Time is an interesting prism. As a glass one does for sunlight, the one we live in diffracts, fractures and separates our view of life. I am not the boy I was ten years ago. I can barely conceive of that child who went through an extraordinary event. This is why time is like a prism: experiences become colored and tinted as others are piled on top. What was so important to me then now seems childish and immature. However, back then, it was dramatically real for me. Had it not been for the presence of one particular adult, I hardly think I would have transformed into the person I am today. I never got the opportunity to say thank you in a proper manner, and perhaps this is why I am committing the tale to paper. Sometimes I wonder if it all was just a dream, but reality has a way of letting me know, even ten years later, that what happened then carries forward. It is still shaping me.
Louis Albert Moran. This was, I think, the first cruelty visited on me by my parents. Louis Xavier Moran was one grandfather. Albert Dominic Samuel Beckworth was the other. I was named after them. I suppose I should be honored. I loved them both. They were good to me while they lived. I remember them fondly. Yet I cannot escape the notion that my parents, who also loved me despite everything else that occurred, could have found a different combination to do them honor. The fourteen-year-old nestled within my mind would have preferred Samuel Xavier Moran. The infantile whim to change my name remains. I should note that my perception of the name was clouded by a series of movies: Revenge of the Nerds. Had I watched them and taken heed of the message within, I might have been bolder in defending the namesake status. I was fourteen, after all, and the name stigmatized me. It was not a cool name. It was not in fashion. I was not a Kyle, Jason, or Justin. I was Louis. Never Lou. I tended to react fairly negatively to the shortened version. I continue to react negatively to it. I suspect I was trying to lend an aspect of dignity or maturity to a name I despised. The two men for whom I carried the honor were dignified and respectable. I should have thought of them each time I winced when my name was called out.
The movie association further traumatized Louis Albert Moran because I was very much the nerd. Thin as a pencil. My ribs could be counted from fifty yards away. The limp dark hair atop my head refused to take any decent style. It curled at the ends just enough that I had to keep it trimmed rather short. The ends would, if left too long, flip up and lend me a girlish quality. This was undesirable in middle school, and even less so in high school. My thin face was adorned with a set of glasses. The problems with my eyes, the astigmatism and myopia, necessitated a frame style that was unflattering: large and square. It was as if I had two television screens attached to my head. They dominated my features and that was, perhaps, a blessing in disguise. Like most teenagers, I had the occasional breakout of acne. It was never bad, at least not as horrific as for some, but it made me self-conscious nonetheless. Given my thin neck, narrow head and oversized spectacles, I had a self-image that was not very pleasant. My thin body and near complete lack of athletic ability did not improve the perception for others or myself. I was the classic nerd. A geek. A dweeb. A weenie. Although I was unaware of it at the time, I was also fairly intelligent. Others noticed it before I did, and this did nothing more than complete the picture. Louis Albert Moran was a nerd. I was almost a perfectly tailored one at that.
Looking back through the prism of time, I realize that I should have been grateful. It spared me some of the problems others faced. It introduced a mundane set of issues to be certain, but I was fortunate in a number of regards. I did not get invited to parties very often. People as dweebish as me usually hosted those affairs I did attend. We did not drink, smoke pot, or engage in physically licentious games. We watched movies, played video games, or surfed around on the Internet. The Worldwide Web was nascent in those days. It was nearing the mid-point of the nineteen-nineties. A few of my friends and I had discovered that lives could be lived through computers where no one disparaged what you knew and only what you did not know. Knowledge was a premium. I was, to some extent, a hacker of sorts. I taught myself the scripting tricks and the methods for sneaking into servers. My parents were incensed once they found out what I was doing. That, however, did not stop me. Time spent on the computer in early relay chats and on bulletin boards gave me a profound sense of superiority. I learned quickly, adapted to the changing environments and technologies, and forged a completely separate identity in the cyber world. Although I was not a troublemaker by nature, I did venture into some activities that were questionable. Instead of going to parties where I could get rip-roaring drunk, I was sitting behind a computer monitor deciphering bit streams and honing stealthy skills. I was a geek. I still am. I held a belief that a drunken athlete would never ascend into a sphere of influence or power because he knew how to throw a ball or chug a quart of beer. I was correct. I did not know or understand how right I was at the time. I also had little idea of how invaluable my curiosity about technology would become when I was fourteen.
I should note that computers changed my life because, as usual, I had snuck down into the family office to while away a few midnight hours searching for open systems I could snoop around in. The house was dark and quiet. My parents were safely snuggled together in a bedroom one floor above me, as were my younger sister and older brother. I, the middle child, was living his nerdesque life tapping away on a keyboard. I was happy. My parents were blithely unaware. My brother was not around to pester and poke fun at me. My sister was not being a nuisance. I was in my element. I was FreeByte, and Louis Albert Moran was tagging along only for the ride. The numbers. The commands. The scrolling screens of information. These were my allies and friends. I understood them, and they seemed to understand me. I was in control. Nobody was pushing me around. FreeByte could go where he chose when he chose. I did not know my limits or acknowledge that I should have any. I did not take into account that I was helping set the stage for battles to come later in the lives of many people. I was a fourteen-year-old nobody who had finally found a place where he counted for something. The others in the on- line realm respected FreeByte because he, or she if they so chose to believe, learned quickly. I was a rebel with a modem card. I was an idiot savant of cyberspace. I was also on the computer at a prohibited hour, and my senses were alert for any activity or sound that did not emanate from the keyboard or the computer case. I was wired: both literally and figuratively.
I think it was the glow that first caught my attention.
A light that did not originate from either the monitor or an electric bulb was out of place. I instinctively shut down the command windows I was using and disengaged from the Internet connection. It was rote habit. I was halfway through the process of deleting log files when it dawned on me the glow had not gone away. More important was the fact it did not seem to be coming from anywhere in the office. It was bluish-purple light of unknown origin. Had I not been so wrecked from nerves and fear of discovery by my parents, I might have appreciated how beautiful it was. My mind was racing along with my finger to remove any trace of FreeByte from the computer. The adult Morans were already suspicious of the middle child. Little Louis was a bit too fond of the computer, and there always seemed to be some odd ailment affecting the equipment that only he could solve. They suspected but could not prove what I was doing, and I wanted to protect that particular relationship aspect with my parents. That is what I was thinking as I erased any evidence I could find. Throughout my breakneck race, the glowing continued. It seemed to be coming in through the window, but I was not paying strict attention at the moment. Our home backed up against undeveloped land. It was a swamp for the most part, and the black flies and mosquitoes were terrible in the summer. It was January at this time, fortunately. Had it been summer, a greater tragedy would have taken place and gone unnoticed by everyone. As it was, a young boy who fancied himself a great cyber warrior was awake during that dark hour. When the monitor was switched off and the computer powered down, the glow did not diminish. It was also pulsing in an irregular rhythm, and this is what finally and fully grabbed my attention.
