[OC] Weeds HFY

It took almost two weeks for the visitor to finally accept the invitation. Twelve days, twelve hours, and twelve minutes to be exact. There was probably a message in there someplace. Some bit of humor that eluded Fisher. He didn't mind. The invitation was accepted and that was all that matter.

"Cookie?" he asked as he pushed a plate laden with chocolate chip cookies towards the figure in the air chair. The cookies were still hot from the oven. Fisher thought that if he looked closely enough he would see little wisps of steam trailing from them like in a Saturday morning cartoon. The sweet smell of melted chocolate filled the room. The figure in the chair waved the offer away with one grisly arm and grinned at Fisher. Well, the grin may actually be unintentional. The head was still incomplete. The exposed jawbone at least looked like a grin and that was good enough. Fisher smiled back and took the chair opposite the emaciated figure constructing itself before him.

The figure was like watching a film of a body rotting played in reverse at high speed. The bones had appeared first in the chair. Not all at once either. A dusting of white had appeared from nowhere and, gradually over the space of an hour or so, the dust had started assembling itself into a crude approximation of bones. A chalk outline of a skeleton. Then almost as if millions of invisible ants were flowing across the chair, the dust began to build upwards. The bones took the longest to form. After that muscle and sinew seemed to sprout everywhere. Red glistening fiber crawled across the bone like enormous worms only to fasten fasten itself and be joined by a second worm. It was fascinating to watch. Even more wondrous, the clothing itself began to knit itself over the body practically before the skin formed.

The process continued to accelerate. Almost as if it were building up inertia or, perhaps, it sensed how near it was to completion and was growing eager. Cotton fibers sprouted from nowhere and encircled the newly formed pink foot. The fibers became a sock moments before more fibers wove a canvas shoe that covered both the sock and foot. Blue fibers knitted themselves into a pair of blue jeans that covered the legs and, strangest of all, the chest erupted into a pattern of stitched cloth that formed a navy blue shirt with the word "College" printed on the front.

The head was the last feature to form. Gray haired and bearded, a man's face sprouted from the ruin of flesh and bone. He had high cheekbones and an expression that suggested both humor and refinement. Yet, at the same time, there seemed to be something odd about the face. It wasn't something easy to define. Just something odd about the angles of the face and around the eyes that, somehow, suggested this person was something other than human.

"Ouch," the stranger said before lapsing into a dry cough. He cleared his throat and shook his head.

"That," he said once the coughing had stopped, "Is never going to be a popular transfer."

"3D Printing?" Fisher asked.

The stranger looked up as if he had just noticed his host.

"In a sense," he agreed, "It is a bit more technical than that. Think of it as . . . an adaptive 3D printer. One that finds the best configuration for a setting."

Fisher nodded his understanding.

"So you're really not human, right?" he asked.

"Not at all," the stranger agreed, "I'm . . . well, humans don't have a proper name for the star where my people come from. Just a catalog number. It isn't even part of any constellation. So, I'm not sure how to tell you where I am from in any meaningful way except it is a long way off."

Fisher smiled.

"Can you show me what you really look like?" he asked.

"Oh this is what I really look like," the stranger explained, "At least . . . it is here. I'm sorry, but this is going to be terribly difficult to explain. Let's start out finding out what you know and who you are and perhaps we can go from there."

Fisher shrugged.

"My name is Fisher David," he explained and, as always, found himself mentally wincing as he said his name aloud. People always wanted to flip his first and last name.

"I am an electrician by trade," he added.

"What is an electrician?" the not-human asked.

"Oh," Fisher found himself mentally stumbling. How did he explain that?

"Uh, humans use electricity for our power needs," he said, "We generate it and send it flowing through copper wires and use it to power our devices. I fix problems with wiring and setup new wires and connections."

"I understand," the alien said with a nod, "Electricity is one of the more common power sources out there. Please go on. Forgive my intrusion."

Fisher fumbled for a moment and then shrugged.

