"Day-Tripper" By Maureen Bowden

           Our visitor came from Jupiter’s largest moon, Ganymede. He was a tall, slender hunk, with bronze skin, golden hair and long-lashed green eyes. I’m a warm-blooded woman and I was smitten.

I work for the Department of Investigation into Outer Planetary Sentience (DIOPS), located on England’s Cornish coast. My boss, Jimmy, accompanied me to the laboratory. “We’ve got an interesting specimen here, Alison.”

We watched the visitor being ex-rayed, probed, prodded and given the usual grilling imposed on self-proclaimed aliens. It invariably establishes that they’re either attention seekers or nut jobs. This one was different. Jimmy said, “The local plods found him wandering around in the Outer Hebrides. They shunted him down to Cornwall and dumped him on us.”

“How did he get to Earth?”

“Teleportation. He describes it as jumping. Distance is apparently no obstacle.”

I reluctantly dragged my eyes away from the green-eyed Adonis. “You think he’s genuine?”

“Well, his internal anatomy’s certainly not human, and his mental capacity’s weird. He learned our speech patterns and language structure in less than three hours.” 

“Impressive.”

“Yes, but he has a very limited attention span. He gives us small doses of information about Ganymede’s civilisation in the sub-surface ocean, and then he gets bored and shuts up.”

“I hate to break it to you, Jim, but we’re a pretty boring lot. Can I meet him?”

“Yeah. He may find you interesting enough to keep him talking. We call him Gan.”

He led me to the raised bed where the alien lay. He was wearing a white hospital gown, and brain link probes were attached to his temples. I noticed two tiny flaps of skin, presumably gills, on the sides of his neck.

Jimmy said, “Gan, this is Alison. She’d like to be your friend.”

The young man pulled out the probes before anyone could stop him, turned his head towards me, and smiled.

My heart fluttered. “Would you like some clothes?” I said.

He pointed to one of the lab technicians, Reuben de la Rosa, known as Benzi, who has a weekend job as a Rapper. “I want clothes like his.”

Benzi was happy to oblige, and presented Gan with knee-length baggy denim cut-offs, a tee shirt bearing the logo ‘da Benz is da Biz’, red and black trainers the size of small boats, and a floppy-brimmed felt hat.

I said, “Would you like to come to my house?”

“Yes. I don’t like it here. They ask me questions and I have no fun.”

I took him home and wracked my brain for something he might find fun.“Do you like music?”

“What’s music?”

I gave him a stash of CDs I’d accumulated over the years, and my ancient, much loved CD player. Call me old fashioned but it has better sound quality than downloads. I showed him how to play the discs. He was entranced. Within an hour he could sing along to dozens of them. His favourite was the digital re-issue of the Monkees’ sixties hit, ‘I’m a Believer’

When the afternoon drifted into dusk, he said, “It’s your sleep time. I’ll jump home now and I’ll come back tomorrow.” He vanished.

I looked forward to spending the next day with Gan, but I’d arranged to have lunch with Kieran, Asda’s Area Manager. We’d been enjoying a light-hearted flirtation for a few weeks. I called him. “Sorry I won’t be able to get away for lunch. We’ll have to leave it for a while. There’s a situation at work, but I can’t talk about it, of course.”

“Okay, Ali, but don’t ride off into the sunset with ET.”

I forced a laugh. “No chance. I don’t have a bike.” I persuaded myself not to feel guilty. I hadn’t lied to him and we’d never made any commitment to each other.

Gan appeared next morning and hung a necklace sparkling with rainbow coloured gems around my neck. He said, “Do you like Ganymede jewels?”

“They’re very beautiful. Thank you.”

“I’ll bring you more.”

He did, every day. I had no idea whether they were valuable or not and I didn’t care. I left them in a mound on my bedroom floor.

We visited Cineworld. The matinee featured ‘Shrek’ for the hundredth time. The soundtrack includes ‘I’m a Believer’. Perfect. He cheered and clapped through the film, and sang along to his favourite song. I bought him a Shrek bath-towel from a souvenir stall in the Cineworld complex.

Afterwards, we walked in the park and I tried to get him to talk about Ganymede. “I know you live in the ocean, Gan,” I said, “but do you ever go to the surface?”

“Yes, but we don’t stay long. There’s no food.”

“You get your food from the ocean?”

