Confused Aliens
by Patrick Somerville
The Admiral's Speech
I am delivering a speech on the bridge concerning happiness, duty and morale. I can't quite put my snurf on it, but some of the crewmembers have looked a little apathetic lately, a little glassy-eyed—the speech is directed at them, yes, but I'll be honest here, I'm putting on the show to pump myself up, too. You know that thing about how if you smile enough, it makes you actually feel good? That's what I'm going for.
The Admiral's True State
As everyone knows from previous episodes, I suffer from free-floating low-morale. The last few weeks have been pretty dark, plenty of gloom-and-doom, bedroom-and-cookies-and-molting time. Pathetic.
Leadership Burden
If I'm being really honest, this could easily be the beginning of another full-blown breakdown for me. Which would be just fantastic, just great timing, considering everything else that's going on with outer-space and the universe right now. But as Admiral, you're not about to admit you're on thin psychological ice to a crew of disparate, idiot extraterrestrials who rely on you for everything.
Mission to Belvetron IV
The mission to Belvetron IV demands more, demands the best that we can muster, not simply for morale, but for the future of the universe. (Theoretically.) Before us, the small yellow planet looms like a nugget; we are in position; the orbits are beneficial.
The scanners have reported high population density and a technologically advanced race of intelligent, sensitive beings. They are not yet space-faring but we feel good about dropping in and saying hey. We ran the numbers. They're ready for us to come in as deities, at least.
First Contact Preparations
We've been chatting for about a week, sending down some feelers into their electromagnetics. We just now beamed their diplomat up. We are prepared to open a real dialogue, to greet this dignified civilization, to learn from its history, to welcome it into the greater intergalactic community.
Initial Contact
Sending electromagnetic feelers
Diplomatic Exchange
Beaming up their representative
Cultural Dialogue
Preparing for meaningful exchange
Resource Exploration
Maybe we'll do a little mining
Cosmic Connection
We share in common our existence. As conscious beings we are linked by our loneliness and by our questions. Blah blah blah. What small comfort we have comes from knowing we are not alone.
I say this to the crew. I say these things in an interesting manner, with decent gravitas. Everyone is interested at least, and near the end I start to feel okay.
The Accidental Catastrophe
And as I turn for a final flourish, sort of a sum-up-the-major-points kind of spin-move, my tail sweeps across the weapons console, and the computer whistles to inform us that I've accidentally just shot the big gun.
"Oh," Gleegluk says. "Okay."
We all watch the viewscreen as the cannons fire and the little yellow planet explodes into a million pieces.
"Whoops," I say.
Belvetron IV's Destruction
"Whoopsy, Admiral," says Gleegluk, nodding gravely. "That's a whoopsy. There goes Belvetron IV."
17B
Lives Lost
Conscious beings on Belvetron IV
1M
Fragments
Pieces of the destroyed planet
0
Survivors
Except for the diplomat
Morale Plummets
My personal morale once again plummets. We are bad at what we do, and honestly, we don't know how to run the ship. We try, but usually we make mistakes like this. It's not because we're immoral or lazy. It's just because we get confused. We make mistakes.
There are so many shiny buttons. You would never be able to guess what they all control (even though we try), and of course there is no instruction manual.
We have many different body types, and I do not think this ship was designed with any of them in mind.
Aftermath and New Mission
The Admiral's Decision
"We'll retreat, how about?" I say. It feels good, trying it on for size, and I nod. "Yeah. I order you to retreat."
Smellvamp's Response
Smellvamp looks at his control panel.
"Not sure how," he says.
More Confusion
"Press the green thing," I say. "Then pull that thing there."
He performs the two actions in reverse order and the computer announces that all of the emergency life capsules have been jettisoned. The viewscreen shows us several close-up shots of the small gray pills drifting off into empty space, their boosters glowing orange against the vast blackness and the starlight.
Self-Blame in the Mess Hall
I leave the bridge. The mess hall is nearly empty, and as I snorgle my paste
I blame myself.