FreeByte had disappeared into the geeky form of Louis Albert Moran. I stood in the office scanning everything for any sign of movement indicating I had been caught. There was only silence. The high-pitched whine of the computer components, radio frequencies generated by the various chips, was absent. I was alone and undiscovered. Only the continuing presence of the pulsing light bothered me. I harbored a fear that I would be blamed for it by my parents. I was certain my older brother would try to pin the guilt on me, and so I was compelled to investigate further. I crept through the house like a cat, sticking my nose into every room to find the source of the light. If my parents had left their window shade up, the light just might wake them. It presented too risky of a situation. My father had learned to feel the sides and back of the computer monitor to detect any illicit activity. Since I alone could operate the machine in unimaginable ways, the blame would rightly be mine. Thus, I had to find the light source and extinguish it before it led me into deeper trouble. The problem, I soon discovered, was that the emission was not in the house. I had known that from the beginning, more or less, but I could not take any chances. The house had to be surveyed. When I came up empty-handed, I stared out of the office window at the frozen swamp. The glow was definitely coming from outside.
Common sense is only a whimsy for a teenaged boy.
I cannot say for certain exactly why I had to complete the investigation. Since the light was not housebound, I could scarcely be faulted for it. Yet that is not the manner of thinking of a fourteen-year-old. I was annoyed. I was also scared, and not by the prospect of what lay in our backyard. I did not want to be caught and suffer another stint of being banned from the computer. I had to find the light source, extinguish it, and sneak back into the house. Bravery was not truly within my personal idiom when it came to real life. There were countless times when I had been ridiculed for even making an attempt both at home and at school. Necessity, however, can make heroes of even the most cowardly fools. That is what drove me to don boots and a jacket, and eventually out the door. I had long since mastered the house alarm, so it did not present a barrier to my nocturnal mission. I slipped out of the back door. It was not until I was nearing the edge of the swamp that I began to question what might be causing the light. It continued to pulse, and yet it seemed weaker than before. It was also more purple than blue. The hard, cold January was my co-conspirator. The mushy surface of the bog was frozen solid, although it did crack in places where I trod. Decaying plant life can generate its own form of heat and keep at bay frigid temperatures. I had to tread carefully lest I break through the thin crust and sink up to my waist in the fetid, cold waters. The last thing I wanted to do was leave a muck-ridden trail that would be easy to spot and follow. It would be a dead giveaway come the morning light. All these thoughts shoved aside any notion that I just might be heading into danger. I was more concerned with my own preservation and rights.
I suppose I became afraid when I first saw what was causing the light. I had traveled some one hundred and fifty yards into the swamp. The stands of dead cattails, shrubs and trees provided ample cover. My brain suddenly railed at the fact that no one could see me. I was alone despite the fact I was not that far from my house. The radiance continued to pull me further. Dumb curiosity overcomes fear when nothing traumatic happens immediately. That psychological function is the basis for every blood-soaked, teenage horror film. It seems to me that the danger must be readily apparent before the fight or flight instinct kicks in. Until it does, humans will plod along into the very mouth of danger. Then we will complain when we are ambushed and get bitten. A deer would never willingly walk into a cave where a bear lives. We would. Sometimes it is difficult to see where the human capacity for rationalization is beneficial. This was such a case. I scrambled over the fallen branches and logs, through the tangle of underbrush, in search of the light. I found it. I also did not run away. I stood in one spot and stared stupidly at it. It did not make sense to me. I was trying to fashion a reasonable explanation for what I was witnessing, but the parts simply would not gel into a coherent picture.
This is what I saw.
A trench had been ploughed through the frozen marsh. It seemed as if some crazed farmer had come out and decided to create a furrow that was needlessly deep and large. The distressing part was that this insane farmer had also planted an enormous eggplant at the end of the trench. It stretched along for about twenty feet or so, and then abruptly came to a halt where the mud-splattered eggplant was stuck in the ooze. It was also glowing. It was the source of the light. Nature has made teenagers ill-equipped to deal with any phenomenon outside the ordinary. We are not bright creatures at this stage of development. We can engage in the most foolish of activities or carry out heinous acts against our fellow teenagers. If we ran the world, it would have been destroyed long ago. In truth, it would be more accurate to say we would have destroyed ourselves. As I look at the world today though older eyes, I realize it is an unfair assessment in part: humans like to destroy one another regardless of age. There I stood in the freezing cold night, clad in pajama bottoms with only boots and jacket to protect me as I gaped at a glowing object that had no reason to be there or even exist. Something in my brain had switched off. I believe the instinctual part of my mind would have forced me to run back to the house and ignore what was lying in the swamp under normal circumstances. Curiosity killed the cat, and for very good reasons. My legs did begin to move, but not in the expected direction. Instead of walking away and chalking it up to a waking dream, I inched closer. Nothing attacked me. No beast sprang forth to rip my head off and feast on my entrails. The lone maniacal murderer was not hidden in the copse waiting for an unsuspecting teenager to stumble along to be ruthlessly slaughtered for the simple sake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was only the swamp, the trench, the radiant eggplant, and an idiot of a boy.
I gradually stepped right up to the object. It was glowing. Oddly enough, it was also colder around the eggplant than the natural air. That further confused my sensibilities. I studied it. It was obviously not any form of vegetable. Those portions not covered by muck appeared metallic. When the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, the object seemed to shine. It was strangely beautiful in its own fashion. I still thought it looked rather like a humongous eggplant, but that was only because of the purple light that shimmered around it. The light was also growing fainter. I have thought back on this many times to puzzle out why I was not scared right out of my skin. I blame Hollywood. We are presented with a dual image of nature. On one hand it can be loathsome and frightening, even deadly at all turns. Then again, we are presented with a benign view of the world wherein mystical and wonderful things can drop into our lives at any moment. I find it hardly surprising that teenagers are confused about what to do under abnormal conditions. Teenagers are abnormal. I was abnormal. The situation was abnormal. It all cancelled itself out. The only thing that remained was shocked curiosity. I had never seen a large, metal, glowing eggplant before, and I wanted to find out what it was.
I walked up to it. The cold seeped though my boots, jacket, and pajamas as if I were standing naked in the bog. I began to shiver. My fingers were becoming numb and stiff. I leaned closer to it. The air grew colder around me. I was slowly becoming a human Popsicle, but I did not retreat. I wanted to touch it. The realization that it was a stupid idea was instantaneous when the fingers on my right hand went from numb to completely unfeeling. The skin had even turned a bizarre, waxy shade of white. I withdrew my arm immediately and stuck my hand under an armpit inside of my jacket. The cold was so intense against my warm, naked flesh I actually yelped in surprise. The sound echoed dully through the swamp. The eggplant did not react. My body was vibrating violently. The frigid air was eating into my flesh. It was surreal. I was transfixed. Two or three minutes passed as I examined the object while gradually freezing to death. My hand ached as if it had been burned. The narrowness of my shoulder and the thinness of my bicep merging into an armpit did not offer adequate warmth, and they were fast coming as cold as my hand. Had it not been for the hole that suddenly opened in the back of the eggplant, I would have died where I stood. The flight or fight instinct finally kicked in. I backpedaled away from the object, promptly tripped over a tree root, lost a boot in the mud, and landed with a squishy thud on the semi- frozen ground. The unshod foot punctured the ice crust. Cold water bubbled up, saturating my pajamas and underwear instantly. I was shivering even more.
