So - a confidence trickster, thought the Consul. Or, at
best, a businessman with a very poor grasp of ethics and …
well, business. Still, there was nothing listed to warrant
ejecting Fletcher from the embassy: no record of violence,
political subversion or flatulence. And perhaps this
so-called ‘business proposition’ would be worth a few
laughs, at least.
“Cat analogues.” The Consul paused, while its psyche implant
advised it on the safest reaction, then nodded
encouragingly. “Do go on.”
“Okay, let me explain what I’ve got in mind,” said Fletch.
“Please.”
Fletch leaned forward, and looked compellingly into several
of the Consul’s eyes. “I,” he began, grandly, “am an
entrepreneur -”
In fact, ‘entrepreneur’ was probably the nicest thing Aaron
Fletcher had ever been called in his life. According to the
Australian Federal Police, Aaron Fletcher was a criminal,
pure and simple. But as far as Fletch was concerned, that
was all in the past. He’d put it all behind him – the failed
schemes, the creditors, the angry investors, the outstanding
warrants - and had fled out into the black beyond, looking
for something new. Something better. Something that would
make him wealthy enough to pay off his various debts and
fines, and still have enough left over to buy a couple of
planets to retire to in his old age. And perhaps a nubile
young companion or two. And a gumball machine. He’d always
wanted one of those. All he needed was a low-risk,
high-return investment.
And it looked as if he might have found it on the Vork
homeworld, Vork.
“– a very successful entrepreneur,” Fletch continued. “And
d’you know why I’m successful?” He raised an eyebrow.
The Consul’s psyche implant decided that the question was
rhetorical, and advised silence.
“Um … it’s because,” Fletch continued, “I see
lucrative markets where others only see … stuff. And
I know how to exploit those markets to their fullest –
possible – potential!” He punctuated each word by
tapping a finger on the Consul’s desk. “And I reckon I’ve
found the mother-of-all-markets right here on Vork!” His
eyes glittered excitedly as he spoke. That was
Fletch’s real talent as an entrepreneur – the ability to
radiate an almost contagious sense of enthusiasm, which
seldom failed to excite potential investors.
“I see,” said the Consul, who, far from being impressed, was
already tiring of Fletch. It stretched luxuriously, then
leaned across the desk, displaying razor-sharp mandibles in
a friendly grin. “Well, why don’t you tell me about this
market you’ve found?”
Fletch sat back involuntarily. It wasn’t just that the
Consul looked like a three-metre-long, upright funnelweb
spider with far too many teeth, legs and eyes. It wasn’t
just that the Consul’s ‘friendly grin’ looked more like the
last thing a shark victim sees. It was that whole reputation
the Vork had – a highly-intelligent, artistically and
philosophically advanced, space-going race, who had an
unfortunate penchant for enslaving other inhabited worlds.
During the forty years since first contact between the Vork
and Humanity, no fewer than three sentient races had been
enslaved by the Vork, to whom slavery was merely one of the
less pleasant cornerstones of civilisation. The Vork didn’t
like doing it, but as far as they were concerned
slaves were a necessary evil. Which didn’t really excuse the
way in which the Vork treated their slave-planets like
larders. And although they maintained amiable diplomatic
relations with Earth, it was understood by everyone that,
given the opportunity, the Vork wouldn’t hesitate to add
Earth to their collection. Which was why human authorities
had one simple policy with regard to allowing the Vork to
visit Earth: Don’t!
This exclusionist policy was aggressively enforced, and
further extended to cover all Vork produce - technology,
flora and fauna, native artwork - everything. The
rule was simple – no product of Vork civilisation or
evolution, whether or not it presented an obvious or
potential threat to human security, would ever be allowed
within 20,000,000 kilometres of Earth. There was even an
embargo on sharing information about certain aspects of
human existence with the Vork – particularly those aspects
with a military connection.
The Vork, not unreasonably, imposed their own information
restrictions. While much was known about Vork social
structure and psychology, almost nothing was known about
their technology or biology. And the obvious reluctance of
the Vork to share this information made human authorities
even more determined to obtain it, by any means necessary.
Which the Vork were only too aware of, of course, since they
too were engaged in various programs of espionage aimed at
cracking Earth security. And so the two races remained
locked in a sort of interstellar Cold War – a state of
tense, yet outwardly amiable co-existence, maintained only
by the inability of each to compromise the security of the
other.
