Randoms Page 3

  “You know, I am wondering about that.” The sarcasm was a sure sign of my growing impatience.

  She sighed and pushed herself away from the computer. “I could explain it to you, but you would never believe me.”

  “Maybe you could try,” I suggested. “Otherwise, I’ll end up sitting and watching you type for a long time.”

  I was getting the impression she didn’t like kids in general, or me in particular. She stared at me for a long time, as if wishing I would vanish. When I didn’t, she offered one final, long-suffering sigh, stood up, and walked over to my side of the desk. I now saw she was holding a cylinder about four inches long and an inch in diameter. It appeared to be made out of some kind of dull black metal, smooth and without distinguishable features. Without asking my permission she pressed one end of it to the back of my hand. It let out a little humming noise, and a slightly warm feeling bloomed across my skin.

  “What was that?” I rubbed my hand, but the warmth was already gone. It felt perfectly normal.

  Ms. Price returned to her seat. “I’ve just injected you with nanites. Those are—”

  “I know what nanites are,” I said, feeling dizzy, though I didn’t know if that was from the injection or the knowledge that I now had something top secret, and probably insufficiently tested, in my blood.

  “Impressive,” she said, though she sounded more irritated than impressed. “I didn’t.”

  “Nanotechnology is pretty common in a lot of sci-fi,” I explained.

  She waved a hand to indicate that this conversation was going places she didn’t much like.

  “I didn’t give you permission to inject me with anything,” I told her. “I didn’t see my mother sign a consent form.”

  She pressed her lips together. “You could always complain about being exposed to technology that’s not supposed to exist, and which no doctor in the world will be able to detect, but I’m not sure it would get you very far.”

  “That’s a fair point,” I admitted. “What do these nanites do, exactly?”

  Nanites are, in effect, machines built on the molecular level. They are still experimental as far as practical application in the real world goes, but in science fiction they can be used to augment natural human ability, increase brain function, cure diseases, impart information directly into the brain, turn skin into armor and limbs into weapons, change the shape of your body or face . . . just about anything imaginable. I’d always loved the idea—in theory. I didn’t know that I loved the idea of having them in me right now, especially since I didn’t know what they were up to.

  “The nanites will help you to communicate,” Ms. Price said, with less enthusiasm than the subject of advanced and invasive technology seemed to deserve.

  This was starting to sound creepy. I didn’t know that I wanted machines in my brain. “Communicate what?”

  “Ezekiel, there’s no way to prepare you for what I’m going to tell you, so I’m going to say it outright. For the past week, several nations of this world have been negotiating with a representative of a vast network of alien species. They are considering admitting our world, on a provisional basis, into their alliance, and the first step is for us to send four young people, chosen by the aliens, to one of their cultural hubs. Our worth as a species will be measured by the behavior of this small group. However improbably, you have been chosen to be part of this process.”

  I stared at her. She had to be messing with me, but this woman looked like she had no direct experience with the concept known as humor.

  She shook her head in apparent sadness. “I know it is hard to believe.” She pressed an intercom button on her phone. “Tell the representative we’re ready for him.”

  I was about to ask her something, but whatever my question was, it froze in my throat, because a giraffe in a business suit had entered the room. Up to his shoulders he had the frame of a pretty normal man, but then, exploding out of the collar, were two feet of heavily muscled neck covered by short, nut-brown fur. Then there was the giraffe head, with a long snout, large ears, and two stubby protrusions sticking up from the forehead.

  The suit was charcoal gray, and nicely tailored. The giraffe creature had an impeccably folded white handkerchief in the front pocket. I thought that was weird.

  Technically, he was not really a giraffe. For one thing, he didn’t have giraffe markings. For another, he walked on two legs and he wore a suit. Also, he spoke, which is not something you generally expect from a giraffe.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m Dr. Klhkkkloplkkkuiv Roop.” He stuck out his hand for me to shake.

  In something of a daze, I shook. The creature had tapered hands, with long, narrow fingers, and they were covered with the same brownish fur, but otherwise they looked a whole lot like they could be human. He also had a firm handshake and he met my eye, so, if necessary, I could trust him to sell me a used car.

  “You must be Ezekiel Reynolds,” he said. His accent sounded vaguely European, which surprised me. To my knowledge, giraffe men are not native to Europe.

  “Yeah,” I managed, and I thought I was extremely articulate under the circumstances. My neck was already hurting from this conversation. Up to the shoulders he was normal person–size, but with the neck the total package was close to about eight feet.

  “I understand this is difficult for you,” he said, “and I can think of nothing to make it less so. We might as well jump right in.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “That sounds like a plan.”

  The giraffe guy gestured for me to sit, and I did. He sat across from me, crossed his legs, and adjusted this tie.

