our questions, Kenjan did go through the trouble to make this program. Kenjan said it was to answer all of our silly, dull questions at once.”

  “Yes, so it could get back to asking silly, dull questions of its own, like where do human babies come from. I spent hours answering that question,” Fitzpatrick murmured. “Kenjan promised to let me know more about the life cycle of the Kishocha in return, but managed to avoid ever making good on the promise.”

  Again Blum moved in to modify Fitzpatrick’s rancor. “Kenjan understood that we were fascinated by the Kishocha, it just didn’t care. Without cynicism I can say that humans inhabit A-Ki Station purely because Kenjan was amused and intrigued by us.”

  “We were like Kenjan’s sea monkeys,” Fitzpatrick said, and Gaia finally thought she understood the situation. Their sponsor, Kenj
an, was gone and without that one special alien, A-Ki Station’s fate had become precarious. But that didn’t make sense, did it? How could the Kishocha care so little about the entire human race?

  “But I thought we were exchanging things with them.”

  “Such as?” Blum tapped the tabletop.

  “Top-secret stuff?”

  Fitzpatrick emitted a noise that was too much like a laugh to pass for a cough. “I’m afraid not. When Kenjan died, we weren’t certain whether we’d be allowed to stay here or not. Luckily, they wanted you. Before that, we thought we might have to dismantle the whole station.”

  “So please refrain from shirking your responsibilities,” Blum said. “We hope, someday, to convince the Kishocha to share the technology for their gravitational field generators with us.”

  “We were making headway before Kenjan’s convenient death,” Fitzpatrick remarked.

  “Convenient?”

  “Not for us.” Fitzpatrick rattled the ice in his Frosticcino. “But it’s beneficial for many high-ranking Kishocha. Kenjan was not all that popular with them.”

  “But none of that concerns us,” Blum said. “Right now we need to find another high-ranking ally among the Kishocha or our station is finished.”

  Gaia’s response was a noncommittal “hmmm”. They resumed watching Kenjan’s program. Wave interviewed Kenjan about the remaining three classes of Kishocha. The soldier class was pretty self-explanatory. They defended the Kishocha from enemies of the god and also policed the Kishocha population. Wave outlined the three major laws, which the soldiers enforced: Love the god, obey your superiors, and honor the water. Blum noted that these were the three precepts that Gaia should pay most attention to. In addition, there were myriad rules of etiquette that she couldn’t be expected to learn overnight. But if she could manage not to blaspheme against the Kishocha god, talk back to any important Kishocha, or dump bleach in the Kishocha waters, human/Kishocha relations would probably be okay.