Oddly enough, despite this healthy atmosphere of deep mutual
distrust, human visitors were welcomed on Vork with open
appendages, although their movements were restricted to
specific secure areas of the capital city. But then, the
Vork weren’t particularly worried by the notion of a few
individual humans running amok amongst the local populace.
And why would they be? Soft little pink things versus big
spiky killing machines. No contest.
All of which ran briefly through Fletch’s mind as he gazed
up at the Consul. But whatever else they were, the Vork did
have a strict moral code (of sorts) regarding visitors.
Slaves were for eating, but visitors were sacred, and
devouring one – especially here in the embassy – would have
represented a shameful display of social ineptitude. So
Fletch swallowed his fear, and related his scheme.
“Okay, first things first,” he said. “Do you know what a
‘cat’ is?”
“No,” the Consul admitted.
Fletch leaned forward again. “A cat is a small domesticated
Earthly mammal.”
The Consul didn’t even bother to nod this time, instead
turning its attention to a speck of imaginary dirt caught
between its claws. Sensing the Consul’s mood, Fletch pressed
on.
“Cats are a popular companion animal on Earth. They’re
pleasant to touch and hold, generally have an agreeable
disposition, and express deep affection for their human
owners while maintaining a high degree of independence.”
“Mm,” said the Consul, idly toying with the antigrav
executive toy hovering above its desk. “And what does all
this have to do with your new ‘market’?”
“I’m just coming to that,” said Fletch, trying not to sound
desperate. “See, the problem with cats is that humans have
become too used to them. They’ve been with us since the
birth of human civilisation -” he ignored the Consul’s snort
of amusement, “- besides which, after 500 years of genetic
tampering, the gene pools of many species of cat are
beginning to collapse. Whole breeds are becoming extinct.
Now, it occurs to me that some other planets must be home to
species analogous to cats – animals to which humans
will respond in the same way. There’s a totally untapped
market for an animal like that, and whoever taps it first
stands to make an absolute fortune!”
The Consul held up a claw. “I think I can see where this is
going - you intend to search Vork for local cat analogues,
am I right?” It shook its head. “A commendably ambitious
venture, but unfortunately, a totally impractical one.”
“But -”
“Let’s just consider the obstacles.” The Consul paused to
lick daintily between its claws, then went on. “For a start,
many species of Vork flora and fauna are unspeakably deadly,
even to ourselves. Which means you’d require heavy personal
security during your search, and the government simply
hasn’t the funds to provide it.”
“I
could pay!”
“You couldn’t afford it. Trust me, the sheer extent of the
security you’d need … Then there’s the question of our
security.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No need to be. It’s just that your species does have a
rather aggressive attitude towards anything that poses a
potential threat. Nuke first, ask questions later.”
“We’re not that bad!” protested Fletch.
“Oh, don’t be modest. Of course you are. And you
shouldn’t be bashful about it – Vork and humans are both
dangerously aggressive in their own, special ways. It’s an
evolutionary imperative - nothing to be embarrassed about.
But we still can’t let you just go traipsing around our
planet. After all, even though the amount of physical
damage that you personally could do on Vork is …
well, laughable, there is still the possibility you
could compromise our security.” The Consul held up a claw,
smiling. “Not that you’d do any such thing, of course. But
for security’s sake, an unsupervised tour of the planet is
out of the question. And since we can’t afford to supervise
you…” It shrugged. “And that’s without even considering the
fact that there may not be any cat analogues on
Vork.” The Consul shrugged apologetically. “I’m terribly
sorry to have wasted your time like this,” and mine,
it thought, “but as you can see -”
“But I’ve seen them!” cried Fletch, jumping to his
feet.
The Consul sighed, hoping that Fletch wasn’t going to make a
scene. It reached beneath the desk, claws hovering just
above the security alarm. Not that the Consul couldn’t have
slung the human out of the office all by itself, but the
unions insisted that slinging was a job for Security. And
you didn’t mess with the unions. Not on Vork. “Seen what?”
it asked, wearily.
“Cat analogues! I’ve already found them here!”
“Of course you have,” said the Consul soothingly,
pressing the button. Behind Fletch, the office door slid
back and two huge Vork security guards scuttled forward.