To this day I am uncertain as to how pink and yellow can combine to make a new color, but that was the hue of the dim light that spilled from the opening. It was not orange light, as might be expected, but pink and yellow branded together. The hole was perfectly round. The edge of the opening was so smooth the light tumbled over the edge without any effort. The radiance was not the only thing that emerged. If some day I should succumb to Alzheimer’s Disease and lose every vestige of my mind, there is one memory that will never degrade or disappear: it was what came sliding out of that hole. I forgot about being cold. I forgot about the mud that was soaking through my clothing. I forgot I was terrified. It was as if the eggplant had defecated a grayish-pink bullet. It seemed to be encased in a jelly-like substance that held closely to the form. The thing slid gracelessly out of the opening and landed with a wet plop in the muck. A zookeeper accustomed to handling elephants might make nothing of the sound, but it sent an entirely different shiver up my spine. It was unnatural to me, and not just the noise either. The mottled pink bullet lay on the ground motionless for a few seconds. I could not decide if the thing had ever been alive, but the truth was not long in the discovery. Two spindly appendages telescoped out each side. The transparent casing stretched along like a protective amoeba. A knob appeared on each limb, and then six even more spindly extrusions emerged. They looked like a bad assemblage of day-old spaghetti that had been slapped together as a joke, and then coated in gelatin for added affect. What I did not find funny was the fact they were moving on their own. A shriek of terror should have ripped from me when, a quarter of the distance down from the section of the bullet that tapered to blunt point, a slit opened. It stretched a third of the way around the cylindrical trunk. It moved like a mouth, except that there were slivers of the pinkish-gray material pulled between the edges. I remember thinking that this was not good. Neither the shape of the thing nor its very existence was good.
The mouth, and that is indeed what it turned out to be, was bad. The eye was unfortunately even worse. Another slit appeared some ways up from the first opening. It was roughly the same size and shape as the mouth, but the similarities ended there. It was filled with a slightly green pool dappled in three places with dark ochre drops. It wobbled like liquid paraffin. Fear finally sank in full bore when it gave every appearance of looking right at me. I started to slide backwards through the icy mud. That I was being covered in the foul essence of the swamp no longer mattered. A glowing eggplant had excreted some form of creature, and it was staring at me. While the notion is a bit crude, that was what I was thinking. The flight part of my animal heritage was starting to take over. I could deal with the overall shape of the thing. The slimy-looking covering was almost logical. I could accept appendages had oozed out of its sides. I could even sponsor the notion it had to have a mouth. It was the eye that unnerved me. It was gruesome. It jiggled in a fashion that eyes should not. Had there been two, I might not have been so afraid, but there was only one. Furthermore, it had three irises. Admittedly I did not entirely form my thoughts in that manner, but it is the gist of what was stampeding through my mind. A pink-gray bullet with tentacle- like arms with six wobbly fingers attached to the hand, sporting an enormous mouth with filaments straddling the opening, and the hideous greenish pool with burnt-orange pupils was too much for me to accept. I may have wet myself. It is hard to say given the fact I was sitting in a freezing cold swamp. I might even have soiled myself. I think I can be hardly faulted if I did.
My free leg could not find purchase in the slippery goo underneath. The bootless foot was sinking deeper into the quagmire. One hand was still useless with a burning pain from being frozen. I had always been clumsy at sports, try as I might, and this was a time when I wished I had been more assertive in gym classes. I could not make my arms, body and legs work in unison. My limbs were akimbo in the muck, and flailing futilely. The creature did not help my state. The arms seemed to have no end. They crept further and further out of its body reaching toward me. A ghastly gurgling noise was filling the air. It covered my labored breathing as I struggled to get away. Those grotesque limbs continued to slither out to me. The finger-type things attached to the round pads at the end of the arms snaked through the mud. My left leg was submerged nearly to my knee in the swamp. I fought to free it, to escape the clutches of the monster that was threatening me. I desperately wanted that thing to go back to whatever nightmare it had escaped from and leave me be. Curiosity killed the cat because the cat got too close to the beast that will eat it. I was the cat and I could see the beast. The ankle and knee of the entrapped leg were beginning to throb with pain as I frantically twisted it around in an effort to break the clutching grip of the muck. While I was not too keen on being in the swamp, I was even less pleased that I could not escape. I thought I was going to vomit when I felt something preposterously warm slide over what was exposed of my leg. One by one, the pink worms crept over my knee. A very odd sensation began to sweep over me. I thought I was going to die. I was certain of it. The only issue I had with the concept was that it did not seem to be my idea.
I am dying. Assist me.
I did not feel as if I was dying. I was extremely cold. My hand felt like it was on fire. I was becoming increasingly wetter as I sat in the mud. However, nothing else felt out of the ordinary except for the spider urchin that was grasping my thigh.
There is room within you. Give me refuge.
“Give you what?” I asked in utter confusion.
There is no time. Please… give me refuge. I am dying.
It took three beats of my heart before the realization snapped into place. The creature was talking to me, and yet it was not. Only gurgling sounds were coming from its maw. I could hear the voice when there was no other voice but my own. I stared at the creature.
I mean no harm. I only seek encapsulation within you. There is space enough for all. Please!
The voice sounded very worried. I did believe it was dying. Had I not seen the movie E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial at least a dozen times, I would have dived headlong into panic. Hollywood had done its best to misinform me regarding a wide range of issues; however, it had also prepared me for the possibility I might one day come into contact with something that was not from this world. The creature looked pitiful. It was spattered with mud. The gelatinous eye was jiggling while it looked at me. The strangely firm grasp of the fingers entwined around my leg lent a reality to the situation that stunted my terror.
“How?”
Release your fear. Give me entrance. Accept that it is only I.
I was not certain what it meant. My fear was already falling away. The warmth of the strange hand was seeping into my body. I was uneasy with the concept that this thing was somehow going to crawl into my body. It said there was room, and I simply had to disagree. The bullet-shaped figure had considerable mass compared to my rather scrawny form. It seemed impossible that both his body and mine could occupy the same skin. I would explode.
Accept that it is only I.
The voice repeated, except it was growing faint. The creature was dying beyond any shadow of doubt. Even the appendage was losing heat. Moreover, the strange casing around the limb appeared to be peeling away. One of the worm-like fingers was revealed. In less than a second, it started to swell. Bubbles emerged on what could only be called the skin. They rapidly increased in size. The finger, at least I guessed it was finger, split open along one side with tremendous force. A substance, closely resembling liquid rust, spurt from the rupture onto my leg. It was hot and steamed in the cold air. The creature gurgled in pain. At the same time, I heard a howl in my brain. It raked against my nerves as if I were feeling the anguish. A new form of panic began to build in me, and I think it was not just my own. It was not so much a fear of death as it was a feeling that it was senseless when sanctuary was within reach with little time to spare. I did not understand the thoughts. They were foreign to me in a very real sense.
Please!
It was more than a plea: it was begging. It was now barely a whisper around my ears. I was at a loss. Two more fingers had lost their protective casing and, just as the first, had erupted. The lacerations in the flesh were long and uneven. The thing was in agony. Here was a creature losing its life and having to confront the limitations of my understanding. I knew it had given me instructions, but I was unable to fathom how I should act. They were nebulous directions at best as far as I was concerned.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted, feeling shame and remorse at the same instant. It was an unusual combination of emotions for me.