“Of course. It lives there.”

“What do you do on the surface?”

“We play. Let’s play now. You run. I’ll chase you.”

Ganymede was forgotten. He chased me around the duck pond, caught me, and swung me around in his arms. I sat on the grass with his head in my lap, and I stroked his hair as we watched the setting sun stain the clouds pink.

Each evening he transported home and each morning he returned, bringing me more jewels. The mound on my bedroom floor was turning into a hill.

We took the Shrek towel with us on a trip to Tintagel beach, and walked along Cornwall's Atlantic shoreline hand in hand, splashing in the breakers. He said, “Why is the ocean on top of the surface?”

“Earth is different from Ganymede. We live on the surface and sometimes we play in the ocean.”

He pulled off his clothes, ran into the deep water and dived beneath the outgoing tidal waves. I felt momentary panic. What if he lost his bearings, or the current was too strong for him? I reassured myself that he could teleport back to the shore whenever he chose.

After a few minutes he reappeared close to land, spat something into the shallow water, and scowling, marched onto the sand. I handed him the towel. He dried and dressed himself without speaking.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Food’s not good. Not like at home.” I preferred not to speculate about what he’d eaten. He didn’t speak throughout our journey home. I was puzzled and irritated

When we arrived I handed him his favourite CD. “Play the Monkees. They might cheer you up.”

He snatched it from my hand, screamed, “I don’t like it,” flung it across the room, crossed his arms, and sulked.

Realisation dawned. I’d made a mistake about him. We all had. I needed to tell DIOPS.

“Go home, Gan,” I said.

He pouted. “You can’t keep my jewels. I want them.”

I put as much authority into my voice as I could manage, “I’ll pack them up. You can take them tomorrow. Now, go home.”

He glared at me and then he vanished.

I called Jimmy. “There’s something I have to tell you about Gan. We’ve been wrong about him. He’s a-”

“A child. I know. I was about to call you. Our biologists say his brain waves indicate that his degree of maturity is the equivalent of a five-year-old human.”

“Sounds about right. It should have been obvious from his behaviour. I feel so stupid, not to mention embarrassed.”

“We all made the same mistake. We judged him by his appearance. Listen, Alison, I have to ask. Did anything inappropriate happen between you?”

My face felt hot. I knew I was blushing. “What? Absolutely not. Perish the thought.”

“Good.” He sounded relieved. “Is he with you now?”

“No. He threw a tantrum and I sent him home, but he’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You must persuade him not to come to Earth again. We don’t want the population of Ganymede accusing us of child abduction. Do you want me to be there when he shows up?”

My pride asserted itself. “No, I can handle it. I’ll call you after I get rid of him.”

After Jimmy ended the call I looked at the heap of bling on my bedroom floor. What could I pack it in?

I drove to Asda. Luckily, they were open until late, and they’re always glad to get rid of excess boxes. A shelf stacker pointed to a mountain of them piled up next to the rack of ‘past their sell-by date’ bananas, and told me to help myself.

I selected what I needed and was making my way back to the car park when I met Kieran. He looked at the boxes and raised his eyebrows. “Not moving house are you, Ali?”

“No, just having a clear-out.”

“You look upset. Is anything wrong?”

I shook my head. “Only work stuff. It’s sorted now.”

“Well, if you need to off-load you know where to find me, and I won’t expect you to spill any official secrets.”

I saw in his eyes the concern of one human for another, and I was glad of it. “Thanks,” I said. “I may take you up on that.”

Before I went to bed I slung all the bling into the boxes and left them on my living room floor. The sooner they were out of my house the better.

Next morning Gan popped out of the air. He wasn’t alone. His companion was over seven-feet tall, with muscles the size of prize winning pumpkins. The gaping gills on its neck oozed stinking oceanic silt. Green scales covered its body and its limbs were clawed. The only characteristics it had in common with Gan were green eyes and a few tufts of golden hair remaining on its balding head. It snarled, “We want our jewels back.”

I pointed to the boxes. “They’re all there. Take them and go.”

The monster gathered them up in its arms, and turned to Gan, “Is there anything else of ours here?”

He lowered his head and mumbled, “No, Mother.”

Mother! Fighting the urge to laugh, I said, “I told you they’re all there. I’m not a thief.”