"Admiral," says Fondugrappler, waddling up to my table, blowtorch in talon. He's our engineer. We call him that, at least. "There you are. Few quick questions about the Overdriver System. Any idea how the—"
"Now's not a good time," I say to him. I point to my stomachs, then my lips, then my anus.
Avoiding Fondugrappler
Fondugrappler, obviously irritated, salutes and waddles away. He knows this is my go-to excuse when I don't want to hear it. I watch him move past a few tables, press a button on a wall, enter a closet.
1
1
Fondugrappler Enters Closet
Presses button and walks in
2
2
Admiral's Plan
What he doesn't know is that he has locked himself inside
3
3
Expected Outcome
Eventually he will fall asleep, revert to liquid form, and leak out from under the door
4
4
Future Action
I will then get one of the janitor robots to mop him up and return him to the tank in his quarters
Admiral's Confidence
I finish my meal as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Sure. I'll remember to do it. I'm an Admiral. But this is the least of my worries. On my way back to the bridge, I realize my pants are on upside down.
Major Droop's Concern
"So what are we going to tell the diplomat?" asks Major Droop, leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom as I change into my best kimono. Droop's a surly realist and a military guru. Impossible to slip anything past him. Very good at karate, also.
"He's been using the lavatory all this time," he continues, stroking the fleshy crista below his chin. He raises his brow. "I can send some men. But here's the million dollar question. Should we tell him we accidentally blew up his planet? Would that be a little hairy? In terms of diplomacy?"
Door Malfunction
Just as I am about to answer there is some kind of malfunction and the door tries to slide closed with Droop's head in the way. He cries out and gets his beak in position to keep the panel from crushing his brain, but smoke is coming out of the control box, and I can hear gears grinding and mashing somewhere inside the wall.
Initial Incident
"I think you accidentally leaned back against the button," I say.
Droop's Reaction
He's just screaming as his beak cracks.
Admiral's Response
"Yeah, hold on a second Droop," I say. "I'll get the maintenance droid."
Medical Aftermath
By the time we get the whole thing sorted out, Droop has shed most of his heavy winter feathers and gone unconscious. We evacuate him to the infirmary and Dr. Sassafrass, after she examines him, tells me that everything will probably be okay.
"I'm not really believing you," I say, looking at Droop's mangled head. He's looking pretty much dead.
I turn to her. We lock eyes.
Sort of tense.
We used to date.
Existential Questions
Sometimes we like to wonder how we got on this ship in the first place, and who built it, and where we are supposed to go, or what reality is, but the truth is, we have all forgotten. Or maybe we never knew. Or maybe we knew and have never forgotten. I do not understand what I am saying here.
Where did we come from?
Origins blurred in memory, a cosmic mystery.
Who built the ship?
Our creators are unknown or long forgotten.
Where are we going?
Our destination remains uncertain and debated.
What is reality?
Reality itself is questioned and constantly shifting.
"What's the square root of four, Captain?" Smellvamp asks.
Maybe it's the next day. It's right around this same time, I think. Same space-year. I am back on the bridge. Smellvamp is still feeling bad about jettisoning the life capsules—so yes, based on that, all the same time period, sorry—and his brain is not working so smoothly, due to anxiety. I know that I should be feeling bad about something.
"Six," I say. I lean in toward his rectangular earflap for the big pep-talk moment: "Now plot us one of those great courses you're so famous for."
The Diplomat Mystery
Here is the new problem. A mysterious creature posing as a Belvetronion diplomat—we are not sure how he got here, as Belvetron IV, according to our computers, does not exist—is hanging out in the ship's recreational lounge, drinking vodka.
1
The Admiral's Theory
But consider the facts. The man's planet has just been blown up by space pirates flying a ship eerily similar to our own. He is the last of his race, the last of his kind in the universe, and he is therefore emotionally unstable.
2
The Suspicious Timing
We've learned that he was possibly onboard our ship with access to the weaponry systems when a mysterious "misfire" occurred.