  “I work,” he began, “for the Department of Sentient Integration, a branch of the Coalition of Central Governing Committees of the Confederation of United Planets. We are a vast alliance of species native to our section of galactic spiral. From time to time, when our selection committee has identified four qualified worlds, we recruit new species who have achieved certain cultural and technological milestones. From each species we identify four young beings who possess skills or attributes admired in our culture and request that they spend a standard year with us so we may evaluate them and determine if their culture is a good fit for our own, and if ours is a good fit for them. The honorable members of the selection committee have picked four beings from your planet, and you, Ezekiel, are one of them.”

  I said nothing for a long time. Ms. Price stared at me like I was an idiot, which, coincidentally, I felt like. Dr. Roop widened his big yellow eyes slightly as the clock ticked on.

  Finally, I thought of something to say. “Is this a joke?” As soon as I said it, I realized this question might not suggest I was the absolute best the human race had to offer.

  Ms. Price breathed in sharply through her nose, as if my question caused her pain. “Ezekiel, I assure you that the president is far too busy to play pranks on an irrelevant twelve-year-old.”

  I realized the joke theory was not holding up under scrutiny. For now, I was willing to run with the idea that this giraffe guy was an alien. Even so, I had some questions.

  “Dr. Roop,” I started.

  “Please,” he said, waving a furry hand. “There’s no need to be so formal. Call me Klhkkkloplkkkuiv.”

  “Uh, no,” I said. “I’m not going to do that.” His name sounded like he was choking on a fish bone. “Look, I’m confused. Also freaked out, but we’ll deal with confusion first. I mean, this Confederation of United Planets sounds an awful lot like the United Federation of Planets, which is from a TV show. You can see why I have a hard time buying it.”

  “Certainly,” he said, spreading his fingers in the Vulcan salute. “Star Trek. I find it charming. You see, Zeke, for many decades we’ve known Earth to be a strong candidate for Confederation membership, and in accordance with our long-standing practice, we have used certain back channels to filter facts about the wider galaxy
into your speculative narratives.”

  “You’re telling me that sci-fi is influenced by actual fact?”

  “Some of it, yes.”

  “And there really is a government of peaceful and benevolent aliens out there?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And ships that can travel between stars without being limited by the laws of physics?”

  “As you understand those laws, absolutely.”

  “And we’re talking, and your mouth doesn’t really seem suited to make words in our language, so there must be some kind of universal translator?”

  “Ms. Price injected you with the appropriate nanites before our meeting. They are able to process and interpret virtually any language, spoken or written, and in most cases do so instantaneously.”

  “Then why do you sound like you have a French accent?”

  “Dutch,” Ms. Price said. “He sounds Dutch.”

  “On occasion, the translator will find analogues from your own linguistic experiences to help convey certain cultural inflections.”

  “But,” I said, “it looks like you’re speaking English. I could read your lips.”

  “It’s an illusion created by the nanites. Otherwise the discontinuity between a being’s words and its movements might prove jarring. The translator function will also provide equivalents of nonlinguistic noises, such as laughter and sighs. Body language you will have to work out on your own.”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  “You may also, on occasion, detect a slight delay in the translation when the system attempts to find a familiar equivalent in your language and then opts, instead, to provide explanatory wording. So, if I mention a type of food native to my planet, such as [spiny leaves with dried fruit], or perhaps an unfamiliar alien custom such as [the ritualistic hair-coiffing of herd tenders], you will notice the difference in my voice.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “For sure.” It was hard to describe, but when he said those things, the voice sounded slightly slower, and like it was vibrating, but not exactly. It was more of a feeling, and I understood that I was getting a rough equivalent, and there was a kind of mental pause and rush, like if a video playback had a glitch that caused it to slow and then hurry ahead to catch up. “That’s cool. Wait, did you just get that weird sensation when I said cool?”

  “I received a relative cultural equivalent of whatever word you used.”

  I couldn’t get my head around all of this—not really. This dapper giraffe in a suit, who spoke with a Dutch accent, was a real alien, born on another planet full of giraffe people, who had access to incredible technology. And it was all real. “What else is out there?” I asked.

  “There are too many things to list, so perhaps you could tell me what you are curious to hear about,” Dr. Roop suggested amiably. He tilted his head to one side, but having just been told that that I wasn’t getting any help on body language, I had no idea what it meant.

  I thought for a second. “Are there, I don’t know, space pirates?”

  “Some. Not many.” He lowered his neck in a gesture that I felt sure meant something among his own kind. A shrug? “Our peace officers try to make piracy an unappealing option.”

  “Mysterious elder aliens and extinct races?”

  “Oh, yes.” His eyes widened.

  “Teleportation?”

  “Only on a subatomic level,” he said. “Much of the defense technology we possess depends upon what amounts to, for all practical purposes, quantum-level teleportation. The process can be done on a larger scale, but requires vast amounts of energy, and the only way to teleport a living being is to destroy it and recreate an identical facsimile. Most beings choose not to experiment with the process.”

  “Yeah, I can see why. How about time travel?”

  He cocked his head slightly. “I am not at liberty to discuss that subject.”

  That was a yes, I decided. “Can I transfer my consciousness into an avatar?”

