Orson Scott Card's InterGalactic Medicine Show (11 page)

He led the way, and I followed him into the cathedral.

I probably hadn’t been in a church more than a dozen times since I stopped going with my mom, mostly as a tourist. I could tell that the Aurorans had spent years of painstaking effort in creating this building, carving delicate patterns into solid stone. We passed through various archways and doors, and I started to hear Auroran voices harmonizing. Finally we entered a round room; about twenty Aurorans stood in the middle, singing.

I felt a chill on the back of my neck, like I used to get sometimes listening to the choir at my mom’s church. But there was something more; there was something about this tune that made me nostalgic, homesick even. It felt like a memory that I couldn’t quite pull from the depths of my mind.

Then Mozart walked to a curtain that hung on one of the walls and pulled it back.

There, in violation of one of their commandments, was a painting of a man—definitely human—dressed all in white.

My childhood Sunday memories came flooding back, and between the music and the picture there was no doubt in my mind as to who had been the first ambassador from Earth.

“Alla Beeth” was the Aurorans’ way of saying “Elvis.”

Anyone else
on this expedition would have to be taken seriously. But not me. I’m a proven liar. Even worse—I’m a tabloid reporter. I would be accused of fabrication, of planting the evidence, of corrupting Auroran culture as part of some tabloid hoax.

The biggest story of my career had fallen in my lap, and I couldn’t tell anyone without ruining whatever credibility I had managed to regain. Whatever powers that be must not want the publicity.

Of course, my mom would say this was punishment for having lied.

“Thank you
for sharing the secrets of Alla Beeth with me,” I told Mozart as we left the cathedral.

“You were right: Alla Beeth is human.”

Mozart trilled joyfully.

“But his message is intended for your people, not mine.” I sighed. “You were right to keep the image hidden. You must keep it hidden, because my people would not understand. They would reject your belief in him.”

After a pause, Mozart asked,

“The truth,” I said. “I will tell them the truth.”

I refused
Commander Gutierrez’s request for a private briefing on what I’d found, insisting instead on speaking to the assembled scientists. After everyone gathered outside the LM, I sat on the rim of the airlock and recounted exactly what happened up until the moment Mozart pulled back the curtain and revealed the picture of Alla Beeth. Then I stopped.

After a long pause, Khadil said, “Did you recognize the person?”

“He was a human,” I said. “Unmistakably. We are not the first to travel the stars. But as for who it was…You really want to know the truth?”

“Yes,” said Cacciatore.

“Do you?” I looked at him. “If I say it was Mohammed, will you become a Muslim?” I turned to Khadil. “If I say it was Moses or Elijah, will you become a Jew?” I shook my head. “You want me to give you scientific proof of your religious beliefs? Well, I’m not going to; it’s called ‘faith’ for a reason. Here’s the real truth: You’ve all been acting like a bunch of ignorant yahoos, not the cream of Earth’s scientists. So quit bickering and get back to work.”

I rose, turned my back on them, and stalked through the airlock into the LM.

Commander Gutierrez caught up with me just outside my quarters. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

I stopped. “Yes.”

She looked at me appraisingly. “You know they’ll all hate you for that little show-and-not-tell.”

I shrugged. “As long as they’re united again…That’s what you wanted, right?”

Gutierrez nodded. “Just between you and me, though, who was it in the picture?”

Cocking an eyebrow, I said, “Assuming it was one of the great religious leaders of the past, how on Earth—or Aurora—would I know him from Adam?” I hit the button to open the hatch to my quarters. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Commander, I have a column to file.”

Afterword by Eric James Stone

In early 2004 I sold a story called “The Man Who Moved the Moon.” It was a combination of some fairly hard science fiction and a fairly ridiculous premise, and to this day it remains one of my favorites. Having succeeded with that rather strange combination, I decided to try it again in time for the next Writers of the Future contest deadline.

So I wrote a first-contact story, using some speculative exobiology for the hard-science parts. For the ridiculous premise, I dredged up an idle thought I’d had years before about Elvis appearing to aliens.

But what made the story work for me was the narrator. Less than a year before I wrote the story, reporter Jayson Blair was fired by the
New York Times
for having fabricated stories, and that’s what gave me the idea of a disgraced reporter looking to redeem himself. The narrative voice allowed me to inject self-deprecating humor into the story.

