Mike Resnick - I, Alien

Resuming my swim up the lake, I note that the old woman is already rowing home. The oars dip so slowly that I can tell she’s disappointed I didn’t do it. Well, I don’t perform on command. Monsters aren’t predictable; it’s part of their appeal. I make rare and random appearances—nothing too tasteless, just a curve of my neck or a flash of tail—but enough to give the locals a scare. It’s become a matter of pride. But sightings bring the inevitable rash of loud boats and oglers, and then I hate myself.

From what I gather, there are two competing theories about me. The ones who come with binoculars and cameras believe in the monster theory. I consider myself as siding with this group. The scientists, on the other hand, with their annoying echolocation devices, hold that I’m a prehistoric Earth creature, the last of my kind, cut off from my fellows. Sentimental drivel, of course. Drifting along under their hulls at night, I eavesdrop. They think I’m some kind of fish. But if they ever caught me, the DNA analysis would give them a bit of a jolt.

Inevitably, I find myself swimming up the fjord to the Going Home Place. Murk and silence greet me here, where it all began. When the chute is active, it glows. I’ve grown old waiting for it to glow once more. But even should it spring to life, there’s no getting through, because of the hillside slump 10 9picoseconds ago, when the world tremor sent a slurry of rock and boulders off the cliff, sealing off my route Home.

Coming here is an old habit, rather like the visits of the lady in the rowboat. She used to come out here with an old man. He was a busybody, always clanging his sonar echoes at the lake bottom, and marking things down in his notebook. I had him pegged for a retired engineer. She packed the sandwiches. Now, rowing out on the water alone, she dispenses with the sonar. Lately, she hasn’t bothered with sandwiches either. Yet she’s out here almost every day, dropping things into the lake, each gift more lavish than the last. I assume they’re meant for me—perhaps as bribes to show myself—or perhaps just acts of charity toward an old monster who no longer horrifies.

A flash comes to my peripheral vision. A watery pulse of gold. No doubt it’s just the sun penetrating the depths, reflecting off a copper lid, a gilt frame, a…

But I am swimming closer now. The jumble of mud and stones blocks my view. Yet as I make sweeps past the debris, a stuttering light escapes from beneath the pile. Nudging my face as close as I can, I manage to spy through a tiny gap. There, a strip of gold—is glowing. In my excitement, I thrust my jaws so far into the crevice that I nick my skin, clouding my vision with blood. But now I’m certain.

The chute is active.

I stare at it a long while. Then I turn away, my ventral fin digging a furrow in the soft bottom sand. I swim all the way to the western end of my prison. There, taking a deep drought of minnows and trout, I try to settle my stomach.

I can’t get past the stony slump. It has been many picoseconds since I had the strength to move rocks that size. Not, mind you, that I’m counting the passage of time.

The mast serves as a lever. Dragging it all the way from my home cave has left a sharp ache in my jaws, and carved up a plume of muck where its nether end dug into the lake bottom. Now I have wedged one end into a niche between boulders and, holding myself down by wrapping my tail around a rock, I use my neck and one of my pectoral flippers to pull down with all my strength upon the skyward end. It groans in its work—or is that me? The stone coughs up from its hole for a moment, then falls back. Finally it tilts and falls off the stack, but lodges close by, still impeding my goal.

Repositioning the mast, I begin on another stone in the pile. I am so far from the chute that I can’t see it glow, a reminder of how far I have to go. My underside is bruised from the labor, but still I pull down on the mast, bending it with my effort. This stone, though, will not budge.

I select another position on the rock slide, guiding the mast into a gap, and grasping one end of the lever with my flipper to keep it stable. Then, anchored by my tail once more, I pull down, down with my full strength.

In the exertion, memories escape from confinement, from the prison I’ve built for them to keep from going mad. I remember Itiia, and Ebiaria. They were so young! As were we all. We must have been foolish young pups to try such pranks as we did. To commandeer the chute for the purposes of mayhem. Some of my friends came back with fine monster stories. We snorted with happiness at the images of creatures running from grotesque freaks: ourselves! To our delight, many sentient life-forms were terrified of such as we. At the time, it seemed amusing. My courage was slow to kindle, so that I was one of the last to use the chute. I selected Earth, because the creatures there were known xenophobes, all the more hilarious. That must have been around the time they caught my companions and shut down the interstellar chute. Then, it seems, they went on with their lives, forgetting about me.

Until now.

When I go Home, who will remain among the old crowd? Itiia, I hope, and Ebiaria. Though we’ll have to act ashamed of what we did, I still plan on hearing their monster stories. We might be old by now, but I hope we can still laugh. Truthfully, my own stories will be a bit tame. The creatures aren’t really afraid of me, not like they used to be. You can’t keep a good horror story fresh forever. Because over time, people start to love their monsters.

That’s something I’ve learned.

I’ve also learned that the lever idea is a bust.

Something dangles in the water from the sunny top of the lake. Linked together are many small white globules.

I’m interested, but don’t like to admit it, because they’ve come—whoever they are—in a power craft. The propeller hangs in the water, churning it, scaring fish away, and worse, growling at a painful decibel level. I swim closer, to look at the item draped into the water. Strung together are many lovely white stones. The hand that grasps this item is wrinkled and spotted. It is the old woman, having forsaken the fine quiet boat for an obnoxious loud one. My spirits are low. I think about seeking out the quiet depths of the Loch. But instead, I move into the twilight realm, where just above me, I can see the hull rocking on a moderate chop of waves.

She turns off the engine. Sorry about the loud motor, she says. She leans over the side, sending her voice down to me, although this isn’t really necessary. Water carries sound all too well.

/ don’t row as well I used to. Did you like the clock?

Ah. Clock.

It belonged to Jack’s mother, and sat on her mantle for sixty years and then on ours for, oh, decades. There’s no one now to appreciate it, really. Except you. She shakes the little white stones. This is a pearl necklace, a rather good one, actually. Her grip tightens. But you’ll have to come get it.

Her face scrunches up, and she emits a little gasp. Disappearing into the boat, she takes the white stones with her. She’s playing a new game, one I don’t much care for.

I circle under the boat, waiting her out.

After a few trillion picoseconds, she peers over the side again. About the motor. I do apologize. Ugly, stinky things, I quite agree. But I’m past my rowing days, and since I’d like to die on the lake, this kind of boat will have to do. If there was anything more you wanted from the house, I would have brought it for you, but I assume there’s no way you can let me know. You can’t talk to me, of course. Maybe you can’t even understand me — though I used to tell Jack that you had picked up our language. He scoffed, of course. Jack was all for empirical evidence, but his eyes sparkled at me, and I knew he’d love to believe it. I hope you liked the funeral urn. He asked me to commit it to the lake, and so I’ve given it to you. I like to think you’re taking good care of him.