"I found your little triangle out there by the university," he explained and nodded to the coffee table where a mental pyramid sat, "Up on the hill overlooking the university. I know about it because I like to go up there myself and look around. It's a pretty view. I spotted your thing there buried half in and half out of the dirt. Looked almost like trash. But when I dug it up and got a better look I could tell there was something different about it."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact it seemed to be made of a single sheet of metal," Fisher explained, "No weld marks or signs of joining. Just a perfect pyramid shape."

Fisher glanced at the object again. He felt the urge to reach out and touch it but hesitated to do so. What would happen to his guest if he did?

The pyramid was small. Barely as tall as the last joint on his pinky. Smooth with no signs of tool marks.

"I took it home to study it," he added, "Seemed to be metal but didn't seem to be magnetic. It wasn't steel and it definitely wasn't aluminum. It seemed to be manufactured but if it was then it would have to be carved from a single block of metal and then polished extremely smooth. Also, judging by the dirt packed around it the thing seemed to have been there for years but I never noticed it before. As shiny as it was, I think I would have."

The not-human nodded his understanding.

"The mimicry field malfunctioned," the gray bearded figure explained, "It is meant to hide itself from detection. Your arrival coincided with an unexpected failure of the device."

Fisher smiled.

"I guess I should have figured that was the case," he said, "Anyway, I started finding myself wondering if the reason it was up there wasn't the same reason I was. It was watching things. I didn't know how, but I figured if I asked politely enough someone might answer."

The man with the beard sighed in exasperation.

"That's it?" he asked, "You were just guessing? Here we thought humans had somehow caused the malfunction and you were the person they sent to retrieve it. It should have all been well beyond your abilities but we've made that mistake before."

The alien or whatever it was shook his head.

"Honestly," he said, "We were panicking over nothing after all."

Fisher chewed his lip.

"You've made this mistake before?" Fisher prompted.

"What?"

"You said you've made this mistake before," Fisher reminded him, "Does that mean you've been here before? Your people? Or aliens? You've been in contact with humans."

"Oh!" the alien seemed to consider the question, "That's a hard one to answer. Somewhere between yes and no, I guess. We have not been in contact with your species before. Not directly. But we've had run ins with your kind before."

"I don't follow," Fisher confessed.

The alien sighed again. His face twisted into one of distress.

"I am afraid to tell you too much," he said at last, "I fear we have already created too much damage. Our plan this time was one of strict non-interference with your species. My very presence here has already seriously compromised this agenda."

Fisher glared.

"You were spying on us and you call that non-interference?" he asked, "What game are you playing here?"

The alien's looked troubled. Fisher was about to say more when the alien slumped sideways in his chair. Fisher raced over and checked the alien for vital signs. To his surprise, he found a pulse in approximately the right place. Breathing was shallow but it was there and he could find a pulse although it was very weak.

Fisher took a step back and looked at the bearded man again. The face was relaxed and the body limp. It looked almost like the man had slipped into a coma. Fisher debated calling for an ambulance but decided it was probably a bad idea. The man looked human enough, but what if his anatomy was not quite right? Maybe a hospital would do more harm than good. Besides, maybe slipping into a coma in the middle of a conversation was how these people normally operated. Maybe they were all narcoleptics or something.

Fisher shrugged and decided to busy himself about the house while he waited to see what happened next. He went into the kitchen and did a load of dishes. After that he vacuumed his living room and did a bit of light dusting. After that he decided to sweep and mop the kitchen floor. By the time midnight rolled around his apartment was absolutely spotless and the comatose man had showed no signs of improvement. Fisher was debating going to bed when the figure sat up suddenly and groaned in pain.

"I hate meetings," the not-human alien muttered, "Do you have anything with alcohol here?"

"Beer," Fisher admitted.

"Bring it," the alien said with a sigh, "We've got a lot to talk about it seems."