Having finished the story, I titled it “The First Ambassador” and sent it off to Writers of the Future.

I was extremely happy when it was rejected seven days later. Why? The reason they rejected it was that I had become ineligible for the contest—my previous submission had just won second place in its quarter.

Without the pressure of the contest deadline, I submitted the story to some of my usual critiquers. The feedback I got was generally positive, but many people had a real problem with the ending. As originally written, the revelation of Alla Beeth’s identity came in the last line of the story, which made it feel like a punch line.

In order to set up the punch line a little more, I changed the title to “Tabloid Reporter to the Stars,” but that wasn’t enough to fix the problem. The story got rejected in several markets because they felt the ending was unsatisfactory.

When Orson Scott Card asked me if I had anything I could submit for the new online magazine he was starting (and let me tell you, being asked was one of the biggest compliments of my writing career), this story was one I sent for his consideration.

After Ed Schubert took over as
IGMS
editor, he read the story and asked if I would rewrite the ending to make it less like a punch line. We had a good discussion about the story when we met at Dragon*Con, and over the next few weeks I wrote a new ending that kept the Elvis element but added a resolution to the conflict between the scientists.

Linus watched
his personal assistant bustle through the door of his immense bedroom at exactly the right time. He had been awake long enough that he was no longer bleary-headed, but not long enough to start thinking about doing things for himself. This was the perfect time for someone to come talk to him about the day’s plans, and this particular assistant had arrived at exactly that moment every day for the last six years.

Of course, Linus thought, his very perfection is why he is my personal assistant.

“Slept well, I hope? Good, let’s talk about the day’s appointments,” said Michael as he walked across the room and drew back the curtains. Every morning it was the same. A quick, impersonal greeting and on to business. Linus sighed and decided not to make too much fuss today.

“Yes, Michael, I slept very well. The bed was very comfortable, and the comforter is wonderful. Please send my compliments to everyone.”

“Excellent,” said Michael, making a few quick notes on his pad. “You have a very full schedule today; shall we go over it?”

“Will there be much traveling today, Michael? I’m not feeling up to traveling. I think I might be getting a headache.”

Michael merely gave him the blank stare he used when he thought Linus was being petulant. When just enough time had passed that Linus began to feel silly, but before he felt the need to become truly obstinate, Michael said, “All of your appointments today are here in New York. We will be traveling by car from here to the museum for an art exhibit, paintings, I believe. We will then travel by car to your luncheon. A new restaurant called the Orange Garden. There are three chefs there, and all are in contention for top rankings this year. It is your most important stop of the day. After, we will travel by car to the opera. The composer is Lisa Takei. She is a relatively new talent to the rankings, but some are saying the finest since Whitworth last year. It has a highly ranked cast.”

Michael was giving him the other look now, the one that asked whether he was going to behave or not. “I do try to appreciate Japanese opera, Michael, you know I do. I’ll be very attentive, I promise,” said Linus.

“After the opera is a dinner party in your honor. You have not been to New York in some time, and the mayor felt it necessary for the city to show its appreciation. All of the top-ranked talent will be there. Naturally, there will be some trying for unscheduled showings, but I needn’t remind you that appreciating any of their works without an appointment is a bad idea. It is getting hard enough to move you from place to place without crowds of unranked talent disrupting things.”

Linus knew how bad it could get. Michael had been his assistant for six years now, but he was actually a replacement. Linus’s first assistant had nearly been killed when an unranked stone carver threw one of his works off an overpass onto their moving car. Of course, security was much better now, but there were still those so desperate for appreciation that they would throw themselves in front of his car just to get him to view their work.

“Yes, Michael, I’ll be a pillar of inobservation for the entire evening.”

“Inobservation is not a word, Linus. You might want to refrain from using it in public,” said Michael as he moved toward the door. “Your tailor will be here shortly. Breakfast is in one hour. Please call if you need anything.” With that he bustled efficiently away.

Before Linus had time to decide whether he should get up or not, a large mound of moving fabrics shuffled into the room. It took him a few seconds to realize there were legs at the bottom of the pile, and then the clothes were quickly being hung up all over the room on nearly anything with an edge on it.