Accept I…
The voice trailed off just as the last remaining fingers exploded. My leg was covered in warm gore. The part acting as the base of the hand was beginning to bubble and swell. I knew what was going to happen. I was sickened, but not by the sight: it was the unbearable pain I knew the being was suffering. There is another instinct in humans that comes from deep within. Like curiosity, it can lead to acts of bravery when all else fails. I was seized with a single idea. I have no clue as to whether it was truly mine, but I knew I had to make a choice. Fear dissipated. In its place stood compassion and a love for life the likes of which I had never known. I wanted the creature to live. I was willing to do anything to ensure it did survive. I accepted that its life was as valuable to it as mine was to me. I reached out with my good hand and clasped the one loosely, nearly uselessly, holding onto my leg.
“Okay,” I said in a hurry. “I accept you! I accept you!”
The next thing I remember is standing at the edge of the swamp in my backyard. I was covered in mud from head to toe. My boot had magically appeared and my foot was sloshing around in a sea of muck. I held up my hand and looked at it. The searing pain was gone. There was only encrusted dirt and grime. I then noticed that I ached all over. My muscles felt hot and tight, and then I realized I was sweating. Confusion rippled through me along with a tremor of trepidation. I slowly turned in a circle. When I was facing the swamp, I stopped. I could see my footprints leading both into and out of the bog. I remembered going in, but I did not remember coming out. Unease percolated through me. I began to wonder if I had had some manner of waking dream wherein I acted out what I was imagining. I remembered the glowing eggplant. I also remembered the creature that had been regurgitated from it. I remembered it was dying a grisly death. That part slipped past the boundaries of a dream and entered nightmare territory. The only part I had trouble reconciling was the fact the sun was coming up. I had begun playing on the computer at around one o’clock in the morning, and now it was near seven. I turned again and started trudging up to the house trying to formulate some cohesive explanation I could give my parents.
My parents were not pleased. They were convinced I had no idea what had happened since I seemed completely addled. I went so far as to tell the truth about using the computer, from which I was banned for a two-week period, and then seeing the glowing light. I decided to leave out the bits about the eggplant and the pink bullet it had evacuated. My mother allowed me to stay home from school that day because I was soaked and had been wandering around in the swamp most of the night. She feared I would get deathly sick. The odd aspect was I felt perfectly fine. I was neither sleepy nor sick. My body felt as if it slept all night without interruption. The only clue I had that something had occurred was the nagging soreness in my muscles. My brother and sister were not happy with my being allowed to stay home. To appease them, my parents grounded me to the house for a week, on top of my banishment from the computer. Todd and Marla, at least she got a bad name as well, eyed me suspiciously until they went off to school. My father also cast me an askance look before he departed. My mother then instructed me to strip in the garage, throw my pajamas in the trash, and then take a bath once she had gone. I was more than happy to comply.
Three days without a computer and forced confinement in the house should have driven me insane. Even though I was only beginning to serve out my punishment, I unsettled the rest of the family as I endured my sentence without complaint. I spent most of the time, when I was not at school, sitting in my room sorting out what I could remember from my adventure in the swamp. I finally had to conclude I had been in a dream state. I began to doubt I had even been on the computer that night. Todd and Marla were completely unsuccessful at taunting me about my punishments. I had other things on my mind and simply shrugged at whatever jibes they tossed in my direction. The docile demeanor I was displaying started to disturb my parents. Mother and father watched me like hawks while I ate meals. My appetite had not suffered, and this seemed to comfort them. Mother periodically would feel my forehead to check if I was coming down with a fever. Father openly speculated that something drastic had to have happened since I was not constantly whining about the computer ban. Even I could not fully explain my mood. I was neither happy nor unhappy. Nothing upset me. If I had been an automobile, a mechanic would say I was stuck in neutral. I thought of that on my own, and it was as good an explanation as any. I believe my family was expecting a turnaround in me when the weekend arrived. I was grounded and cut off from my favorite form of activity. Todd was especially mean-spirited on Saturday when he loudly agreed to take Marla to the movies and pointed out that I was not allowed to go.
“I’m still grounded,” I told him calmly. “Comes with the punishment.”
“What is wrong with you, Louis?” Todd asked me in exasperation while standing in my doorway.
Todd and I look alike, although he had more flesh on his bones, did not wear glasses, could do whatever he pleased with his hair and rarely broke out in pimples. He was also taller, but that was reasonable considering he was three years my senior. At that precise moment, Todd looked more like our mother as he stood there glaring at me. He wanted me to be angry, and I was not. I simply could not call up the emotion.
“I’m okay,” I told him quietly.
“What did you do back there in the swamp?” He demanded.
“I don’t know.”
It was a lie if I held any belief other than I had been in a dream state.
“Mom and dad better get you to a doctor ‘cause you’re messed up.”
It was the parting shot from my brother. I half-suspected he was going to mention it to our parents. I did not care. I sat on my bed with a schoolbook resting in my lap. I normally tended to save my homework until the last minute, but a computer-free world gave me ample time to be a proper student. It almost disturbed me when I found I was really interested in what I was studying. There was a distinctly satisfying feeling that came along with learning about math, science, history and English. If there was any need for me to see a doctor, my new study habits were surely the symptom. With Todd and Marla gone, I went back to reading. It was nearly pleasurable. I was beginning to think I was sick.
“You want some lunch, Louis?” My mother called up the stairs to me.
“Sure. I’m kind of hungry,” I replied.
I set the book down and then performed an entirely novel act: I looked at it longingly. It was a history book. I was disgusted with myself. I hated history as a high school freshman. I did not care about the people or events one bit. The only time I took any active interest was when certain technological advancements were achieved because I knew each one brought us one step closer to the computer age. Other than that, I had no use for history. I shuddered in horror at the thought – the depressing realization – that I would return to the book after lunch and continue to read it with delight. I was starting to think a trip to see a doctor was in order. If the history book did not make a case for a medical visit, then lunch did.
“That’s cauliflower, Louis, and there’s not enough for the three of us,” my father told me in astonishment.
“Oh, sorry,” I said meekly and started to put the vegetable back in the bowl.
“You hate cauliflower,” my mother added with concern in her voice.
“Just thought I’d give it a try again… you know, see if it’s still as bad as I remember it.”
They stared at me as if I had lost my mind.
“Louis,” my father said slowly, “ever since your night out in the swamp you’ve been… behaving very strange. Be honest with me: what went on out there?”
“I’ve already told you,” I answered.
“Sitting in the office on the computer… saw something in the swamp, and then woke up standing in the backyard?” My mother repeated the basics of the story.
“That’s about it.”
“I went and checked out there. I found out why you were covered in mud, but I didn’t see anything except the area you tore up. You don’t remember any of it?”
I could hardly fault my father for being skeptical. I also did not find it surprising he had traipsed into the bog to see if what I had told him was accurate. The fact he did not mention a giant eggplant or whatever it was and the absence of a strange corpse brought me a small sense of comfort. I could not begin to formulate a story that would explain a bullet-shaped creature and the thing that coughed it up. The evidence was building for the theory I had acted out a dream. It was the only logical and plausible rationale.
“I think I was living out a dream,” I said as though stating it would make it true.