Fisher darted into the kitchen to grab a bottle from the refrigerator. He paused and, after a moment's additional thought, took the entire six pack with him. He twisted the lid off a bottle and passed it over to the alien. The alien drank deeply and coughed.

"That is revolting!" it gasped. Fisher nodded and took a swig off his own bottle.

"That's what everyone says the first time," he agreed, "They get better after about the third bottle. Now start talking, fellow. Actually, do you even have a name? What do I call you?"

The alien drank again, winced, but took a third pull before answering.

"I don't have a name," he said at last, "My kind doesn't use them. So, you can call me whatever you like."

"Jim?"

"Good as anything else," the alien Jim agreed with a shrug, "Well, Fisher, my bosses told me to come back to talk to you because they think it really wasn't a coincidence at all that the mimicry field failed when it did and that you just happened to come along. We've got a bunch of experts yelling at us to abandon the entire observation program and pull out. A few even suggested we kill you for good measure. No one is taking that suggestion seriously, by the way. So don't panic."

"Kill me?"

"I said no one is taking that seriously," Jim repeated as he drank more, "Actually, you were right. This does get better once you get used to it. I think I am beginning to understand your species fascination with it. Maybe I should introduce the idea of fermentation back on my world."

"Jim?"

"What?" Jim asked as he met Fisher's gaze, "Oh! Sorry. Lost my train of thought, there. I think that's another side effect of this body. Hard to stay focused. Where was I? Oh yes! Most people think I should just leave and we recall all the sensors. Just leave you here confused. But, enough think that might in itself be a Retaliation Event and that we'd end up with yet enough genocide."

"A what?"

Jim shook his head.

"It's a mess," Jim said, "I was sent here originally because we thought we had been discovered and I had to, well, calm the waters I guess you would say. Now I have been sent back to calm the waters anyway because it turns out that by sending me here we created the ripples."

"I don't understand."

"I know you don't, Fisher!" Jim exclaimed, "That's the problem! We thought you knew and you didn't and now that you don't know we have to tell you and that in itself can cause even bigger ripples. We're trying to figure out how to contain this and no one back there knows what to do and they sent me back to talk to you to see if, maybe, if we follow through with the original plan if it might give us some breathing room."

"Original plan?"

"Reasoning with you," Jim said, "I was supposed to reason with you. Try to convince you not to wipe us out again."

Fisher frowned.

"Wipe you out? We haven't wiped out anyone!" he exclaimed.

"You haven't," Jim agreed, "But humans have. Just not you. Other humans."

"Other humans?"

Jim drank deeply from the beer and seemed to think about something before he answered.

"Okay, Fisher," he said at last, "Have you ever heard of something called the Gaia Theory?"

"No," Fisher admitted.

Jim waved it off.

"Doesn't matter," he said, "It's wrong anyway. Well, not wrong. Just too limited in scope. Some researchers on your planet noticed that things have a weird way of trying to reach an equilibrium. You push down in one area and something pushes back. The entire planet behaves almost like it is alive. Like all life, the geography, and the climate are all part of some larger system. You understand?" "No."

Jim laughed.

"Doesn't matter," he repeated, "Like I said, it's wrong. It isn't the world. It's the galaxy. Maybe the entire universe. It's like . . it's like it is alive. It's not. Not exactly. At least, we don't think it is. But it acts like it is. It can even, well, defend itself."

"Defend itself? You mean like, what, antibodies or something?"

"Something like that," Jim agreed with a pained expression, "But that's not quite right either. It's more like . . . well, you know how certain bacteria and other microbes could really harm you if they ever built up sufficient numbers but, instead, they find themselves fighting other microbes all the time for resources? Your health depends upon this cold war going on inside of you?"

"No," Fisher shook his head, "This doesn't make sense. What do microbes have to do with any of this?"

Jim sighed and rubbed his temples.