“I
have!” insisted Fletch. “Just outside the embassy! There was
an old Vork standing by the gates, begging for foodscraps,
and holding this big grub -”
The Consul made an abrupt gesture to the guards, who paused,
claws inches from Fletch’s shoulders. “Grub?”
“Yeah, a big white grub. Fat, lots of little white legs, big
toothless mouth, big brown eyes … lots of ‘em…”
The Consul waved the guards away, and regarded Fletch
carefully. “And?”
“And it was looking at me with those big eyes, and making
this purring sound - ‘roop-roop’ – like that, and I
just had to stroke it! And when I did, the thing
rolled its eyes and nuzzled up against my hand -” Fletch
resumed his seat, smiling dreamily, “- awwww, it was so
cute!” He shrugged. “Then the old Vork hissed something
at me and jerked the grub away. But it was definitely a cat
analogue! And if it could make a jaded old bastard like
me go all ga-ga…” He raised an eyebrow. “Well? How about
it?”
The Consul chewed its feeding palps thoughtfully. “You’d be
looking to sell these cat analogues primarily on Earth, I
gather? Not the outer human colonies?”
“Yes, I -”
The Consul made a gesture of mild bemusement. “And how do
you propose to do that, exactly? Let’s not -” it consulted
its netlink, “- beat around the bush, Mister
Fletcher. You’re a wanted man on Earth. The moment you land,
the local authorities will swarm over you like…politicians
over a free lunch.” The Consul hadn’t needed to consult its
netlink for that one. Some aspects of life were universal.
Fletch smiled weakly.
“None of which is of any concern to the Vork government, of
course,” the Consul continued. “Frankly, we couldn’t care
less if you make a living by swindling members of your own
race. But it does beg the question of how exactly you
propose to get the grubs to Earth. And aside from the
problems posed by your popularity with federal authorities,
there’s also the little matter of the Vork Exclusionist
Policy -”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Fletch interrupted, “but, look,
I’ve got it all worked out, okay? Just let me run the plan
by you, and see what you think, huh?”
The Consul fixed Fletch with a piercing stare. “Very well.
But I sincerely hope this isn’t something you’ve cooked up
while sitting in that chair. Because I have no patience with
time-wasters.” It made a show of consulting an ornate
timepiece mounted on the wall. “You have exactly -”
the netlink whispered softly, “- two Earthly minutes to
dazzle me with your plan.” The Consul smiled pleasantly,
folding its claws together on the desk in front of it. “Your
time has already started.”
Fletch cleared his throat. “Ah. Um … okay. Well, see, I have
this friend -”
“Oh dear. Better make that one minute.”
“No,” said Fletch, desperately, “see, this friend of mine
owns a huge tract of land near Alice Springs – Central
Australia, middle of nowhere … breeds camels -” He waved his
hand dismissively. “Anyway, camel-farming isn’t exactly a
boom industry, so my mate earns a little on the side by
cultivating and selling marijuana – an Earthly narcotic –
and one of his biggest markets is the Telstar orbiting
spacedock. Now, it’s primarily the Telstar staff who
are buying the stuff – God knows, there must be fuck-all
else to do up there! Ha-ha-ha…”
The Consul gave the timepiece a pointed look.
“Um … anyway,” Fletch continued, “in return for a steady
supply of drugs, the customs officials on both Telstar and
the local Earthside port turn a blind eye to some of my
mate’s other dealings – black-market offworld goods, that
kind of stuff - and that includes an automatic OK on
anything he brings on or off the ‘dock. No scans, no
searches, no questions asked.”
The Consul nodded thoughtfully. “I see… So if a sizeable
unmarked shipment arrived on the Telstar addressed to your
friend, nobody would touch it.”
“Exactly!” Fletch thumped the desk excitedly. “And then my
mate could return to Earth with the shipment – again, with
no problems from customs – and stash the goods on his
property.”
The Consul drummed its claws against the desk. “Hm.
Sounds feasible. But how would your friend go about
selling sufficient quantities of the grub to make it worth
his trouble? And yours. And ours.”
“Breed them, of course!”
The Consul shook its head. “It wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
The Consul hesitated for a moment, then smiled regretfully.
“Even on Vork, the grubs are difficult to breed in
captivity. Even the most natural-looking artificial habitats
tend to upset their natural cycle.”