“A dream made you get dressed, go into the swamp and tidy up? Louis… that’s crazy,” my mother said in a grave voice.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” I agreed.
Without any conscious intention, I shoved a spoonful of cauliflower into my mouth. The taste was intriguing. I chomped on it while my parents stared wide- eyed at me. I could not look at them in return. They were worried. They had cause to be concerned. As I sat chewing on the loathsome vegetable I suddenly found enjoyable, my sense of worry began to rise. There was something wrong in my world, and I had no clue as to what it was. We finished our lunch in silence. It was a tense silence, and I was aware I was under close scrutiny. I made short work of my meal, cleaned up my plates, and then beat a hasty retreat to my room. I groaned as I picked up the history book. I did not want to be interested in it, but I was and could not stop the fascination. I read for several hours, far beyond the requirement for my assignment, and enjoyed every moment of it. Todd and Marla stayed away from me. I think my parents had something to do with it, fearing any further taunts on my siblings’ part might drive me over the last bit of edge I was mentally standing on. I concurred with the assessment.
Later that night I sat with my parents watching television. Todd had gone out with friends, and Marla was dominating the computer, playing some insipid game tailored specifically for girls. I wanted to be angry with her. I yearned to be in a fine nettle that Marla got to use the computer, a person who barely knew how to turn it on, and still I was unable to dredge up the emotion. I sat on the sofa instead. I was watching a program about space. It was one of my father’s favorite subjects, and I normally found it wretchedly boring. Too much math was involved for my usual tastes. However, that night, I sat in rapt attention. The program played out, and I was giggling by the end. My father glanced at me with a cross look.
“What’s so funny about black holes?” He asked me.
“Just the idea that the event horizon is presented as a physical place,” I told him and snickered again. “It’s not. It’s the point at which it is impossible to escape the gravitational pull of the collapsed star. Time slows down and matter begins to deteriorate into primary particles from the implosive effect of being crushed by gravity while it is being stretched into a long strand. It’s not an event: it’s a process similar to decay.”
I would have been better served if I had sworn a blue streak. My father looked at me with an expression that begged to know where his son had disappeared.
“They’re teaching you cosmology in school?”
“I guess so,” I replied sheepishly.
“And you paid attention?” He inquired with considerable doubt.
“I must have ‘cause I remember the part about the event horizon being wrong.”
I did not, in truth, remember any such thing. I had no clue as to where I learned that bit of information. My science teacher was still trying to cram knowledge about basic atomic structure and weights into our heads. It was a far cry from the intricacies of complex mass degeneration that happens in black holes. The more I thought and tried to avoid the gaze of my father, the more I discovered I did not even fully understand what I had explained. The answer just appeared in my head and rolled out of my mouth. Halfway through the next program, I politely excused myself under the pretense I had to use the bathroom. I trotted up the stairs and to a bathroom where I could safely hide. I leaned against the closed door trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts in my head.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I asked in a whisper.
Nothing is wrong.
“Then where did I get that stuff about black holes?”
I knew that. You did not.
I froze. Not only was I talking to myself, but also I was not in control of the responses. I began to sweat involuntarily.
You are frightened. Why is this?
I swallowed hard against the panic surging up my throat.
I have caused you distress. Please, forgive me. That was not my intention.
I could not answer.
It has only been this day when I learned I could integrate with your thought processes. I was correct: there is more than ample room in here to house both you and me.
“Where are you?” I asked in fear.
My conscious being has found refuge in your brain. This is the haven that I requested from you, Louis Albert Moran. You have saved my life, and I cannot express my gratitude to you sufficiently.
“You’re in my head!”
Whether it was a question or a statement was immaterial: there was something else inside of me that was not me. I felt oddly violated. It appeared even more reasonable I was loosing my sanity.
Your sanity is quite intact. I have attached my engrams to the portions of your brain less frequently used. I am also striving to instigate the development of more neural pathways so I do not disrupt the standard flow of electro- chemical impulses. I fear we underestimated your level of cerebral development. For this I apologize.
“We?” I stuttered. “There’s more than one of you in there?”
Forgive me again, please. By we I mean my species and those who are engaged in exploration with us. There is no other entity in your mind besides you and the space you have lent me.
“So… s-so I wasn’t dreaming?”
I have experienced your dreams. They are very interesting and quite telling about you and maybe even your species. You must identify the specific dream to which you are referring so I may locate the memory patterns.
“The swamp. In the swamp.”
You have not dreamed about swamps in any recent timeframe. Are you referencing a dream you had prior to my arrival?
“I’m talking about your arrival!”
I understand. No, Louis Albert Moran, my arrival and your offer of refuge was not a dream. Through your generosity I continue to exist. It will be my pleasure to make note of this when I return to my world.
“Oh my God! You are an alien!” I said loudly and in panic.
Please be calm, Louis Albert Moran. You are creating what can be considered a firestorm in here. This could be detrimental to the both of us.
I made every effort to calm down, but I think my success was marginal. There was an alien in my head. I thought about what my father had said and not said during lunch. There was no eggplant and no body.
An eggplant is in reference to the solanum melongena leptostemonum variety of vegetable according to your planet’s current botanical taxonomy. I believe you are thinking of the dark purple variety. Am I correct in this assumption?
“Uh-huh,” I whispered.
It would be impossible to cultivate that particular species in this climate during this time of year. Louis Albert Moran, why are you thinking of solanum melongena?
“You came out of one.”
That is incorrect, Louis Albert Moran. I can see you are relying on an associative schema pattern to understand the shape and coloration of my craft at the time you discovered it. While the shape does bear a resemblance to the solanum melongena, the color was produced by a fault in the gravimetric propulsion drive of the craft. It was that fault that caused the craft to abort the flight.
“You crashed?” I inquired stupidly.
Your memory is not faulty in regard to what you witnessed. You did view the vehicle after I landed in the swamp region you have referenced. The cause of the accident is entirely my responsibility. I chose to leave the envelope of the atmosphere during a powerful ion emission resulting from a recent solar prominence. This caused a failure in the field calibration of the propulsion drive and led to the accident.
“Your ship field what from what?”
I could not understand a word of what I was being told. I knew the being was telling me what happened and how it came to be in the swamp, but I lacked any intelligible knowledge of the topic. I was in over my head; rather, I should say part of my head was in over itself. I shook my skull in confusion.
Please, forgive me. The current state of physics on this planet has not yet achieved an understanding of quantum interaction to the fullest extent. I will try to summarize in standard lingua franca… language you will understand to explain what happened.
“Okay,” I replied. I feared I would have little to add to the conversation.
The propulsion of my ship depends on the controlled spin and exact fluctuation of several sub-quantum particles. This is achieved through high- resolution magnetic field manipulation to distort the localized gravitational properties of the vehicle. The manipulation achieves propulsive effect by exerting a repellant force against the atoms in the local vicinity. When I left the atmosphere of this planet, the ion density and turbulence from the solar flare altered the particle flow surrounding my craft sufficiently so that the calibration metrics did not achieve optimal balance…
“Hang on,” I whispered, interrupting what seemed to me an endless explanation. “I still don’t understand what you are telling me, so let’s just say you crashed and leave it at that.”