3
The Conclusion
So you tell me. It's a caper. As Admiral you have to play sleuth, and right now, Dr. Watson, my hunch is that the diplomat is our saboteur. QED.
Gleegluk's Reality Check
"We did it," says Gleegluk when I inform him of my theory. "We made a mistake and did it. You hit the button with your tail. He was in the bathroom."
"All I care about is finding evil."
"Yes," says Gleegluk. "But we did it. You did it. Remember?"
Deflection and Confusion
I turn to Smellvamp, asking about his course-settings for our next mission.
"Let's go, then," I command, putting on a big, believable smile.
"Coming along, Admiral," he says. "But I don't know where we're going or where we are. Who are we? Do we even have a new mission?"
They all just kind of look at me, as I keep the smile going.
The Insurgent Hunt
"And as we go," I add, through teeth, "I will organize a task force and find the insurgent. The fate of our home planet depends on it."
"He's in the bar," says Gleegluk.
"Oooh, let's go there," says Smellvamp. "Our home planet. I want to go home." I see a little smile on his triangle. Smellvamp can be a pussy.
Admiral's Authority
"I am the Admiral," I tell Smellvamp slowly, so he can understand. "I make decisions. Consult Professor Mendelson for big-picture questions."
I fold my arms across my horn and scan the room.
"Where are my Enforcers?" I ask. "What was I just doing? Wasn't I about to do something?" I feel sleepy.
The three come hustling up and stand before me, at attention. "We're here," says Vlobotraxon.
Planning the Mission
"Let's go to the Big Meeting Room and figure out what I was planning to do," I say. "We'll make a pit stop at the armory for no reason. That feels right."
01
Armory Visit
In the armory I strap on an energy bandoleer and select a fully loaded set of thermal fangs. I power up the bandoleer, slide the fangs into my mouth, and connect them to the power hub.
02
Enforcers Arm Themselves
Jinglebells, Vlobotraxon, and Cascadilla all equip themselves with various grenades, missiles, and particle boomerangs.
03
Ready for Action
We are ready.
04
Communication Issues
"Nyee nyess nom vet's vo noo na nig neeting noom," I say. It is difficult to speak through the thermal fangs.
Recovery Room
In the recovery room, Sassafrass treats my burns and dislocations and then leaves me alone to stew in my new failure, flanked on either side by Droop and Cascadilla. Cascadilla is comatose and generally melted, but I have ordered Sassafrass to pin a small, silver star to his gown, I don't know why.
Heroism and Failure
Perhaps labeling him a hero is too much of a distortion of the truth, but I do see Cascadilla as a hero. Vlobotraxon claims that it was because Cascadilla licked the tip of his muon dart that he happened to lose consciousness and fall through the many-storied hole I had made, but heroism is a mercurial thing, and it deserves to be rewarded in the context of its own mercury. If he ever regains consciousness, he will be promoted.
Heroism is a mercurial thing, and it deserves to be rewarded in the context of its own mercury.
Droop's Condition
To my right, Droop sleeps a haunted sleep and chirps every minute, on the minute, occasionally making phantom karate-chop gestures with his wing-hands. Probably dreaming about flying in medium-sized circles. He's obsessed with that. His beak has been reconstructed and painted with a pink cream of some kind, and his head is stabilized with wires and poles connected to the ceiling.
There is no time for me to wallow. If permitted, I would fall into an even greater depression—again. Another time.
Waking Droop
"Droop," I say. No response. I poke him in the ribs with a crutch I find leaning against my bed.
"Droop."
He snorts awake, and his hand goes to his beak, which he rubs gingerly.
"How bad is it?" he asks, after looking at me for several seconds with one of the small eyes on the side of his head. (Always a little creepy—you can never quite tell what Droop is looking at.) When he speaks, the support mechanism above him shifts and compensates. He has noticed that I am extremely bandaged.
Lips and Terrorists
"My lips are gone," I say. "Also, a terrorist is loose on the ship."
Droop sighs. "Will you be able to get new ones?" he asks.
"New what? Terrorists?"
"Lips."
"I'm not thinking about lips."
