Aliena Too (8 page)

So he had been taken to the local hospital. He had signed the necessary papers. He had been drugged unconscious. There his memory ended.

“Quincy.” It was an oddly musical voice saying his name. That must have been what woke him.

“Here,” he replied, and that was weird, because he did not do it by exhaling breath and invoking vocal cords. He did it—with his arms. By squirting tiny jets of water. Could that be right? Or was this a weird dream?

“Are you rational?”

What a question! “I'm not sure. Am I?”

“You seem to be. Your human brain was transplanted to an alien, to you, host. You have been recovering, unconscious, for a week. Your synapses should now be connecting, enabling you to operate the body. But it will seem strange, and it will take time for you to get used to it, let alone master it. Do not be dismayed if things do not work well at first.”

“Thank you for that explanation. Who are you?”

“I am Aliena.”

“Aliena! The starfish transplant?”

“The same. Now I am back in my natural body. But I was, for a time, in a human body, and I remember the ways of it. That is why I am best qualified to help you adjust now.”

He assimilated that. “I'm a starfish. You're a starfish. So you'll help me get used to it.”

“Yes. And to function as a starfish. But I need to warn you of something.”

“Warn me?”

“Your new body will seem awkward at first, but that will change as you acclimatize. What won't change is your relative intelligence.”

“So I won't lose my mind. That's a relief.”

“Perhaps not. Among humans there is a range of intelligence, as measured by your somewhat arbitrary tests. On a scale of one through ten, roughly, a ten would be a near genius, while a one would be a moron.”

“Got it. Five would be average. I'm about a six.”

“On the human scale,” she agreed. “On the starfish scale, you will be a one.”

More assimilation. “A moron.”

“Yes. Your participation in our society will be limited.”

This was hard to take. But what choice did he have at this point? “I guess there are jobs for morons, right? Like cleaning out the bilge.”

“Fortunately, you do not have to make it on intellect. You have something we largely lack that makes you equivalent to a genius compared to us. That is emotion.”

“Starfish lack emotion?”

“We do not entirely lack it, but we are supremely rational. We work to ascertain the best course of action, and implement it. Emotion can interfere with that, so we suppress it from childhood on. But when interacting with human beings, we need emotion. You will need to help show us how to stop being emotional morons and start being more like humans. It is not an easy course for us. We here on the space craft were not selected for it, assuming that other sapient species would resemble us in this respect. Now we must overcome that liability.”

“So there is something I can help you with,” he said slowly. “To pay my way.”

“That is correct. I ask you to remember that when you feel stupid, as you often will. Humans do not expect or even value intelligence in their pets; dogs and cats and parrots have other virtues.”

“Woof!”

“I do not understand.”

“That was humor. Wait—humor is emotional. That's why you don't get it.”

“Correct. In what manner does making the sound of a dog represent humor?”

“I'm pretending I am a pet dog. Obviously I'm not, so it is laughable.”

“I see,” she said uncertainly.

“Let's move on. What else do I need to know?”

“You will have to attend Starfish School to learn the nature and history of our species. You will have to learn our language.”

“I will? What am I speaking, then?”

“You are speaking an Earth dialect. I learned it when I was in the human host, so I understand you, and you understand me. We also have automatic translation available. But it will be better for you to learn our language, so that you can function apart from the machines.”

He tried to nod, but it didn't work. “Then I guess I'd better get on to kindergarten.”

“First you will need practice moving, eating, and elimination.”

“So I won't poop on the table,” he agreed.

“Actually elimination can be accomplished anywhere; the circulation of the water carries it away, and the ship's filters remove it in due course. But it is better to understand the process, and control it, so as not to suffer embarrassment. So you are, in essence, correct.”

“But I get the message. I need to know how not to be crude in public.”

“We will start with moving. You will discover that you are not standing upright as you did in your original host. You are spread on the floor, and your feet are myriad, in rows along the base of your arms. You need not be concerned about falling; it is not possible to fall in this environment. But you may discover it awkward to walk when using those myriad feet.”

“Awkward,” he agreed. “So these five points I have are not analogous to my original arms and legs?”

“They are not,” she agreed.

“For that matter, how am I seeing and hearing? I don't seem to have eyes or ears.”

“You have thousands of tiny light and sound sensitive cells on your surfaces. So you see and hear with your entire skin, and your brain stem, which is that of the host, integrates these to make pictures and sounds that are intelligible to your brain. That is part of what occurred during your week of convalescence. Without that integration, all would be gibberish.”

“Instead I have clear vision and hearing,” he said. “My compliments to your surgeon.”

“The robots are proficient,” she agreed.

“And how am I talking?”

“You are sending signals to the many water cells that power your arms, causing them to eject water while constricting, so that they vibrate to make sounds. The water carries sound well, so you are readily audible, as I am.”

“I'm talking through my feet?”

“Your arms are your feet. They do make the sounds of speech.”

“So let's see how I walk.” Quincy tried, and got nowhere. All that happened was that the tip of an arm lifted.

“You may be trying to walk the human way,” Aliena said. “By moving one entire arm at a time. This will not be effective.”

“What will be effective?” he asked, suppressing his annoyance.

“Direct controlled sounds to all your arms.”

He tried that, and lifted up off the sea floor slightly before dropping down again. “Oops!”

“Now do that while angling your tubelets back.”

Quincy discovered that he could do that. When he did, he drifted, what he thought, was forward slightly. Strictly speaking, or squirting, he did not have a front or back; he was the same in all directions. But it was controlled movement, of a sort. He tried again, and moved farther forward, with more power. He was starting to get the knack of it. Angled mini-jets were enabling him to travel, and to sing, as it were, as he did so. A moving starfish was audible.