That will suffice.
“You really are in there?” I queried incredulously.
I knew at the time it was a pointless question. The being had offered me ample evidence something else was cohabitating in my brain. There was no manner in which I could have crafted his explanation. The being seemed entirely conversant with the topic while I was completely stymied. These were not my thoughts, neither was it even my knowledge at work. I felt rather small at the moment and somewhat insignificant to the presence in my mind. It was smarter than me.
I have caused you distress yet again, Louis Albert Moran. Please, forgive me.
“It’s… ah… see, this kind of stuff just doesn’t happen around here… ever! Sharing the same brain and all. I don’t get how you and me can both be in there at the same time.”
I was not aware of the anomalous nature of this situation. You have adapted quite readily to my presence without a large deviation from your normal mode of operation. I believed your species had already achieved inter-neural inter- phasing given the ample space and capacity of your brain structure. You, Louis Albert Moran, could host several more of my species without experiencing noticeable trauma.
Why the statements struck me as they did is still debatable. I had been trying to keep myself under control and approach the situation with a logical mind. However, the thought there could be numerous entities in my mind tipped the scales. Panic ensued. I was caught up in it. Hollywood had never prepared me for the eventuality that I might be host to another conscious mind. While I had seen countless films, science fiction predominantly, I had not once considered what it would actually be like to be invaded by another. Fear began to course through me. Would this being take me over? Would I lose myself in the vastness of the intelligence it seemed to possess? Would I become a puppet, unable to command my limbs? They were all frightening possibilities. Each presented a scenario more dire than the last. I did not want to become a plaything for another. Too often I had been in that position at school, and even with my siblings. The threat of having my own body turned against me set off a klaxon in my head.
Louis Albert Moran!
The voice echoed around my rampaging fears. I stumbled forward into the bathroom. Catching the edge of the sink kept me from crashing to the floor. My knees were trembling and weak, showing every sign they would not support me. I had entered into an unholy alliance the likes of which I could scarcely comprehend. I was fourteen years old and had made a horrible mistake. My life was no longer my own. I damned myself for having acted so foolishly.
You have not been a fool! You have saved the life of another without considering the risk to yourself, and it is an act that separates the lesser from the higher beings. You are in no danger, Louis Albert Moran. I will not harm you!
Could I believe the voice calling out in my mind? Dare I believe the words to be true?
Think on this, Louis Albert Moran: Could I not have posed a greater threat to you in my vehicle when it was functioning properly? What good would it do to bring harm to you when it would harm me as well? Think on that!
I hated the logic of the statements. It felt wonderful to be held in the sway of panic. That I understood. It gave me false hope. I knew it was false, but it was all I had at the moment. The creature could not control me if I could not control myself. I would be the dominant one even if it meant I had to wrest my sanity away. My parents were already beginning to question my grip on reality, along with my brother and sister, so I did not believe they would be too surprised if I slipped entirely. It was, in my opinion, a better option than trying to explain how another being had become lodged in my brain.
You have set yourself a conundrum that is paradoxical.
“What?” I blurted.
Perhaps it would be better stated to say you are stipulating a situation wherein you give up your sanity, either real or feigned, and have drastically limited your options. I cannot believe you would choose such an unproductive course.
“Right! How am I going to tell my folks I’ve got an alien living in my skull? Huh?”
You are not limited to only two choices, Louis Albert Moran. If I assume your reaction to be any indication, then your progenitors will deem you insane if you reveal my presence. Concurrently, allowing yourself to become immersed in chaos will produce the same results. What I believe you have failed to take into consideration is that the present situation can be efficiently managed without having to sacrifice anything. As I have stated, Louis Albert Moran, I am in your debt because you have already saved my life. My continuance is dependent on yours, and any action you take will affect me. Thus, it is well within my better interests to cooperate fully with you. We must, to use a phrase common to you, work together.
“Easy for you to say! You’re not the one who has to act like nothing’s happened. I’m the one who’s gotta pull this off!” I grumbled defiantly. I would not allow myself to become enslaved to the being’s manner of thinking.
I do not understand this logic.
“My family already thinks something is wrong with me!”
Based upon what evidence?
“I’m not acting right,” I told the voice sternly. “Reading history books. Eating cauliflower. That whole thing with black holes. That’s not me!”
You are correct. I apologize for interfering with your daily method of operation. I came here to perform an anthropological study of your species, and I am afraid I reverted to my training when the opportunity arose. I will refrain from such actions in the future. I can appreciate now how I forced you to act outside of your standard idiom.
“Speak English!” I hissed.
You behaved differently because of my interests.
“No kidding!”
A knock at the door made me jump.
“Are you all right, Louis?” My mother asked through the door.
“Yeah. I, ah, got a headache,” I said in a weak attempt to disguise my actions.
“Why are you talking to yourself?”
How could I tell her that I was not talking to myself, but talking to something inside of my mind that was answering of its own volition?
“Just, um… just trying to figure out what’s been bothering me,” I replied.
“Louis, is everything okay? We… we’re a little worried about you,” she stated the obvious with concern.
“I know,” I answered in as calm a manner as I could. “But you’ve gotta admit waking up in the backyard was kind of weird. The whole dream thing…”
I am not a dream.
“The whole acting out the dream kind of threw me off,” I said in a louder voice.
“Louis,” my mother said in a compassionate tone, “is there anything else going on we should know about? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No, nothing like that,” I fibbed. “Maybe… I don’t know… maybe it’s just something changing inside of me.”
If she knew the truth, my mother would not consider it a small change.
“Sweetheart, if you need us, we’re here.”
She is concerned for your welfare.
“Duh!” I snapped back at the voice in my head.
“Louis! I’m serious!”
My mother assumed the response was aimed at her. A queasy feeling was building in my stomach. The simple exchange with my mother was already complicated by the presence in my brain. I doubted any sort of workable compromise could be achieved.
“Sorry, mom,” I said contritely. It chaffed me to have to apologize for someone else’s interference. I despised taking blame when I was not at fault.
I erred in conversing with you during the conversation with your mother. I will refrain in the future.
“Yeah! Well, you’re doing it again!” I mumbled as quietly as I could.
I waited for a moment to see if it would reply.
“Mom, I’m okay. Really.”
“I don’t think locking yourself in the bathroom and talking to yourself is a good sign,” she informed me of her opinion.
“Sheesh! Come on, mom! You talk to yourself all the time. Who do you think I learned it from?”
The lack of a quick response meant that I had scored a minor victory. It was the truth. My mother engaged in a regular monologue as she ploughed through whatever issues were on her mind. There were times when she was so busy conversing with herself that she was deaf to the voices of other people. Any justification to claim my sanity was unraveling could not be supported by mere self-speak. If it were, then she would have been committed to an asylum years ago.
Clever counter-argument.
I held my tongue.
“Well, that might be true, but I am going to be watching you,” she warned me.
I pushed away from the sink, walked to the door and opened it. It was not locked, and I was privately grateful my mother had at least respected my privacy. I met her concerned gaze with an even look. I was hedging the bet that a face-to-face encounter would ease her worries. Her eyes darted around, studying my face. She was looking for signs of difference. She then glanced in the bathroom to see if I have been engaging in some illegal activity. After discovering nothing, she looked back at me.