“Bugger!” Fletch looked downcast.
The Consul scratched lightly at the desktop. “Of course…”
“What?”
“Well, you could just keep importing more grubs.
Assuming, of course, that there was sufficient financial
benefit for the Vork in providing a steady supply.”
Fletch brightened. “Does that mean … you’re in?”
“Mmmmmmm… Possibly,” admitted the Consul. “I’d like to hear
the rest of the plan first. Particularly what’s in it for
us.”
“No worries!” Fletch grinned, rubbing his hands together.
“Okay, so we keep importing the grubs on a regular basis,
for a couple of years at least -” he paused. “Do these
things – these … what d’you call ‘em?”
The Consul hesitated again. “Chuusa.”
“Okay, chuusa. Do they live longer than two or three
years?”
“About -” the Consul consulted its netlink, “- four Earthly
years.”
“Okay, so after about two years we should have, say, ten
thousand chuusa on Earth. Now, at this point my mate
moves the chuusa into a ‘natural’ enclosure – say, a
dried up reservoir, or something - then files a claim on
these funny little critters he’s found on his property. The
authorities’ll check them out, find them harmless -” Fletch
gave the Consul a wary look. “They are harmless, I
gather?”
The Consul nodded. “Completely.”
“Okay.” Fletch didn’t sound convinced. “Well, we can take a
few months to run some tests before my mate reports ‘em,
just to make sure they don’t carry any bacterial nasties. So
then the authorities check out the chuusa, ‘discover’
what we already know – that they’re harmless - and because
there’s no sign of any artificial habitat, and because my
mate’s the one who reported them – which puts him above
suspicion - they’ll assume the chuusa were brought in
by accident. On the bottom of someone’s shoe, or something.
And since there’d be no reason to suspect they’re from Vork,
my mate’s claim on them would be completely legal.” Fletch
adopted a conspiratorial tone. “Maxwell’s Clause – if you
find an alien organism on your property, and it’s not
intelligent, dangerous, or harmful to the ecosystem, it’s
yours. Maxwell made a fortune out of Sirian Glow-Worms -”
“Anyway…”
prompted the Consul.
“Sorry - anyway, my mate starts selling the chuusa
off as pets – as exotic cat-analogues. ‘Be the first on your
block’, etcetera. I’ll be directing the whole operation from
somewhere close by with no extradition laws. Titan, maybe.
Possibly Ganymede. I’ve always wanted to see -”
“Ahem.”
“Sorry, getting ahead of myself. Anyway, we start off by
selling the chuusa solely to the rich, to recover
costs. Then we drop the price and sell to Mister and Mrs J.
Citizen. Everyone’ll want one, and if we keep a steady
supply coming in we can meet that demand for as long as it
lasts. And if people start to ask where this endless
supply’s coming from, my mate can tell them the chuusa
are breeding – and he’s legally under no obligation to let
anyone come on to his property to confirm the claim!” Fletch
leaned back, grinning. “A plan with no flaws. And within a
few months I’ll be able to pay off all my debts, return to
Earth, and oversee the operation personally.”
The Consul nodded slowly. “I see.”
A pause.
“Um..?” Fletch raised an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“Um … well, don’t you want to know what’s in this for you?”
“Oh, of course! Er..?” The Consul made a gesture of
encouragement.
“Okay,” Fletch leaned forward again. “I reckon we can sell
chuusa for at least five or six grand initially – I’m
not sure how that converts into local currency -”
The Consul consulted its netlink. “78,000,000 stukk.
Approximately.”
“Sure, okay, and then about half that when we drop the price
for the plebs. Now, I figure my mate’ll go for a fee of
around 20% - subject to negotiation, of course – and then
there’s my fee as operations supervisor – say, 40%, and the
remainder goes to your government.”
The Consul scratched idly at the desktop, regarding Fletch
silently. Fletch began to fidget nervously in his seat.
“Um,” said Fletch eventually, “look, I know 40% doesn’t
sound like much, but what you’ve got to remember is that me
and my mate are taking all the risks here, and besides, 40%
of … let’s see … minimum yearly return for the first year –
10,000 units, six grand each – that’s … 50,000,000,
increasing in subsequent years … and 40% of 50,000,000 is -”
He looked up. “What are you doing?”