"I would be," he says. "Have you seen yourself? It's a freak show over there."
"I think Sassafrass is harvesting a new pair."
Lip Replacement
Sassafrass is growing new lips for the Admiral
Security Threat
The Belvetronion diplomat is considered a terrorist by the Admiral
Diplomat or Terrorist?
"And the diplomat?"
"You mean the terrorist?"
"Terrorists and diplomats are the same thing. I'm asking where he is. The Belvetronion."
"Ah. Yes. Still on the loose," I say. "Still free to blow us up at any moment." As I say these words aloud I hear the tone of a defeated leader.
"I thought he was in the bar."
Location Disagreement
"My hunch is that he is somewhere in the bathroom," I say. "But he might be in the bar."
"He's definitely in the bar," says Droop, who has checked with the computer attached to his ankle.
"Eh," I say. "I don't really think so." I am beginning to wonder whether Droop's brilliant tactical mind has been damaged in the accident. He's seeming particularly dumb. Perhaps it's true that all saboteurs need to go to the bathroom once in awhile, but I have a hard time believing one would use a bathroom as a guerilla headquarters. Bathrooms get so much traffic.
Sabotage Theory
I recap: "We know now that he left sometime after your injury and proceeded to the armory, where he sabotaged the fangs and the energy bandolier. From there, it's anyone's guess. How'd this guy get on the ship? Where are we on that?"
"He's in the bar, Admiral."
"Yes, okay," I say. "I'm hearing you about that. I am seeing you and hearing you, Droop. But how did he get there?"
"Perhaps he was born here," Droop says, speculative, somber. He blinks at me once or twice and strokes the remaining feathers on his face. "Do you think that he also booby trapped the door in your quarters? The one that closed on me?"
Evil and Good
"I wouldn't be surprised."
"Yet the question remains: why would one man destroy his own planet? And all the lives therein?"
"Evil," I say. "The opposite of good."
"Perhaps," he says.
"It's definitely the opposite."
Good
What we strive for
Evil
The opposite of good
Motivation
Why would someone destroy their own planet?
Reality
What actually happened?
Occam's Razor
"Have you heard of a concept called Occam's Razor, Admiral?"
"How's that?"
"A simple thought, Admiral. It's only this. What if Belvetron hasn't been destroyed at all?"
"I don't follow."
"Perhaps we are the victims of some cosmic joke. A trick. Perhaps there's a trickster on the loose here. Some kind of multidimensional trickster. Can we be sure that the planet was destroyed? Have you sent out a team to analyze the debris and verify the absence?"
"Of course I have."
Verification Request
When Droop again falls into his hallucinatory sleep I get Gleegluk on the comlink.
"Hi, Lieutenant," I say quietly. "Ah, do me a favor and send out a team to analyze the debris and verify the absence."
"Absence of what, Admiral?"
"Belvetron IV."
"Of course."
The Lie
"Of course I have."
The Opportunity
Droop falls into hallucinatory sleep
The Truth
Admiral contacts Gleegluk to actually send a team
Status Update
"What is the status of the manhunt onboard?" I ask. "Have there been any subsequent attacks? How's morale?"
"No attacks, Admiral," he says. "I think he's just hanging out in the bar. Drinking. He's really sad, I think. He's crying."
"Crocodile tears, Gleegluk."
"I don't understand what you just said."
"I believe I will return to duty some time this evening, barring any major setbacks in my recovery. My lips are growing right now, so."
"Yes, Admiral."
Sassafrass Appreciation
"I owe it all to Sassafrass."
"Yes, Sir."
"She is fantastic."
"Yes, Sir."
"I still—Gleegluk, I think I still love her." It is a rare emotional moment for me, due in part, I believe, to my traumatic injuries. Stress will really open you up. I should not be saying this to Gleegluk, though. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even have a circulatory system, let alone a heart. Love's weird to him.
Poisoning Suspicion
My stomachs hurt. I wonder aloud whether the paste that I consumed earlier in the day was poisoned.
"Possibly, Sir."