“You haven’t been yourself for the last few days, Louis.”
“Who have I been?”
“Don’t get cute!” She said curtly. “I’m telling you right now, and it’s the same as I said to Todd, neither your father or I will tolerate any drug use in this house. I don’t want you drinking, either!”
“First,” I replied indignantly, “I’m not that stupid. Second, I don’t like throwing up that much to want to drink. Third, no one in their right mind would sell me any drugs. Half of ‘em think I’m a narc anyway.”
“I’m not playing around, Louis!”
“Neither am I!”
I was rewarded with a cool stare from her hazel eyes.
“Mom, think about who I hang out with. Does it look like Joey or Nate or me are going out and getting wasted or plastered? I don’t think so!”
The point was not moot. Joey Melman, Nate Willis and I were the undisputed king geeks of the freshmen class. We were not part of the social elite. In fact, we were our own social class, and nobody seemed inclined to join us willingly. Granted, we attracted the other freaks and geeks in swarms, but it was not as if they had much of a choice. We even tended to avoid one another as if too many of us gathered in one locale would somehow lessen our already low status. It was a ridiculous manner of conduct, but I did not understand it then.
“I want to believe you, and that’d better be true,” she stated in a firm voice.
“Ask Todd. He can tell you what’s up,” I said, knowing that using Todd as a reference point would diffuse the issue. He would love the chance to deride me even more for being the odd man out as far as he was concerned.
“I just might.”
She was already planning on it, and we both knew it. However, it had the desired result. She cast one more glance at me, and then left. I watched her walk down the hall, turn the corner, and listened as my mother descended the stairs. If the incident with her was an example, it convinced me that the arrangements with the being that took up residence in my skull were in serious need of alteration. I could not run the continuous risk of being spied upon by my parents. After my banishment from the computer was ended, that would put a crimp in my method of operation.
Do all parents interact with their offspring in the same fashion?
“Maybe,” I sighed. “At least this is how my folks treat me.”
Interesting.
I sighed again. I somehow knew I was now saddled with another conscious being in my body. We were sharing the same space, could communicate with one another, and yet I would be the one who bore all the repercussions. I shut off the light in the bathroom and trudged to my bedroom. The promise of a long, dreary, taxing weekend was taking form. I was certain my parents would be following my every move, scrutinizing each action, and searching for signs of mental instability in me. The voice in my head remained silent. I closed the door to my room once I entered. I lay down on my bed after knocking the history book out the way, and stared at the ceiling. I wanted to formulate some plan, but I could think of nothing.
May I ask you a question?
“You just did,” I answered peevishly and quietly.
That is correct, but it was not the question for which I am seeking an answer.
“What is it?”
It appears you base your sense of self-worth on the opinion of others. I noted that you thought of your friends in a rather disparaging fashion. Why is this?
“You haven’t been studying us for too long, have you?” I answered with my own question.
This is my ninth visit to your planet. I have been studying your species for nearly seven of your decades.
“You didn’t learn much then,” I told the voice in a churlish manner.
This is the first opportunity wherein I can interact directly with your kind. What I have learned from observing and from studying your transmissions has undoubtedly left gaps in my knowledge base. Although direct contact with a species is strictly prohibited, I am finding this to be most beneficial. Given the conditions under which the agreement was reached, I do not believe I will suffer punitive measures upon my return.
“Wait!” I said and sat up. “You mean you’re not stuck here?”
That is correct.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
I believed it would have been obvious I would not settle into a permanent arrangement such as this. It is against all operating protocol in regard to a long-term study of a species.
I was elated. In the back of my mind I had assumed this was a permanent situation, and I would be contending with a voice in my head for the rest of my life. Relief swelled through me. I lay down again and allowed myself to smile for the first time in days, and the grin actually reflected what I was feeling.
“How soon are you leaving?” I asked happily.
I am not certain. There are many factors that will require careful consideration.
I got the distinct impression from the tone of the voice that I had somehow offended the being.
I did not wish to be a burden upon you, Louis Albert Moran.
“Can’t you just call me Louis? It sounds funny when you say my whole name,” I requested, and there was a touch of guilt in my demeanor. “Listen, I didn’t mean anything bad by what I was thinking.”
I understand. These circumstances are foreign to you. You are also very young Louis, and I had not anticipated an emergency situation requiring the assistance of a child of your species. If I may offer my personal opinion: the current circumstances are not untenable. We both may derive great benefit from this exchange. You have preserved my existence. That is an aspect I cannot treat lightly or without due regard.
“English, please.”
Is there some manner of my speech that is not compatible with the present linguistic trends of your culture?
“I just don’t get what you mean most of the time. Like you said: I’m kind of young,” I stated without admitting the bodiless voice made me feel stupid at times.
“Can I ask you something now?”
A follow-up question would be in order.
I suspected the being was making a similar pun to the one I had, but I was not certain.
“Do you have a name?”
I do, but you lack the requisite vocal capacity to pronounce it. Furthermore, your atmosphere is not conducive to the sonic vibration patterns we utilize. It has neither the density nor the fluidity to render our speech properly.
“Sure, what you said,” I muttered. The only thing I did understand was that I could not pronounce the name for a variety of reasons. “So, um, if you had to make a name for yourself here, what would you call yourself?”
This will require some thought. While your naming conventions identify a specific person, even when the names are identical, our naming traditions convey a greater depth of information about us. The use of names in my culture is bound to more than just an individual.
“Like…?”
I can only present you with a comparative example. If you were to travel to my world, I would introduce you as Louis Albert Moran Human Male of Fourteen Orbital Cycles from the Planet Sol Three Located on the Tectonic Plate Titled North America in the Geographic Designation of the United States of America Further Sub-Divided into the Regional Area Titled Michigan Further Constrained…
“Okay, I get it,” I said when it seemed the name would carry on forever.
But there is much more I would have to add. I would be compelled to include some element of your lineage as well as the genetic variations you possess that distinguish you from other humans.
“And your names say all of that?”
It was a mind-boggling concept.
They do.
“Weird,” I whispered in awe.
It is no more strange than your naming traditions.
“Yeah, I guess, but I wasn’t expecting it to be that complicated!”
I have often considered your method of naming to be an insult to your species. You exist as a finite collection of carefully arranged atoms, and I do not believe your names adequately represent you as individuals. Your species, particularly in this locale, has a tendency to adopt a pack mentality whereby a given set of names is preferable at various times. If you were to be introduced in the manner of my species, it would be understood from the beginning you are a unique individual whose finite existence is unique in the universe.
“Just like everyone else?” I replied and tried to make a pun.
I attach greater importance to this than you, Louis. Your levity was not misunderstood, but I cannot take part in the jest.
“Oh,” I said, having made another blunder. “Sorry.”
There is no need to apologize. You have presented me with a tremendous honor in sharing the uniqueness of your being by encapsulating my entity. Although I will adhere to your request to refer to you with only part of your name, it is dishonorable for me to do so. This is not an easy task I undertake, Louis Albert Moran.
“I guess not.”