“Practice that until you can move without focusing on it,” Aliena said. “Tomorrow we'll start you in a language class.”

“But with the translators, do I need it?”

“If you depend on the translators you will always be subject to the machine. It is better to do as much for yourself as you can. That was why I learned Earth speech when I was in a human host.”

That made sense. “I will learn your language.”

“Good.” She extended an arm tip and touched the tip of one of his arms. There was an electric twinge that amounted to a small jolt of pleasure. Then she moved away at a pace he could not even attempt to match. The sound of her motion was lovely.

Which was another lesson. The physical touch of a starfish could evoke pleasure—and surely discomfort, if made negative. He wanted her positive attention, as she was his only contact with his own kind, however indirectly.

He practiced moving. He discovered that the host body had automatic circuits, just as the human body did, so that instead of directing the angling and squirting himself, he could invoke a motion circuit and have it done for him. He could move better when simply willing it, not thinking about it.

Now that he could move, he explored his environment. He was in a kind of chamber formed by vertical stakes set in the sand of the sea floor, like a baby's playpen. That analogy made him pause thoughtfully. Effectively, he
was
a baby in a pen; the stakes were there to dissuade him from wandering into danger.

Was there danger here? Probably not physical. But suppose he wandered into some activity the regular starfish were performing? He would be in the way at best, and in trouble at worst. The pen might even be marked to keep others away, so he could practice without being laughable for his clumsiness.

He saw a metal device in one corner of his pen. It reminded him of a food dispenser. He made his way to it, curious about its actual nature. There were several bars under what looked like spouts. He pushed against one bar with a director arm tip. It gave way slightly. Then there was a wash of brownish water from the spout that soaked him in its essence. He recoiled, thinking of mud, before realizing that it tasted more like chocolate. Chocolate mud. It was food! His receptors, intakes, or whatever were absorbing it and nourishing him, before it drifted on out of range.

This thing
was
a food dispenser. He didn't have a mouth or teeth as such, but he could drink in sustenance that came his way.

He pushed another bar, and received another jet, this one red. It tasted like blood and strawberry and was delicious.

A third one was like green wine and oysters, also surprisingly good. His starfish body evidently had different taste preferences than his human body did. That was fine.

Then he felt an urge, and yielded to it. A whitish cloud appeared around him and drifted away in the slight current. It did not taste good. In fact it reminded him of a toilet. That was piss or poop or both! He was discovering how to go potty.

Aliena returned. Quincy was embarrassed; had she seen him pooping? Or, worse, tasted it in the water?

“You have discovered the feeder,” she said. “Good; I was about to explain it for you. Now I think you have had enough practice for the day. You need to sleep, and resume learning tomorrow.”

The region was slowly darkening: simulated night. “Starfish do sleep?”

“We do, for similar reasons humans sleep: to assimilate the events of the day and allow our brains to cleanse themselves physically and intellectually. Now you will want company for this.”

“I will?”

She paused. “Perhaps not. It is necessary for starfish, but not for humans. I am not sure which governs in your case.”

“You can't sleep alone?”

“It is a species reflex. We conjecture that in our evolutionary childhood we discovered that safety lay in numbers. Even today there are predators who will attack a sleeping starfish, but will not attack two that are linked. Because if one starfish is injured, the other will fight back and probably injure or kill the predator. So we normally sleep linked in chains of two, three, or more. We are unable to sleep alone.”

“I—can sleep alone,” Quincy said. “But I would prefer to sleep linked with you. However, if you have business elsewhere—”

“A significant part of my business is you. We promised your wife that you would live. Also, you are maintaining the host body; if your brain died, that body might be lost, and the starfish you exchanged brains with would be unable ever to return.”

“
Might
be lost?”

“If we were aware of the problem in time, we could put it in stasis and thus save it. But we don't want to lose you, regardless.”

Quincy was relieved. “Then lead me to the bedroom.”

“We have no designated sleeping places. We can do it here.”

“Just out on the sea floor?”

“Where else?”

Where else indeed. “Is there any ritual or preparation required?”

“No. We just do it.” She moved closer, brought the tip of an arm into place, and touched his arm tip.

Just like that, he slept.

He woke as the light returned, still touching her. He must have slept several hours; he did feel refreshed.

“Now I leave you to your feeding and exercises,” she said. “I will return later for more instruction.”

“As you prefer,” he agreed.

She moved away. He admired the finesse of her rippling body as she traveled, seeming to flow effortlessly across the packed sand, with a sound like music. He was not nearly there yet; his motions were jerky and sometimes out of control; he tended to angle his tubelets at different slants, so that one arm would move faster than another, and he would find himself in a slow spin. So he worked on that, not merely moving, but moving smoothly. He also practiced lifting individual arms, in the manner of human arms. He knew that the starfish would not have been able to build spaceships without being able to use their arms to handle objects.

He noticed small fish swimming in the area. They were not Earth fish, but they were certainly fish-like, with sleek, flat bodies, fins, and propulsive tails. He remembered how some Earth mammals had returned to the sea and become superficially fish-like: the dolphins and whales. And how some were still in transition, like the seals, with flippers. And some birds: penguins might seem clumsy on land, but in the water they were meteoric swimmers.

Which brought him back to the starfish. They superficially resembled Earthly starfish, except that they were larger, but were not at all like them in nature or detail. Their form must have been convenient for navigating the sea floor. Yet they must be able to do more than merely traverse sandy seascapes.

For example, how did they eat before they had machines to color their water? Could they catch fish?