"Yes," I say. "Indeed, possibly. Anything is possibly."
"Over and out, Sir."
I call for the enema team.
Recovery and New Lips
Very soon I have a new pair of pillowy lips and a reconstructed layer of skin on my torso. That Sassafrass. She's incredible at what she does, and I tell her as much as I am leaving the recovery room.
"Thanks," she says. "It's—it's good to hear that once in awhile. I know you think I'm needy."
"You do a lot for us." She doesn't even know how much she does for us, in fact. Considering how many times I've asked her to erase her own memory. Is that—have I?
Sassafrass's Request
"So," she says. "I've been thinking about something. It's a little crazy. Stop me if this just…weirds you out too much."
"Here we go."
"I want a baby."
"Yeah," I say, smiling, nodding, looking at the door. "I'm just super-busy right now."
"I want a baby."
"Yeah, I'm just super-busy right now."
"We'll always be super-busy. We fly a big spaceship. That takes up time."
Avoiding the Conversation
"We'll always be super-busy," she says. "We fly a big spaceship. That takes up time."
"I mean right now, I'm saying. I can't even really have this conversation. I think we have someone—"
"You always say that."
"Well," I say. "Super-busy. Kinda comes with the territory. We have a terrorist thing going on right now."
"That doesn't change the fact," she says, "that I want a child."
Hybrid Child Concerns
"Well," I say, "there are other problems. We've been through them."
"We could get around them."
"Our child would be a monster, Sass," I say. "It would be an unnatural life form. Do you want a mule for a baby?"
"There's a difference between a hybrid species and a monster. You know that."
"It's still right there. It'll always be a thing."
Love and Nature
"But really," she says. "What is natural, anyway? If there's love?"
"It would have the horn," I say. "But then it would probably also—"
"I just want to be with you, you know? I have faith that we can get past what tripped us up before."
Something in me gives, a little, looking at her. You can't keep it all back, all the time. I lean my head up against the glass plate of her helmet and gaze longingly at the black leeches attached to her face. "You're right," I say. "You're always right when we talk. I'll come to your quarters tonight. Let's keep talking, at least. I want to keep communicating. I acknowledge your feelings about this."
Fondugrappler's Puddle
On my way back to the bridge I pass the mess hall and remember that I still haven't mopped up Fondugrappler. Sure enough, he is there in front of the closet in puddle form, and I signal for a janitor droid. After some time signaling I see that there is no janitor droid.
I open the closet and find a mop and pail. I check to see that I am being watched by several diners before beginning to scoop him up and ring him out. They know that I have been hurt, and for them to see their Admiral engaged in manual labor while recovering is pure morale gold.
Kitchen Confrontation
When I'm through I wheel Fondugrappler into the kitchen. "Where is the head cook?" I ask. In the center of the room, workers are stirring large vats of paste with six-foot wooden spoons. One of them looks up.
"I'm the head cook here," he says. "Name's Bill Yertle."
"Tell me, Head Cook Bill Yertle. Who has access to these vats? Is this room secure? I believe I have been poisoned."
He pulls his wooden spoon from the paste and wipes it down with a towel. "Don't like the paste?" He spits on the ground. "Then don't eat the paste."
The Admiral's Concern
I believe I have been poisoned by the paste
Head Cook's Response
"Don't like the paste? Then don't eat the paste."
Underlying Tension
The Admiral's bowels grumble as he faces insolence from the kitchen staff
Fondugrappler's Fate
"No!" I cry, running across the room. The heat has woken Fondugrappler, but being in a boiling stew of yellow liquid is making it difficult for his molecules to reconstitute. Unfortunately, they try. The shape of his incomplete, screaming face rises up from the surface with stubby, diced hotdogs lodged into his forehead. The screams are gooey and tremendous.
Farewell to Fondugrappler
"Fare thee well on your voyage into the unknown," I say. I decline to reach out and grab the partially-formed hand that is flailing and clawing at the side of the vat. "Goodnight sweet prince."
"What is that?" asks Head Cook Bill Yertle. "Is that a person?"
