A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth
| 41. Conversations 2. | 43. Guesting. |
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42. Objectifying
Spots and Claws stop at Sickbay and find Fang2 sleeping. Spots leaves him a protein bar (coconut flavor). They head to the Testing Facility and find it empty. Likewise the Lab.
Claws, to nearest guard. "Hey, where's the Fiddler?"
Guard. "Personal quarters."
Claws. "Which way is—"
Spots, interrupting. "Is he on sleep-shift?"
Guard. "I don't know, Private."
Spots sighs. "Can you tell us the way?"
The guard leads them down the hall, around a corner. A little further. Leaves them at a door. Claws watches Spots as she hits the door-announce. After a moment:
Samuel-Colt, through intercom. "Yes?"
Spots. "Samuel-Colt? Are you accepting guests?"
A pause. Then: "Enter."
Fiddler's Room. The size of this room is hard to gauge, because it is painted in shades of blue and green and there are blue and green lights rippling over it in simulated water patterns. There are translucent scarves (some threaded with clear beads) hanging from the ceilings and in the corners, like strands of gossamer kelp. There's an audio system somewhere; Holst's Venus is playing.
Samuel-Colt is rising from a flat low platform bed, which is suspended from the ceiling by nearly invisible cables.
"Mother-soldier? And escort. How may we assist you?"
Spots, agape. "Oh, Samuel-Colt! It's beautiful!"
Even Claws is silent.
Samuel-Colt, legato melody. "We thank you, Mother. We find it soothing."
Spots, softer. "Like home." Touching her mouth. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to remind you of painful things."
Samuel-Colt, still legato, rising melody lines. "It is like home. It was my intention, and so you do not hurt me by noticing."
Spots. "I'm glad. I'm... sorry but I came on business. My lieutenant had a question."
Samuel-Colt cuts off the melody with a bounced note, spreading upper hands. "Continue."
Spots. "She wondered if you know of some way to... tranquilize a crab, instead of killing it."
Samuel-Colt, rising arpeggio. "Why would she wish that?"
Spots, squaring shoulders. "She was thinking of scientific experimentation."
Samuel-Colt. "That is well done of her. The enemy has been dissected before but they continually evolve. It would be wise to inspect one of the current iterations."
Claws. "What? Seriously?"
Samuel-Colt, spiccato up an arpeggio. "Knowledge of the enemy is never wasted, Mother's-escort. You agree?"
Claws. "Yeah, but... I kinda thought you'd be more against, uh... you know. Crab cruelty?"
Samuel-Colt, slower, but still staccato. "The enemy does not understand cruelty, Mother's-escort. Or have you not noticed?"
Claws. "It's sorta expected for us to be objectifyin' the enemy, Sam, but not because the things we think are true. They're usually not, we just think 'em so we can become killers without completely rippin' apart."
Spots is staring at him now.
Samuel-Colt, softer bowing. "You are not fighting a human enemy. The creatures you fight are designed not to have your higher instincts. Not only would they interfere with their function, but it would make them too costly to create."
Spots. "So... you'll help us?"
Samuel-Colt, staccato, rising melody. "We will try, yes. But we cannot guarantee success, and the danger to the soldier administrating the tranquilizer would be great. The enemy does not have convenient flesh over its entire surface. The places one can aim to be effective are very small and very few."
Claws. "Lucky for you, you got the best snipers in the whole ****ing armed forces, right here."
Spots. "Thank you, Samuel-Colt. I thought... maybe it would bother you, to fulfill this request. I guess I was thinking like a human."
Samuel-Colt, spiccato. "As you are a human, Mother-soldier, that is perhaps a good thing."
Claws. "Wow, another joke. You're enjoyin' this, eh?"
Samuel-Colt, one long note, sustained. "Having an audience is gratifying."
Claws, grinning. "You sayin' that assistant of yours ain't got ears?"
Samuel-Colt, silence. "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say he hasn't the Mother's. Or yours." At Claws's look, staccato: "He does not expect humor from an alien, so he does not hear it."
Claws snorts. "His loss."
Spots, curious. "Do you make a lot of jokes at home? I guess it's harder here."
Samuel-Colt, rising and falling arpeggio. "You understand clearly, Mother. It is hard to guess what humans will find funny from us, even after several generations of living among them. Something said by a human may fall flat said by us."
Spots. "I bet your humor at home is musical."
Samuel-Colt, marcato. "Yes!"
Claws. "****. I'd love to hear some musical humor! Like dueling banjos, or those tricks where people make violins sound like arguin' folks."
Spots. "Ooh, yes!"
Samuel-Colt, legato, falling arpeggio. "Ah, I wish you could hear one of our humorists, both of you. I can tell a joke, but I am no expert."
Spots. "What's it like?"
Samuel-Colt, slow melody. "Like... one of your concerts. Everyone floats in a circle around the humorist, a great sphere of an audience. There is a... a rope? A star? A knot? Of braided seaweed—synthetic or natural depending on the performer's taste—and the humorist stands in the center. The strands extend so the audience can anchor themselves if they wish. And then they drift through the ocean, and listen to the anecdotes and jokes, and... they laugh!" Single note, marcato: vring!
Spots. Soft. "Wow."
Claws, quiet but intense. "That must be ****ing awesome."
Spots. "I guess human humor is one-dimensional, compared to that...."
Samuel-Colt, legato. "Oh, no... merely different, Mother. Merely different. And there is music running through your voices, also. You don't often notice it the same way we would."
Claws, to himself. "Huh."
Samuel-Colt, rising arpeggio. "Is there anything more? You are in the middle of your rest periods, we think. We are also."
Spots. "No, that's... that's all we came for. But thank you, Samuel-Colt."
This time after she bows, Claws hesitates, then nods to the alien. They are quiet all the way to the Barracks. While they are turning back their beds:
Claws. "So, you going to tease me yet?"
Spots. "What about?"
Claws. "Ouch. So many choices you don't even know which one I'm talkin' about."
Spots smiles without comment.
Claws. "He's still an alien."
Spots, lying down. "Yes. But now he's an alien who likes stand-up comics."
Claws. "Underwater stand-up comics."
Spots. "Yes."
Claws. "That's fu—freakin' awesome."
Spots, smiling to herself. "Good night, Claws."
"Night, Spots."
| 41. Conversations 2. | 43. Guesting. |
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