"All right," he said, "From the beginning. There is a lot of intelligent life out there in the galaxy. But it is separated. By time and space. There maybe at any given time a thousand species with intelligent life. But the odds of more than three or four of them reaching a point where they are both at a starfaring state at the same time are pretty low. Also, no matter how great the civilization was, they tend to peak and slide into a decline. So one may be too early and another too late to talk to each other. If they try one of them is likely to get wiped out. Only when species are at a similar level can they really interact without risk of harming one another. With me so far?"

"Kind of."

"Try to hold onto that for just a bit longer," he pleaded, "It's going to get weirder from here. Right now we are in a period of cultural bloom. There are eight starfaring species that have united to form a collective. A unified government. We called this new entity The Capstone and thought we would usher in a new era of galactic enlightenment. That was until some of our xenopalentologists found out we were not the first galactic government. Not the first nor the fourth. We were, at last count, the nineteenth. There may have been more but we have not discovered them yet. All formed when more than a handful of starfaring species arrived at the same point culturally and united. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Fisher said after a moment's pause, "So civilizations come and go but the same idea of uniting with others seems to occur to them all?"

"Indeed," Jim agreed, "But it is stranger than that. Almost without exception it is the same eight species time and time again. Sometimes more. We have found one government made up of eleven. Sometimes less. Three or four. But we find the same skeletons buried in similar relics time and time again. It is as if we are going in cycles with the galaxy. Except, as it turns out, they are really not the same after all."

"The same and not the same?"

"Yes," Jim agreed, "A species forms in a certain area of the galaxy that looks and behaves very much like a predecessor from the same general area. They are unrelated. Share no common genetic origin. But soon after a species disappears, say ten thousand years at best, a very similar species appears elsewhere. It is as if the galaxy has mapped certain areas as being favorable for certain types of lifeforms and they appear time and time again. Like there is some sort of interstellar biomorphic field at work."

"A what?"

"Never mind," Jim said, "The point is that humans, as a species, have been around a very short time. However, humans as a presence in the galaxy have appeared multiple times. Each time it has spelled disaster for the galactic government."

"It what?"

Jim grinned.

"Four cycles back," he explained, "We find that humans were actually part of the starfaring species and joined the galactic government. Five thousand years later the remaining five species had fallen into decline and humans were the only starfaring species in the galaxy for another eight thousand years. Their civilization eventually collapsed and they died off. The next cycle of expansion and exploration started. Seven starfarers got together this time and found the relics of the past civilization. They found a blue planet with a group of bipeds that looked remarkably like your own that had just begun their industrial revolution. Fearing history would repeat itself, they sterilized the world and exterminated the entire race. Two thousand years later an armada of human warships appeared and annihilated the seven species that made up the government. These humans had come from an entirely different planet. Do you see what I am saying?"

"There are other humans species out there?"

"At the moment?" Jim said, "Two that we know of. One is from the former cycle. They have regressed to a state of savagery. They are confined to a single planet. Maybe six thousand members still exist. They will be long dead before your kind ever invents a star drive. Elsewhere in the galaxy there is another planet filled with hair ape-like cave dwellers who have only recently figured out the bow and arrow."

"But their humans?"

"In a sense," Jim agreed, "If I dropped one in front of you he or she would pass for a reasonable approximation of a human. Small physical difference and, of course, they have a different genetic structure. But, yes, they are startlingly similar to your own kind."

"But . . . but how? How can a species keep evolving over and over again?"

Jim held his arms up in the air.

"We don't know," he said, "But we know it exists. In this region of space intelligent life tends to shape itself as a mostly hairless biped. Aggressive but with an oddly generous and altruistic streak. Intelligent and creative but also competitive and with an instinct for expansion. Your doubles. In my area the rules are different. However, if your kind could replicate our body projection technology, you might find yourself in a similar situation where the body construction is subject to the local rules and creates a template based upon regional designs."

"That's why you look human?" Fisher asked, "Because this . . . body replicator can't create a non-human body here?"

"It would take a lot more energy and skill to override it," Jim corrected, "So it is possible but it would impede communications."