"His name was Fondugrappler," I say, but my voice is drowned out by the wailing.
Head Cook Bill Yertle is not listening. He has moved to the vat and is stabbing at the head with his wooden spoon, stuffing it back down into the vat. "This is good," he says, leaning into it. He looks at me. "My life is a constant search for protein," he says. Fondugrappler's hand grabs at the stick, and the two fight over it. Head Cook Bill Yertle turns to his workers. "Neuter! Golliwog! Some help over here?"
Bathroom Breakdown
I leave the kitchen just as Fondugrappler's strength is giving out, and his screams have turned to shrieks of lament. In the lavatory I have a troubled movement and sit shaking afterward, my tail wrapped around me in the fetal position. The death has pierced me, and the thought that a lowly, disenchanted, recondite diplomat sees it as his right to murder, torture, and terrorize my crew—my people, who look to me for guidance and safety and happiness—has me pretty steamed.
In the mirror I see that I am snarling and frothing from the anger, and I can feel my sacrum instinctually elongating and turning. I must wait several minutes now before it shifts back to its usual position.
I pace.
Gleegluk's Update
The bathroom viewscreen flicks on, and I see Lieutenant Gleegluk's face peering at me from the wall. "Sir. Everything copasetic, Sir?"
"Not really."
"Sassafrass has reported that you left the medical ward some time ago. May I ask when you will be returning to the bridge? I would very much like to speak in private."
"Soon, Gleegluk. I am…looking for the diplomat. Any news?"
"He's still in the bar."
"Anything else?"
Exploratory Team's Fate
"The exploratory team ordered to investigate the absence of Belvetron IV have flown their shuttle into the local star, Sir."
"Casualties?"
"All."
"I will return within the hour. Keep a stiff upper lip." I say this even though Gleegluk has a calcium hoop, not an upper-lip.
The screen goes blank.
I need a scotchie.
100%
Casualty Rate
Exploratory team members lost
0
Survivors
All perished in the local star
1
Scotchies Needed
Admiral's immediate requirement
The Bar Scene
The vibe at the bar is pretty mellow when I come in—lights are down low and the stage is projecting a crooner I've never seen before, a yellow bipedal female in a red gown smiling and singing something jazzy. The projection winks at me as I cross the room and head to the table I like—I can't say I'm in the mood to give the hologram much in response, and I don't want her to start taking requests. When I take my seat the table asks if I'd like the usual and I tell it to make a triple. "Of course, Admiral," it says. A real big scotch comes up.
Meeting the Belvetronian
Someone I've never seen before—he looks sort of like an unhappy plaid elephant—glances in my direction. He's sitting at the bar and I can see the fresh scar on his head.
"Neural implant?" I ask. "Looks like a language mod."
"Do you mean this big hole in my head?"
"Yes."
"I'm so flattered that you noticed." Funny accent. I can hear it through the slurs. "Thank you so much for noticing, Admiral."
The Diplomat
Looks like an unhappy plaid elephant with a fresh scar on his head
The Tone
Sarcastic and bitter after losing his entire planet
Tense Conversation
"Have we met?" I ask. Some of the weirder engineers almost never come up out of the lower decks. His insolence has given him away as a gearhead. They've all got personality disorders.
"Hm, let me see," he says. "Don't think so, Admiral. Can't say I met any of you morons, really. Can't say I have! I mean beyond the robot that told me you'd blown up my planet by mistake. Sort of offhandedly mentioned it. Hilarious! Hilarious imagining my children burning up!" He sighs, looks down at the bar, shakes his head.
I keep watching.
"Thanks, by the way," he adds. "Nice work."
Accusations and Denials
"You're the Belvetronian," I say. "You're the insurgent."
"Oh no, Admiral. No. Actually, I'm an interstellar singing telegram performance artist."
He takes a long drink from a very tall glass of vodka. He is struggling to get his trunk deep into it.
"I don't believe you."
When he pulls his trunk out he says. "The telegram is from your mother, incidentally. And I'm going to tapdance as I sing it!" Of course now he does jazz hoofs.
