Rajnar Vajra: Doctor Alien’s Five Empty Boxes

“Ignore that directions. She’s not… functional. As to enemies, I’m not Dr. Popularity around here, but I can’t believe anyone would actually try to murder me.” My voice rang with a lack of sincerity. “Right now, Detective, I’m mostly thinking about my family’s safety.”

He bared his teeth, possibly to simulate a smile. “Of course. We’ll make sure you and yours are protected until we find the doer.”

But when the smoke cleared, as it were, the only fact anyone could determine was that an “incendiary device” had been rigged to detonate when I unlocked my car. After a damn thorough check, the clinic and its surroundings were declared bomb-free. The news dot com crews appeared just as my ex-car was hauled away on a huge flatbed truck with its own crane, but the interviewing cops herded me away from the cameras, then drove me home. We waited in the cruiser until the bomb squad and a goofy-looking dog had gone through my entire house and its landscaping. I was certainly squeezing good use out of my tax dollars today. My wife and son showed up while we were waiting, and when Sunny heard the truth, she turned pale and kept a grip on both Alex and me that rivaled Tad’s.

Three of our new pals with badges kept us company in the house for the next four hours. We served them coffee and Sunny’s homemade pastries—not donuts.

The chocolate biskvi were getting scarce when four more armed personnel joined the festivities: two male FBI special agents, Dunn and Miller, who only accepted coffee; and two other officials, Smith and Jones—if I took their word for it—from another collection of three letters, one so esoteric that even God had probably never heard of it. These last two, Smith, a white female, and Jones, the opposite, said little to me at first, asked less, and refused refreshments. Soon, all four agents went into a huddle until Smith broke out to inform me that the quartet wished to interview me immediately . She grudgingly admitted that she was legally compelled to inform me that the upcoming session would be recorded not only by the agents’ DM systems, but also—because what government doesn’t love unneeded redundancy?—through speck-cams placed inconspicuously on their persons. All recording features of my own DM unit, she added, had already been temporarily disabled through the electronic power of government mandate. I tested this by sub-vocalizing a recording command and got rewarded with a link-failure message flashing across my vision. Smith nodded as though she’d also seen the message and expressed her hope that crippling my DM wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience. I promised to withstand the grief of not having videos of the agents to remember them by.

Then Jones, a man who’d evidently botoxed his entire head, demanded I provide a space with privacy for their questioning, and the final four accompanied me to the dining room, where Dunn shut the French doors so that eavesdroppers would have to strain.

We all sat around the glass dining table. Jones handled the inquisition while the others watched me with the focused gaze of portrait painters. I didn’t understand the tension in the room, but it worried me.

“Fourteen months ago, Doctor,” Jones began, “NASA spent upwards of a million dollars to shuttle you to the Tsf Trader mother ship in circumlunar orbit at that time. Walk us through how this happened and your experience on the mother ship.”

Was this a test? “Parent Ship, not mother ship. When it comes to sexism, the Tsf don’t have any.” Maybe I’d run a test of my own. “Care to know why?”

I pretended his dismissive grunt meant yes. “They evolved as predators on a planet with food resources so scant they had to live in small, isolated groups until they developed enough social skills to raise food animals collectively.” I only knew this because after I’d started working for the Traders, they’d shared some family history. “The evolutionary result is that each Tsf, unless pregnant, changes sex every few of our months, a major survival trait for small groups whose sexual distribution might be so uneven that—”

“Perhaps,” Jones interrupted, “we might focus on relevant matters.”

“Sure. Sorry.” Which I wasn’t. Test results were in: The agents weren’t here on a general fishing expedition. “But why ask about my little adventure? By now, the story’s grown a beard, and God knows, there’s been enough info about it on the newswebs.”

Jones’s frown was a microscopic lip-tightening, but it was nice to see that his expression could change. “Some unreported fact pertinent to today’s incident might emerge. Doctor, this will proceed more rapidly if you simply answer our questions. How did you wind up on this Parent Ship?”

I shrugged. “Tsf explorers had rescued three, um, spaceship-wrecked sentients, all from different alien species that even Traders had never heard of. All seemingly insane. Since we humans have apparently developed a rep among Traders for being the galaxy’s worst neurotics, Tsf leaders figured that a terrestrial shrink might—”

“That wasn’t my focus, Doctor. Why you in particular? “

“Oh. I worked for NASA from 2020 to 2024, evaluating prospective astronauts. So when the UN passed the Tsf request to NASA, I’d already been vetted. Plus, not that many psychiatrists are fit enough to handle a space launch. Or survive the heavy gravity on a Tsf spaceship.” Or manage two push-ups.

“You had no prior relationship with Traders?”

“None. I had a lot to learn. But I figured from the start that the mission was absurd.”

Jones’s micro-frown had evaporated. “Then why did you accept it?”

“You don’t get such opportunities every lifetime.”

I’d fed him an answer with all complexities strained out. Aside from the unique opportunity and enough government pressure to squeeze carrot juice from apples, I’d taken the job for the glory of being the first human to visit a Parent Ship, and because I’d been afraid that some other shrink might actually dream they were qualified to evaluate aliens.

He nodded. “Now, on to your time on that Parent Ship.”

I walked them through at a gallop, briefly describing my three patients and confessing that I hadn’t had to flex any psychiatric muscles whatsoever to effect my three cures since none of the supposed psychotics, as far as I knew, had psychological issues. Their problems were more down to earth, so to speak. I also admitted that my unearned triple victory resulted from a glut of luck plus assistance from a military-spec “brain” hooked up to my Data Management implant.

“And the Traders paid you in technology,” Jones said, “with the promise of more to come?”

So he knew. That shouldn’t have surprised me although, during my debriefing, I’d asked NASA to withhold certain details because I’d had a hunch there is such a thing as too much publicity and that I’d be inundated just from having been in a Parent Ship.

I’ve never been more right. In fact, Pastor, if you want the remainder of my overextended minutes of fame, I’ll be delighted to hand them over. What technology? Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up. I’d prefer not to burden you with… irrelevant secrets.

Anyway, Jones’s face could’ve been carved in onyx as he waited for my response, but I sensed strain beneath the mask.

“They claimed the technology was a bonus for my success. But I suspect it was mostly to, um, lubricate my way to accepting my current job.”

“What did they propose, exactly?”

“To set up a clinic with various controllable environments near my home, staff it, and bring me the most interesting patients the Tsf found in their galactic travels. They said I’d be welcome to treat my human patients on site if I wished.”