A tall, gangly man slowly appeared as the clothes were distributed. When his face was visible, he started to talk. “I hope you like a more formal look. I know that everyone has been putting you in lighter colors this year, but I’ve always thought that you had the right kind of dignity for a darker, more classic look. And pleats, your figure is very good for pleats. Something in a dark maroon color, maybe?”

“Ummm, could you wait a second? I just woke up, and I need to use the restroom. I think I’d like a shower, too. I promise I’ll be right out, okay?”

The gangly man deflated. “I am so sorry. I just didn’t think. What’s wrong with me? Please, take as much time as you need.” He moved closer with a terrible look of desperation on his face. For a second, Linus felt an irrational fear that the man might hurt him. “Please, don’t let my unforgivable rudeness keep you from appreciating these clothes. I have worked very hard on them. This is the greatest moment of my life. Please don’t let my excitement and lack of social grace destroy everything I’ve worked for…please.”

Linus breathed a sigh of relief and felt a little shiver go down his back as sadness, and a little pity, replaced the fear. “Of course not. The clothes look wonderful. I can’t wait to try them on. Just let me shower really quick, and I’ll be right back. Okay?”

The clothier smiled and nodded, but still looked defeated. Linus went into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. While he was showering, he thought about how desperate some were to be appreciated. They work so hard to get here, and the playing field is far from level. Every single person on Earth is doing whatever they are best at. They read it right off our genes before we are even born.

The left-brain talents weren’t so bad. They accounted or assisted or researched, and they were happy. The right-brain talents were the problem. They needed to be noticed, they needed to be compared, they needed to be appreciated. No wonder this poor tailor is scared. He thinks he has blown his one shot at immortality. Well, I can fix that; I can make him happy again.

The tailor was still waiting and looking flat when Linus came out of the bathroom in his robe. He always wore his own robe, and it was the only thing he took with him from place to place. Linus liked to wear something familiar and comforting each day, before putting on a suit of clothes he would wear once and never see again.

Well, time to put on my game face.

“Hey, that maroon suit is really nice. I saw it when you first came in, but it’s really grabbing me now. Can I try that one on first?”

When the tailor realized that he might still get a chance at appreciation, he seemed to regain some of his former energy. “Absolutely, sir. An excellent choice, and the one I myself thought would be most flattering on you. You have a very good eye for fashion, sir.” Which technically was not true.

If I had a good eye for fashion, thought Linus, I would be a fashion designer like you.

Linus tried the suit, declared it to be one of the finest he had ever worn, both for look and comfort, and sent the tailor away beaming. The tailor took none of the other clothes away with him. Why take them? Each item had been painstakingly designed with Linus himself in mind. If he wasn’t going to wear them, no one would. It always seems such a waste, he thought. But no one ever goes without anything they need anymore, so maybe the world can afford to be a little wasteful in the interests of art.

As soon as he was dressed and the tailor had left, Michael came back. “All ready for breakfast? Very good. Come this way, please.”

Michael led him out of the room and down to an elaborate dining area. Michael always led him everywhere. Since Linus slept in a different place nearly every night, he could not be expected to keep track of where things were. It was Michael’s job to know how to get around. Every now and then, Linus would try to wander off, but he almost always got immediately lost. When Michael found him, he would never scold, of course, but he would give that look. Linus wondered if the ability to reprove without speaking was one of those genetic markers they looked for when deciding who was best suited to be a personal assistant.

Once in the dining area, Linus sat on a very comfortable chair and ate an elaborate, yet surprisingly nonfilling, breakfast. Afterward, he was offered a tray covered in sugary pastries. Linus was widely rumored to love sugary pastries. In truth, he was indifferent to them, but took one anyway. The baker who had made it was watching from the doorway and gave a loud whoop when Linus took it. Michael looked exasperated because such displays during appreciation were considered the height of vulgarity. Linus, however, secretly loved to break someone’s composure like that. Good for you, Mr. Baker; live it up, man.

Just to rub it in, instead of taking one bite and putting the pastry down, he ate the whole thing while looking right at Michael.

“All finished? Very good, let’s move on. The car is waiting,” Michael said without a hint of impatience.

“Yeah, ready to go,” Linus replied around a mouthful of pastry. On the way out, he winked at the baker.