Admiral's Accusation
"You're the Belvetronian. You're the insurgent."
Diplomat's Sarcasm
"I'm an interstellar singing telegram performance artist."
Coping Mechanism
Drinking vodka through his trunk
Mother's Message
"If you really do have a message from my mother, please sing it immediately."
"There is no singing telegram from your mother."
"You're talking in circles, man."
"I'm the Belvetronian," he says, leaning in my direction.
"Perhaps," I say. "Then again, perhaps not. We have tests."
"I definitely am."
"What proof do you have?"
The Belvetronian's Account
"You beamed me up, then one of your robots but a chip in my brain, then you blew up my planet, then I asked where the bar was. And I've been sitting here. That's pretty much it. You can check all your security logs. Just check. I mean I know you don't know how, but that would be a good start, wouldn't it? You're this stupid and you're the Admiral?" He snorts. "What's an ensign around here? Jelly?"
"One is gelatinous."
"Talking to you is.." He trails off, shakes his head.
"We sometimes get confused."
The Belvetronian's account of events since his arrival
The Ship's Logs
"So I've gathered, Admiral" he says. "But let's set aside your accidental destruction of my species. Let's just bracket that over here." He makes a small box on the bar with his two hoofs. "Let's pretend that never happened. You have no idea, do you? You have no idea what you are?"
"What's your name, sir?" I ask. "What can I call you?" When you are negotiating with terrorists, it's sometimes important and valuable to establish a personal link. If I can distract him long enough, I may be able to send a call out to Droppy, who will arrive with his karate.
"My name?" says the Belvetronian. "My name is Eat Shit and Die, Admiral. Really a pleasure to meet you. Now please leave me alone. Either that or find me a glass with a wider brim."
The Truth About the Ship
He looks down at his drink.
"Don't have any idea of what?" I say.
"Oh, how you got here," he says. "What you are. It's all here in your logs." He nods toward a monitor on the surface of the bar. "It took me maybe one minute to figure it out? Once I started browsing. I think your computer system is tired of you fools. I'm thinking about a mutiny. I'm not sure. Still sort of mulling it."
"Do not utter that word aboard my ship."
"What? Mutiny? Mutiny mutiny mutiny."
"You've gone too far," I say. My tail is rotating.
The Hidden Truth
"Oh, how you got here," he says. "What you are. It's all here in your logs."
The Computer's Betrayal
"I think your computer system is tired of you fools. I'm thinking about a mutiny."
The Admiral's Reaction
"You've gone too far," I say. My tail is rotating.
The Human Connection
"Yes, of course I have. You've destroyed everything I love and I've gone too far." He smiles. "Admiral, let me ask you something. Does that woman singing ring any bells? The human?"
Teeth clenched, I look over at the hologram. "No," I say.
"That species doesn't—oh, I don't know—doesn't seem familiar?" he asks. I am on my feet.
"No," I say.
"Of course not," he says. "Of course not. But do you remember the zoo?"
Full Circle
After eating the terrorist I return to the bridge, prepared to wipe my hands clean of this whole incident and lead my men on to newer, sweeter, better exploratory adventures through outer-space. I pause in the doorway for a moment, proud to see the team operating so smoothly, so cohesively. This is truth, and there is nothing magical about it. They are one unit, one mind; they have been trained well, and know how to follow orders. This is good.

Return to Bridge

The first to notice me is Droop. He is wearing a large conical cast on his face, and is in high spirits. "Welcome back!" he cries. His voice is muffled, but clear. Good News At the sound of this greeting, the crew turns and sees their proud Admiral watching them. "I have good news, everyone," I say. "The insurgent has been neutralized." Celebration There are cheers and cries of joy as I make my way to the helm and stand beside Gleegluk. Recognition "And you've done really well, individually," I say to him. "I appreciate everything, buddy." Underlying Concern "Thank you, Admiral," he says, but his head is lowered and his spikes are not erect; for some reason he's looking bummed. New Speech For now, I will stall and give myself time to decide by delivering an inspired speech regarding happiness, duty and morale. I know why. He's been asking too many questions. He hops aside, and I move in front of the podium. He turns and begins hopping back to his station, but I stop him with and ask him what's the matter.