  “It can be done,” he said, “but the side effects include shortness of breath and explosive diarrhea. It’s much easier to simply reshape your existing body.”

  “What about the Force and Jedi powers? Are they real?”

  “No,” Dr. Roop said. “That would be silly.”

  • • •

  Here was the deal as the giraffe guy explained it. Along with the other three humans, and representatives from three other species, I would go visit the Confederation of United Planets, and there we would be evaluated, though he was vague about the details. If, after a standard year—only a few days shorter than an Earth year—a species was deemed worthy, then the Confederation would initiate the first phase of integration. We would be given incredible new technology that would help us eliminate pollution, hunger, disease, and want.

  “Dr. Roop has assured us that the nations of the Earth would maintain their local sovereignty,” Ms. Price assured me. “In case you were worried about that.”

  I couldn’t imagine why she thought I would even care, but still, good to know.

  “How you order your local affairs is of little interest to the Confederation,” Dr. Roop said, “as long as the various countries of your world demonstrate the values and behaviors we consider commensurate with our standards. We will give you the means to create a just and fair world, and if you are able to take advantage of what you are given, then you can advance to full participation in the Confederation. Eventually, you will be provided with the technology for interstellar travel.”

  Given how ready many people are to abuse power, justice and fairness seemed like a tall order. “And if we fail to achieve justice and equality?” I asked. “What then?”

  “Then nothing,” said the giraffe man. “We shall leave you alone and come check back in a few decades to see if you’ve worked out your problems. There’s no downside to participating. You can only benefit.”

  “This end to disease you mentioned,” I said. “Is that for real?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dr. Roop said. “We can’t eliminate all minor ailments and discomforts, but chronic and deadly disease will be a thing of the past.”

  I couldn’t help but think about that particular benefit. My mother would be cured. No more ALS. She would not have to turn into a living corpse. I realized that beyond how much I loved all of this for its own sake, I had a very personal interest in the Confederation of United Planets being impressed with the people of the Earth.

  “Why young people?” I asked. “And more importantly, why me? How, of all the kids on Earth, did you come up with my name?”

  Dr. Roop widened his eyes, which I began to suspect might be his species’ version of a smile or a nod. “Adolescents are particularly well suited for evaluation because they are old enough and sufficiently educated to represent your world and its cultures, but not so fully developed as to be resistant to new ways and new technologies. Over time we have found that using beings your age—or the species-relevant equivalent—for this evaluation gives us the best and most accurate sense of compatibility.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess I can see that. But why me?”

  “Maybe,” Ms. Price suggested, “we should tell you a little bit more about the other young people the Confederation has selected.” She picked up a remote device, and a screen came down on the far side of the room and the lights dimmed. She then flicked a few keys on her keyboard, and the image of a kid about my age appeared on the screen. He was dark-skinned and thin with narrow, focused eyes like he was concentrating on something. He wore a white dress shirt with a sweater over it that had some kind of symbol on the right breast, which I figured was a private-school insignia.

  “This is Charles D’Ujanga,” Ms. Price said. “He’s twelve, from Uganda, and remarkably gifted in both math and science. He was born in a horribly poor village, and orphaned quite young, but by incredible luck his gifts were discovered early by
a UN doctor. Consequently, he’s been the beneficiary of some excellent NGO aid that’s allowed him to go to the best schools in his country. Given the political problems in Uganda, this is no small thing.”

  She hit a few keys on the keyboard and the picture of an Asian girl flashed onto the screen. She wore a martial-arts uniform and had her legs firmly planted, and her arms up, as if ready to block a punch. It was clearly an action photo, and the girl’s short hair was pointed upward, as though she’d just landed after jumping. “This is Park Mi Sun. Despite her youth, she is the reigning female tae kwon do champion in South Korea.”

  “We are not a belligerent society,” Dr. Roop explained, “but we respect the grace and discipline to be found in martial arts from many species and their cultures. Also, we are fond of Jackie Chan films.”

  I nodded appreciatively. “I just saw Supercop.”

  “That’s a good one,” Dr. Roop agreed.

  Ms. Price sighed and clicked, and the image of another girl came onto the screen. This one had bronze skin, long black hair, and an oval face with sharp cheekbones, large eyes, and a dazzling smile. Her clothes suggested she was from India or Pakistan or someplace in that part of the world.

  “And, finally, this is Nayana Gehlawat from Jalandhar, India. You may already know her name.”

  On the other hand, I might not. “Sorry.”

  “She’s ranked the third best chess player in the world, though it’s only a matter of time before she’s number one,” Ms. Price said. “Are you sure you haven’t heard of her? There was a lot of coverage in the media last year when she shot up the ranks after beating Magnus Carlsen.”

  I shrugged. “I got an Xbox last year, so I was sort of distracted.”

  Ms. Price clicked her remote, and the screen rose and the lights came back up. “And there you have it,” she said. “If you agree to go, those are going to be the only human beings you’ll have contact with for the coming year. Besides me, that is.” A normal person would have smiled after saying this. Ms. Price tapped her nails on her desk.