As I thought about the compromise the being was willing to make, I suddenly dawned on me I was not afraid. The living creature inside my mind was treating me with more respect than I had ever received. It was humbling, and that was also a foreign experience for me. I did spend an inordinate amount of time contemplating why my schoolmates held me in low regard. The same applied to my brother Todd and sister Marla. My parents loved me, and I was certain about that, yet I harbored a belief they treated me differently because I was very different from them. My father and Todd had an easy rapport. The same was true between my mother and Marla. I, however, had to struggle to find common ground between us. My interests were not theirs. My social status was far beneath Todd’s and, by all appearances, even Marla’s. I was geek. I could not escape that fact.
But that is one element that distinguishes you from others. It is part of your uniqueness.
“We don’t look at it the same way down here,” I told the being. “We’re not as advanced as you.”
I will take your assessment under consideration. However, I have developed a name by which you can refer to me. It is entirely insufficient in relaying the proper details of my existence, but I have formulated it using the standards of your culture.
“What is it?”
I was actually interested in learning it. It mattered very little to me that the being was not pleased with the name, but I had to have something I could attach to the voice in my head. I needed the name to make it distinct and separate from my personality.
We are already distinct.
“Do you have to read my mind all the time?” I queried in annoyance.
It is a side effect of the method employed to house my consciousness in your brain. I am receptive to every impulse that travels along your neural pathways. It is rather…noisy in here.
“I’m not surprised to hear that.”
I have detected you are not completely conscious of the myriad of thoughts you generate. There are sections of your brain that operate autonomously from the general aggregate whole of your consciousness. Secondly, I am not certain you are fully aware of your uniqueness as a being. I do not understand how you can be unaware of some of your attributes and thoughts.
I shrugged. If the being did not have an answer, then neither did I.
Louis Albert Moran.
My name was said in such a formal manner. It grabbed my complete attention.
For the duration that I am bound to you, you may reference my entity as Chelpa Feff-Nur.
“Chelpa Feff-Nur,” I repeated. “What does it mean?”
Chelpa relates to my lineage. It can be compared to your surname of Moran. Feff indicates a series of genetic properties regarding my physical form. Nur signifies the general geographical location where I was birthed. It is similar to the identification your species makes in regard to your nationalities. Will this name suffice?
“Better than nothing.”
I do not concur with that assessment.
“I understand,” I said in a pale imitation of the voice in my head.
It had a name now. It was different than me. Chelpa Feff-Nur was an individual as much as I.
Most certainly.
It annoyed me again that Chelpa could hear my thoughts. It was the ultimate invasion of privacy. Moreover, the being seemed inclined to respond to some of the things I thought. It was so bizarre I nearly could not explain why it bothered me so.
You are accustomed to your isolinear existence, Louis. The proximity of my consciousness to yours is unsettling. I have noticed previously that human beings are apart from one another on many levels. There are very few species that exist as yours does.
“You mean to tell me you… connect to others of your kind like this?” I asked with honest curiosity.
Not to this extent unless it is an emergency situation, such as what I experienced when you first discovered me. Yet those of my species can communicate with one another in a limited cerebral manner. There are some species I have encountered who live out their entire existence completely immersed in a shared cerebral environment. It is the polar opposite of what humans experience.
“Chelpa…” I began.
Chelpa Feff-Nur.
I stood corrected and continued, “Chelpa Feff-Nur, do you, ah… do you like humans?”
Each species I have encountered possesses worthwhile qualities. I believe you are inquiring as to whether I approve of the existence of your species.
“I guess I am.”
It is not my place or my intention to place judgment on the value of an entire species. I came here as an observer, to study your species as it develops. Since I am as finite in my lifespan as you, I cannot weigh the relative merits of your species because I can only be witness to part of its history. A species can only be evaluated under the context of its entire history.
“I think you missed my point,” I stated, and I knew Chelpa had missed it.
Please, clarify.
“I’m not asking about your job or what it is you were sent here to do. I’m asking how you feel about us… personally. I don’t want to know what your training thinks: I want to know what Chelpa Feff-Nur believes.”
My personal opinion is irrelevant.
“No, it is not!” I argued. “I want to know.”
Very well. It would be safe to assume I have a certain respect for your species because I have conducted numerous studies. It is common within my vocation for the researchers to limit themselves to fewer than four contiguous visitations. That I have now engaged in my ninth field study indicates there are elements within your species I find inherently pleasing. Does this answer suffice?
“I, ah, think it does.”
Yes, Louis Albert Moran, I do like your species. As with all that aspire to greatness, your species is both grand and terrible. There is no predictable pattern to discern the direction you will follow as you evolve. This is for me one of the more intriguing aspects of studying your kind.
“Cool!” I mumbled with relief.
If Chelpa could read my thoughts, then he knew I was unable to articulate precisely why his opinion brought me a sense of comfort. It was not entirely about me, but it did involve me. There has always been a part of me that wants to be appreciated and liked. It is, I presume, a common thread that runs through every person. Yet to hear a complete outsider state an appreciation for my species, thus including me, was pleasing. It made me feel less insignificant, despite Chelpa’s overwhelmingly superior intelligence. It gave me a sense of hope.
There is always hope, Louis.
Chelpa was plugged into my thoughts again.
The mathematicians on my world will take great delight in calculating the probability of my survival. I believe you would agree it seemed unlikely I would survive when my vehicle crashed. Even on my planet there is a continuous debate as to whether mere chance or some form of higher intelligence is governing events. The statistical probability my vehicle would land when and where it did so you were able to find me before I expired is very low given the available land mass and the size of your population. To find one individual who would willingly encapsulate my entity would further reduce the odds. Whether by chance or supreme intervention is impossible to say, but I am grateful I am alive. I am grateful you discovered me.
“You were dying,” I said softly.
I was. My environmental suit was degenerating. Without the proper counter- pressure being exerted against my physical form, the pressures from my internal liquids were exceeding the containing capacity of my skin. My entire structure ruptured shortly after my conscious entity was encased in your brain and the environmental suit failed completely.
“I just… I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. I wouldn’t let a dog die in the street if I could do something,” I confessed, but it somehow did not fully relate why I acted as I did. Although Chelpa Feff-Nur seemed dispassionate in the description of the event, it was nearly too horrific to contemplate. I understood the description: the body had exploded. “I couldn’t watch you die.”
There is the hope you seek, Louis Albert Moran, and the one upon which my life depended. That you, an uncertain child of your species, could find within yourself the capacity to act with compassion speaks well for your prospects and those of your species. While there is much we can learn from observing your people and monitoring your transmissions, there are limitations to what can be fully understood. In this regard, what I have learned from my encounter with you is vastly more important than all my previous studies.
A lump rose in my throat without reason. In a strange fashion, it felt good. Chelpa had made me feel important for one moment. The being stated, in a roundabout way, that I had made a difference. I have never felt like that as Louis Albert Moran. I often had to rely on FreeByte to generate a sense of importance. Any remaining fears I had about sharing my brain with this being vaporized. Chelpa had repaid me in some measure. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking I had done something of merit. I had saved a life. I did not fully comprehend the manner in which I had, but it was undeniable. The being talking to me, reading my thoughts as I created them, was real. Chelpa Feff-Nur was not a dream. People might believe I had lost my grip on sanity, but I was beginning to think this type of insanity was not altogether bad. I suddenly did not feel alone anymore.
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