Mike Resnick - I, Alien

“Stop!”

I am not a fool. I run, pushing through the brush, branches whipping my face. I do not care as long as I escape from the bully. Strange bully, thinking I would listen to it, after watching its behavior back at the rock pool.

I climb into the nearby mountains, finding my way through culverts and chimneys in the heights, slipping through angled tunnels as I attempt to get away from the bully. It follows, and it is very noisy. I wince as I hear the various small creatures who live in the low scrub as they scurry for shelter from this angry, loud monster.

I move into a canyon I have not yet seen, and travel along the banks of the small stream that flows there. I come to the end, a rock wall. The stream gurgles out of a fissure in the rock, with small plants—belly flowers—low around it. Their perfume fills the air. I bend over and scoop handfuls of water, still keeping one eye turned to watch behind me. I know the bully still follows, and I need to find a way to escape. This canyon is not the way, yet I am not sure how to get out of it.

I no longer think of the bully by any other designation than the Murderer. That is what it has done, and from all the teachings I learned from the village wise ones during my childhood, it has forfeited its right to becoming a Real Person.

Still, I wonder about history, as I think back on the low survival rate of other groups who have been Tested. I know that Testing those who enter puberty is to weed out those who are not worthy of surviving, but after what I have witnessed, I wonder if our past survivors haven’t been those who are most like the Murderer. What determines fitness to survive, after all?

I stretch after I drink my fill, aware of the aches in my joints and the sharp itch of the scratches on my arms and legs. Some of them are weeping yellow, and when they drip off, they leave a brown spatter in the dust.

The sun batters my eyes until I am not sure which way to turn. I move back and forth at the base of the rock wall, looking for an opening. There is none.

I do find a foothold, so I stand on my rear legs and reach up with forelegs and arms, searching for holds. I pull myself up the rock. Once my rear feet are above the canyon floor, I meld with the rock face, then look for a higher hold.

I find one; a tough spur to my left. Can I reach it? I lift my hand, and my three fingers encircling the stumpy gray stone. I tug on it; it feels firm, yet I hesitate. Do I trust my weight to this? Behind me, down the canyon, I hear the enraged bellow of the Murderer. Trust it I must. I lock the joints of my fingers and pull myself higher, then look for something for my right hand to grasp. My left forefoot is also questing for a niche where I can insert my toes, and I manage to find both at once. Up I go, not daring to look down or behind.

Sweat trickles off my eye turrets as I move upward, each eye swiveling around, as I look for something new to grab on to. Then I find I am on a ledge, where I rest, for fear of collapse.

I look around to find a route to the top from here. There is a trail; narrow, but workable. As I get ready to move on, I look around, and inhale sharply. The Murderer is just below me, climbing the cliff face after me. It is silent as it climbs, except for the deep grunts as it fights for breath. I draw back, surprised, and hope the Murderer doesn’t see me where I stand.

I crawl to the bottom of the narrow path I have found and look up it, then look back. I inhale sharply again as a large hand lifts up over the ledge. I move up the narrow trail, holding on the cliff face as best I can.

“Why run away?” the Murderer asks from behind me. “You won’t live to return to our village anyway.” I come to a bend in the trail and look back. The Murderer is standing on the ledge. I shiver.

“Give me what you have,” the Murderer calls out.

“Why do you think I have something?” I start up the next part of the trail, the cliff now on my right.

“Because you’re still alive!”

I hear the Murderer’s feet as it starts up the trail. It is moving faster than I am. I turn one eye around to watch behind me as I move into the cleft, and I see the Murderer moving around the first in the trail. Too close. Above me, I see the trail curve into a small cleft. A sharp wind is whistling out of it.

“Do you really want it?” I ask.

“Give it to me! Maybe I’ll let you live.” The Murderer stops below me, holding out one of its hands.

I move the fore part of my body out of the cleft, holding one of the spore packets in right hand. With my left, I worry open the twist that holds the packet shut.

“Take it!” I hold the packet up and empty it onto the wind.

“No!” The Murderer scrabbles up the trail, and reaches out for me. I draw back into the cleft, and watch as the Murderer misses its step on the narrow trail. The Murderer screams once, and I hear a thud, followed by a rattle. I move forward and look over the edge, holding tight to another spur of rock, and watch the small avalanche the Murderer’s body starts as it bounces its way to the foot of the cliff.

The chill of the autumn wind ruffles the hair on my back as I make my way into Green Hollow. I hope some of the others from my group have survived their Testing. I do not want to be the only one of my age group to return. I carry the remaining packets of fungus spores in my sack, with what is left of my travel rations. I have returned, in time.

I reach the village common and look around. One of the people standing near the well swivels his eye turrets, then dashes off. He will bring the elders to complete the formalities of my Test.

The elders come and question me according to the law, then they take away my bit of fungus. When they return, they hold their hands out to me, accepting me as a Real Person and giving me back my gender. I stand to face them. Once I choose a life task and a name, I can consider selecting a mate and raising my own family.

“I wish to be a lawgiver,” I tell them. I do not say that I want to change some of the harsh laws, like the ones that destroy so many of our young. I will have to be very careful about how I go about that. “For a name, I will wear my distinctive mark.” I show them the leg. “Call em will take the name of Silverleg.”

I STOPPED AT the Long John Silver’s right next to the Long Island Expressway ramp and bought myself lunch—a three-piece “Fish ‘n’ More” with fries and slaw and extra hush puppies on the side. I liked the hush puppies. But I really liked the fish. I liked fish, any kind of fish. Hence, my moniker, which had stuck with me since high school in Bensonhurst.

I came out of the restaurant and headed toward the parked Lincoln. It was one of those perfect fall days on Long Island when you can smell the sea and the wind comes in from the Atlantic and stirs the tall grass. The sun was bright and the sky was mostly clear except for a few clouds that seemed to hurry across the blue, as if called to some pressing business beyond the horizon.

I was so intent on the prospect of eating my lunch— the tantalizing smell of deep-fried cod filled my nostrils, inducing a kind of trance—that I didn’t notice someone sitting in the back of the Town Car until I’d slid into the front seat.

I jumped a little; but when I saw a familiar face in the rearview mirror, I grinned.

“Hello, Jerry.”

“Hello, Fish.”

My grin faded. “Something’s up.”

Jerry Juliano, in black turtleneck and brown leather jacket, shrugged his narrow shoulders. He was blond and thin and had a fierce look. He always looked mad at someone. Anyone. Everyone. Legs crossed, he held a revolver almost languidly across his chest. “You screwed up big time, Charlie Fish.”