Mike Resnick - I, Alien

My nervousness was unnecessary. Bars are fascinating; there’s no equivalent on my world. There, one can have relaxed social interaction with close family members of the same age cohort, but not with those of different ages—and certainly not with complete strangers in a public place. Let alone while ingesting intoxicants. I would never have believed that a social species could be so casual about such things.

But here… I can go into the Overtime Bar and Benny, the owner and bartender, will yell a greeting over the din of the chat and broadcasts, and have my favorite beer—I’ve become very fond of Coors, an extraordinary brew—waiting for me by the time I sit down. There are always people ready to discuss anything, from politics to sports to entertainment to local gossip to, well, anything. Invaluable for a cultural anthropologist. All I need to do is listen and pay for an occasional round of beers. Everyone loves a good listener; I’m one of the most popular regulars in the place.

I now know what movies are: a flat, nondimensional audiovisual projection; holographic projection is still in its infancy. This species is ingenious, I have to admit; it never occurred to me that one could use such projections to record fictional stories. Movies are a very popular form of entertainment in this society, and there are dozens available in a variety of genres at any time. I plan to sample each genre at least once. The one I saw today is classified as an “action picture”; apparently this involves much gunfire and racing about in automobiles. Why automobiles—and not bicycles, which would seem to me to be a more accurate measure of the stamina and determination, and thus the heroism, of the characters involved—is not clear to me. My new-found friends at the Overtime tell me that if I want to see special effects, I should sample the latest in the “science fiction” or “fantasy” genres; I’m not sure of the distinction between the two.

My Supervisor interrupts me as I am enthusiastically describing the latest Trek film. She is displeased with me. “You should be studying the culture, not immersing yourself in it, Student Candidate. By all means, attend one of these… movies. Attend several. Entertainments, particularly fiction entertainments, reveal much about a culture’s values and way of life, far more than their creators recognize. The assumptions behind the fiction’s underpinnings; the styles of dress, adornment, transport, housing…”

Despite the expense, the Supervisor is carried away into lecture mode, lectures I have heard many times through my student career. I find my attention drifting. There is a new James Bond film coming, and a popular young actor is taking over the legendary role. There’s been a lot of discussion about it at the Overtime, with much speculation as to how he will handle the character. Will he have the sly, double-entendre charm of Roger Moore? The more serious and subtle sophistication of Pierce Brosnan? The bluntly honest and somewhat primitive style of the original, Sean Connery? I’m a Brosnan fan myself, but I’m looking forward to seeing how the new actor interprets the famous spy.

It opens next week—I can’t wait to see it.

“Hey—I’ve got a spare ticket to today’s game. Want to go see your very first baseball game? It’s the season opener.” Dave, one of my fellow buskers, makes the invitation. I haven’t any idea what “baseball” is, but of course I accept; a study opportunity like this is invaluable.

It’s as unlike the dignified sporting events on my own world as could be imagined. Attendees wear the colors of the team they support, of course, but in a wild variety of fashions. Some of them actually paint their face and body in team colors—unthinkable in my species, but I admit having fur is a barrier to such a form of self-expression; this species has generally hairless skin. (I wasn’t able to determine whether paint is acceptable in lieu of clothing in this social situation. This society has taboos about dress and undress that are utterly confusing.)

The din is incredible. There is noisy music. There is shouting. There are announcements about players and their statistics. People react loudly to the play on the field—some even have portable amplification devices to make certain they are heard. There are vendors hawking food, beverages, and mementos. And to my shock, complete strangers will assist in such transactions by passing money or purchases back and forth the packed rows of spectators.

Despite such apparent chaos, I find the crowd around me is genial, and happily willing to explain the game to a newcomer. Though the finer points elude me, I do learn the city’s team is called the Giants (though Giant what, I don’t know), and that they’re doing well in “the pennant race,” whatever that might be. We cheer and applaud when a player performs well, and shout rudely at the officials when we disagree with their officiating. At first I’m reluctant to be so discourteous, but am assured by my companions that this is all part of the game, and indeed, the officials seem to take no notice. I get so involved that I find myself on my feet, shouting with everyone else, when a Giants’ player hits the gaming-winning “home-ee.”

I had a wonderful time. The next time I go, I’m buying myself a team jersey.

“Student Candidate, you have spent enough time studying this culture. It is time you moved on to another.”

“But—”

The Supervisor ignores my protests. “You’ve become fond of these natives and their style of life. I warned you about this before you departed—it’s a common reaction for a student’s first time in the field, though I had not expected it of someone as gifted as you. Remember, these beings are not friends, they are study subjects. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Supervisor.”

“Good. Make plans to move on. Let me know within three local days what your destination will be. Communication ending.”

I’m upset. I find my way to the ocean and watch as the full moon rises over the waters, brilliant even in the light-washed sky.

I don’t want to leave this city. It is heresy to disagree with one’s Supervisor, but she’s wrong: I do have friends here. Heck, I have fans here.

I take out the Link and stare at it. Then I put it back in my pocket and look out at the crashing waves for a long time.

Much is expected of me. I am a Prime. Always, I have been given the first choice at meals, the first choice of playthings, of worship position on holy days. I have been allowed to choose which course of study to follow. I have been given first choice of mates.

But “choice” for me is not the same as it is for these busy, chaotic, noisy human beings. For them, choice really is a choice. Even so simple a thing as food: any individual here may choose a meal, any meal, at any of a myriad of eateries catering to a wide range of tastes and income levels.

My choices were not like that. Clan and caste, honor and obligation, all form ever-narrowing circles limiting my range of choices.

Here, life partners select each other. My selection was limited to Primes of appropriate age from appropriate clans. And my parents and the Mother Supreme discussed my preferences—they care for me and want me to be happy. But far more than my personal happiness is at stake in this. Political alliances play a role; status of the particular clan of a candidate; financial means; and of prime importance, fertility, for children are the foundation of a clan. It turned out that my “choice” and I were not compatible.

The Mother Supreme was gentle with me. “Child”— she used the honorific that meant an especially beloved child, to show that she attached no blame to me—”such incompatibility happens. It is a bitter blow. We will make the necessary regret gifts to the other clan. And you will make another choice.”