The Consul had picked up a stylus, and was busy scrawling
something on to a piece of hand-spun parchment. It glanced
up, still writing. “I want you -” it finished writing, and
handed the parchment to Fletch, “- to ask the guards outside
the door to escort you to the Office of Trade and Services.
When you arrive, ask to see the Minister of Trade Relations
and show him that document.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a letter of authority, signed by a duly appointed
proxy for the Vork government – that’s me – stating that the
government has entered into a contract with one Aaron Edgar
Fletcher to assist in the exportation of chuusa to
Earth. The Minister is further instructed to … get the
ball rolling immediately.”
A
grin spread across Fletch’s face. “Really? You mean it?”
“Absolutely.” The Consul reached across the desk with a
razor-sharp claw. Fletch took it automatically. “And to put
your mind further at rest,” the Consul continued, “40% will
be quite satisfactory. I’ll transmit a recording of our
conversation over to the Trade Relations office for them to
reformat into a contract. No need to slow the process down
with signatures – the handshake constitutes full
acceptance.”
“Oh, I accept! You bet I do!” Fletch sprang from his chair,
gave the Consul’s claw a final warm squeeze, and backed
towards the door. “Thank you! You have no idea what this
means to me! Thank you. You won’t be sorry!” He
turned to leave.
“Oh, and Mister Fletcher..?”
Fletch turned. The Consul kept its smile pleasant. “As I’ve
said, we don’t care what sort of ‘dodgy deals’ you’ve pulled
on members of your own species. It’s none of our concern.
But -” the smile vanished, and the Consul leaned slowly
forward, “- if you even think about trying to swindle
the Vork in any way, shape or form … we’ll have you for
breakfast.”
The way the Consul said it, it didn’t sound like a
euphemism.
Fletch smiled nervously and placed a hand against his chest.
“I … well, of course not! I’d never…” He trailed off. “Look,
you can trust me, okay? No need for threats.”
“The Vork don’t make threats, Mister Fletcher.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Fletch, instantly apologetic, “I
thought you meant -”
“We make promises.”
Fletch paled.
“Good day, Mister Fletcher.” The Consul smiled warmly. “Nice
doing business with you.”
Fletch nodded slowly, and left.
As
soon as the door had closed, the Consul reactivated its
netlink. “Message to Security Central. Apparently we’ve got
a vagrant parked outside the embassy gates – with chuusa
in tow, no less! In plain sight of visiting
extraterrestrials! I want someone here quick-smart to take
it back to a secure area -” It paused. “But be … nice
about it. In this case, the security breach may turn out to
be to our advantage.” Another pause. “Okay, new order -
transmit a complete record of conversation with human
visitor to the Office of Trade and Services. Then patch me
through to whoever’s in charge of Offworld Incursion. Tell
them it’s important. And have my shuttle brought to the
office window. I’ll be going home early today. I think I’ve
earned it.”
They
were waiting at the door when it arrived back at its burrow
– the whole clutch, all looking up at the Consul, rubbing
against its legs, purring expectantly.
The Consul dutifully pulled a bag of dried food from its
satchel and sprinkled a clawful at its feet. It stood back
and watched them feed, marvelling at the way in which they
bumbled about so amiably, scampering across the floor on
tiny white legs, scooping up morsels with their wide,
toothless mouths.
Such a wonderful time in their lives, the Consul thought. A
time of innocence. Enjoy it while you can, little ones. In
just a few short krinn (around four Earth years,
the netlink whispered), the Growth Fever would hit, and the
chuusa would rapidly transform into their adult form,
incessantly shovelling food – any food – into their
mouths, as razor-edged teeth erupted from their gums.
The Consul’s eyes twinkled, as it considered what
ten-thousand chuusa in the grip of Growth Fever could
do to the human population of Earth. And afterwards, an
Earth-born occupation force of adult Vork. It was just too
perfect. After years of public frustration at the inability
of the Vork government to compromise Earth security, a back
door had presented itself from out of the black.
A
catflap,
whispered the netlink.
The Consul tilted its head to one side and regarded its
children. Its eyes shone, half-closed in utter contentment.
“Ahhhh, my lovely chuusa,” it purred. “You’re going
to make Daddy so proud..!”
Confessions of
a Pod Person
Chuck McKenzie's
first collection,
published by
MirrorDanse
Books
November 2005
Chuck McKenzie