The ride to the museum was very comfortable. Of course it was. Linus tried to think of how many people had worked on this car so he could ride in it this one day. Someone to design the outside and make it visually pleasing, yet functional. Maybe some other person designed the inside, made it roomy and comfortable, without being cavernous. Some engineering genius to design the engine and other mechanical parts; an electronics wizard to design the sound system and video monitors. Maybe even someone to design the seats.

And those are just the designers, Linus thought. Then there are people who machine and build and stitch. It was all hand-built, of course. Linus had never ridden in a mass-produced car.

All those people, picked at birth to be designers and mechanical engineers and leather workers and mechanics. They work their whole lives to be the best in their field, and everyone they are competing with was also picked at birth, given the same education, raised practically from the first moment of consciousness to be that thing. No wonder they are all starving for attention. So focused on what they do, they never see what anyone else is doing. But they all need someone to see them.

The thought put him in a melancholy mood.

“Michael.”

“Yes, Linus?” Michael seemed far away, reading something on his pad. Probably tomorrow’s schedule, or the weather in Amsterdam, or even the lunch menu. Always working, but the most famous personal assistant in the world because he works for me.

“How many paintings will I see today?”

“Several dozen, I would think. We have you scheduled for three hours. Why?” And now Michael was giving him the questioning look. He is wondering what I am getting at, what I plan to do. I still scare him a little.

“A few dozen paintings…I see so little of what they do, Michael. How many paintings were created today, I wonder? How many last year? How many of them do I ever see?”

“You only see the best of them, Linus.”

“But who decides that? The other painters? Blinded by envy, always competing, how can they judge the others’ work?”

“And yet some are deemed worthy of your attention, so the system must work.”

“But what about all those others, the thousands of other painters who never make it high enough in the rankings to show me their work? Who appreciates it?”

“Their work is shown at the regional levels. Others of their talent see it. The better pieces are purchased and put in homes or other buildings.”

“Purchased. By who? Doctors, physicists, personal assistants? How many paintings do you own, Michael?”

Michael put down his pad. He sat back in his seat and relaxed. This conversation was going in a familiar direction now. He knew what to say. He was no longer worried. “You know perfectly well that I do not own any paintings. I do not have a dwelling of my own. My life is working with you, assisting you in your work. If I ever settle down and own a home, perhaps I will purchase paintings.”

“Is that enough, Michael? Following me around? Making sure I get to my appointments on time? Do you ever look at the paintings we go to see?”

Michael looked out the window at the rain and wet streets going by. The conversation was still going where he expected, but it required a gentle touch, and a bit of truth. “It is enough, Linus. I have always known that this is what I would do. I was raised from birth to be a perfect companion, confidant, secretary, protector. The better I was at my job, the more important the person I assisted would be. And I assist the most important person in the world, so I must have become very good at my job. Mock me if you like, but that is a satisfaction I cannot explain to you.”

Linus sat quietly. He knew that Michael was speaking the plain truth to him now, and he treasured such openness because it happened so rarely. He honored it with his silence. After a while, Michael spoke again.

“The world revolves around you, Linus. You only see the top, the tip of the iceberg, but you are the reason for so many things. These paintings we are going to see? They may only be twenty or thirty out of all that were painted. But when you look at them, you justify the painting of them all. Every one of those artists knew that maybe, just maybe, theirs would be the painting that made it all the way here. And for perhaps the first time, their work would be looked at by someone who does not judge, only appreciates.”

“How could I judge? Half the time I don’t even understand,” Linus replied.

“That is your gift. You are the world’s most unique genetic combination. A man with virtually no talents. Median-level intelligence, average physical skills, and no genetic predisposition for anything.”

“The luckiest man in the world, because I’m nothing.”

“The luckiest man in the world, because you can
see
everything. You still have a sense of wonder. You will never look at the work of another human and say, ‘My own work is better.’ And so you are the only person people want to show their work to. You can appreciate, and that is the only talent left that is in short supply.”

“I promise to try very hard to appreciate the Japanese opera. I really will,” Linus said quietly. “I’m sure they must work very hard on those complex arrangements.”

Michael smiled at him for a moment, then picked up his pad and returned to work.

Linus sat back in the seat. He felt his clothes on him, and they were comfortable and flattering. And he felt the seat, all the soft leather. The precise hum of the engine, the smooth glide of the car, the breakfast sitting lightly in his stomach, all easy to appreciate. He would try hard to look like he enjoyed the opera, so they felt appreciated as well.