"I know you," I say quietly. "And I know when one of my best soldier's morale is low. Talk to me."
"I have this feeling," he says. "I can't quite describe it."
"Try," I say.
He looks up, a little unsure.
"It's good to try," I say.
He nods.
"Well," he begins. "It's just that no matter how good I feel, or how happy I'm supposed to be—for example, I know I should be happy about our recent success with the mission to Belvetron IV—there's always this other feeling there." Gleegluk squints. "And the good feeling is ruined. You know?"
I put my hand on Gleegluk's shoulder. "You have to forget that," I say.
"I'm not sure I can."
"You can," I say.
Sometimes I do remember, is what I don't want to say.
Gleegluk's not so dumb.
Say I don't want my crew to remember, say I will have to get Sassafrass to give Gleegluk a little jolt on the psych table later tonight.
Say I'll take one for myself, too.
Say I'll order her to take one, too.
Say that down below, on a deck long since sealed, the original crew and passengers—say that most of them were sleeping, say they were on their way somewhere far away, say it took many generations to get there, say they made themselves this great big ship and—let's just say that had a zoo, too.
A nice zoo. Something of a wildlife preserve.
And say their bodies, right now, are floating harmlessly somewhere, sealed in the vacuum of space?
You don't let your crew in on doozies like that—it will only lead to more questions. Not to mention nightmares. So I go to the front of the bridge and say, "Great work, everyone. Wonderful. Now let's move on." I paint the picture—there's a new mission. On the other side of the galaxy, a stranded vessel? A distress signal has gone unanswered. We're getting some very strange reports of an attack. Or perhaps an unusual energy cloud not far from us has begun tearing holes in the spacetime continuum? And we have been dispatched to investigate? Have we done that one recently? Not that it matters. We'll just do it again. We could be running low on fuel, we could perhaps need to journey to Sarabandia for more antimatter.
We may just need to float.
For now, I will stall and give myself time to decide by delivering an inspired speech regarding happiness, duty and morale. I can't quite put my snurf on it, but some of the crewmembers have looked a little apathetic lately, a little glassy-eyed—the speech is directed at them, yes, but I'll be honest here, I'm putting on the show to pump myself up, too.
You know that thing about how if you smile enough, it makes you actually feel good? That's what I'm going for.
Maintaining the Illusion
Stepping onto the central platform of the bridge, I project an aura of unwavering resolve. My voice, usually a cacophony of frustrated squawks, smooths into a resonant boom, filling the chamber with the comforting rhythm of leadership. "My esteemed crew," I begin, my gaze sweeping across their faces, "we stand at a precipice of discovery! Each mission, each challenge, refines us, forging an unbreakable bond that transcends the stars themselves!"
Unwavering Duty
Our commitment to the Galactic Confederation is absolute, a beacon guiding us through the darkest nebulae.
Boundless Progress
Through exploration and expansion, we unlock the universe's secrets, pushing the boundaries of what is known.
Collective Morale
Our individual spirits intertwine, creating a formidable force that overcomes all obstacles.
Future Endeavors
New missions await, promising glory and untold wonders for our brave and dedicated team.
I speak of resilience, of the unyielding spirit of the exploration fleet, of purpose and destiny. Gleegluk, still near the podium, watches with an expression I can't quite decipher, a flicker of something almost like skepticism. But the rest of the crew seems to swell with renewed vigor, their postures straightening, their eyes regaining a spark. It's a performance, a grand charade designed to keep the engine of this ship—and my sanity—running smoothly.
The echoes of my words hang in the air, a fragile shield against the cosmic truth I harbor. The zoo, the sleep, the vacuum of space. It's a secret best kept locked away, buried beneath layers of duty and manufactured morale. For their sake, and perhaps for mine, the illusion must persist.