"I still don't get it," Fisher stated, "What does all this mean? How do humans break everything over and over again?"

"Because we think it is what you are designed to do," Jim said, "Call it entropy if you like. The well ordered garden of the Capstone offends the disorder of the universe and so weeds are introduced into the garden. If we fight them they grow stronger. If we try to cultivate them and make them part of the garden they dominate. If we tear them out by the roots they come back again the first time the wind blows."

"Weeds," Fisher repeated in a flat voice.

Jim did not seem to notice the shift in tone from his host.

"An electrician," he said, apparently to himself, and chuckled, "So if we did not respond you would have likely tried to crack open the probe? Cut into it with one of your primitive tools? It seems even inaction would have worked against us."

He chuckled.

"We thought," Jim added, "That this time the cycle would break pattern. You are behind the curve this time. We are all so far ahead of you! By the time you created a star drive we estimated our own civilizations would be in decline. So we decided to monitor you this time. Just observe. Make sure you did not suddenly leap forward in your development. Instead, it seems, the galaxy is still playing with us. Trying to force us to be the agents of our own destruction."

"Weeds," Fisher said again.

Jim sighed once more and closed his eyes.

"These things balance so delicately," he muttered, "You never know what will be the agent of change. What will set off humans to try to tip the scales. You would think that since I am borrowing a humanoid brain for this that I would understand you better but, honestly, things are just as much of a puzzle."

"Yeah," Fisher replied with a flat voice, "Humans can be a little difficult to read. Tell me, when you disappeared a little while ago your body here just seemed to flop over. Does that mean you're transmitting your mind?"

"Something like that," Jim agreed, happy to change the topic to one he was more familiar with, "My body, my real one, is several light years away. Right now it is being maintained on life support as my mind is sent here. When we are done talking I will automatically be sent back to my old body."

"Really?" Fisher stood up and picked up the six pack of beer by the handle. He carried it into the other room and called back, "So what happens to this body here?"

"I don't know," Jim called back, "Does it really matter? It's just a construction. It's not like it is important. It's not me. Well, not the real me. You know what? Your language really doesn't have a good way of explaining this. It assumes that things like 'self' are static things."

Jim giggled and took another drink of beer.

"This is good," he said to himself, "I feel so relaxed now."

"Here," Fisher said as he returned to the room and pressed a new bottle in Jim's hand. The bottle was green this time.

"Drink up," he said, "I think you'll like this one."

Jim obliged and took a healthy swig. He made a face.

"Does this one improve with repetition as well?" he asked.

"Pretty much," Fisher agreed, "Try again."

Jim did. He made another face.

"No," he said, "I don't think it does."

"The flavor may not be much," Fisher said, "But you'll like what it does."

Jim giggled.

"Something more than getting drunk?" he asked.

"Yeah," Fisher said with a nod as he sat down and leaned back in his chair. He took a pull from his own bottle. His bottle was brown.

"Really?" Jim asked and took another drink, "Well, if you say so. I'll try. Anyway, we need your help to, well, minimize the effect of this encounter. We think we have a good thing this time. Better than the others. We don't want humans ruining it again."

"Gotcha," Fisher agreed.

Jim giggled and took another drink.

"Actually," he said at last, "This stuff seems to be doing something. I feel funny. Still tastes horrible. What is this stuff?"

"Weedkiller," Fisher replied and took a long drink off his own bottle. Jim shot him a confused look a moment before his eyes bulged and his stomach heaved. The false human fell to the floor and vomited. He seemed to try to roll over but his body betrayed him. Or, perhaps, it was just his lack of familiarity with its functions. Jim vomited and choked. As he gagged and tried to roll over Fisher reached out to the coffee table and picked up the little metal pyramid.

"So this thing can be opened up, you say?" he asked the crumpled figure on the floor.

Submitted June 15, 2016 at 06:52AM by semiloki http://ift.tt/1YqEqDC HFY