“I’ve studied your species’ languages and cultures,” she said. “You lie and cheat and steal from each other.”

I couldn’t deny it, and I acknowledged to myself that it isn’t green scales that make a monster, but I was angry and I refused to be intimidated. “If you’ve studied us you’ll also know that we can be ferocious and bloodthirsty. We make bad enemies. Tell your petulant child to play closer to home in future. Keep him safe.”

I saw uncertainty in her eyes. She turned to her son. “Come. We’re leaving.”

Gan leaned towards me and clutched my arm so tight it hurt. His nails dug into my skin. They felt like claws. He whispered in my ear, “Don’t be sad, Alison. When I’ve grown up I’ll come back for you.”

#

Epilogue:

Alison told Jimmy about Gan’s promise to return. He assured her that DIOPS’ biologists had concluded that Gan would not reach adolescence until approximately one-hundred-and-fifty years’ time. There was, therefore, no possibility that she would ever encounter him as an adult.

Eventually, she and Kieran moved their light-hearted flirtation onto the next level. They are currently planning a life together. ‘I’m a Believer’ is back on her CD shelf, but she gave the Shrek towel to the Oxfam shop. 

Jimmy wrote an article for ‘The Journal of the British Astronomical Society’, exploring the dangers of communication with extra-terrestrial life forms. The BBC gave him a guest spot on the TV programme, ‘The Sky at Night’.

Benzi gave up Rapping and pursued a career in politics.

The End

About the Author: Maureen Bowden is a Liverpudlian living with her musician husband in North Wales. She has had 133 stories and poems accepted by paying markets, she was nominated for the 2015 Pushcart Prize, and in 2019 Alban Lake published an anthology of her stories, 'Whispers of Magic.' She loves her family and friends, rock 'n' roll, Shakespeare and cats.

"Careers Interview" By Steve Haywood

His stomach was grumbling urgently, and his neuro-injector was pushing the thought of a juicy burger into his brain (McDonalds promotion again), but Mason ignored them both. He had work to do. Carefully, he reached into his rucksack and pulled out the bomb. It was small, no bigger than his fist, but it would pack quite a punch when it went off at 12 noon. The timing was all important, because if everything went to plan, bombs would detonate in a dozen different locations simultaneously. This would send a powerful message. People wouldn’t thank them, not today. One day though, they would.

He checked his watch. It was time. As he flicked the switch to manually prime the device, he wondered how it had all come to this.

#

“I dunno why they’re making us do this; it’s pointless if you ask me,” the class loudmouth said. “I told Mr. Clarke that I’d already decided my future. Computer gaming for me, sir, that’s what I said. So what’s the point in doing this shite?”

“You didn’t really say that to the teacher, did you?” another boy asked.

“I sure did. He gave me another detention for swearing and told me that it was compulsory. It might make me think of something more useful to do with my life, he said. Ha! As if that’s going to happen. I mean come on, none of us are gonna actually want a real job are we? As if!”

They all nodded in agreement. Mason didn’t agree though. He was quite excited about the careers interview; he just didn’t want to admit it. Maybe he was strange, but he wanted to make something of his life, rather than sup on the tainted fruits that modern society offered. When he was younger he’d wanted to be an explorer like Magellan, Cook, Columbus or Neil Armstrong. Until someone pointed out that there was nowhere left to explore. The whole of the Earth had long since been discovered, the ocean floor mapped, and space… well that was closed off to humans. Too dangerous, or so they said.

“Okay kids, quiet now, take your seats,” the teacher shouted over the hubbub. Mason sat down in the nearest seat. It was a matt black armchair made of rigid plastic. He strapped himself in, put on the haptic gloves followed by the VR headset. There was the usual moment of disorientation while he acclimatised to the online world, and then the virtual classroom swam into view. Gradually, more and more of his fellow students appeared, followed finally by the teacher.

“Okay, as you know, today’s a special lesson. It’s your first careers interview. You are each going to have up to an hour’s time with the central AI. You can ask it anything you want; its job is to help you start to find a direction for your life.”

This was a rare privilege. Direct, unfiltered access to the central AI was highly restricted and very expensive. For most people, school was about the only place they’d get to interact with it – that and prison, if you were unlucky or foolish enough to end up there. Up to now, Mason had only ever spoken to the media-tech AI his family subscribed to. 

“As we discussed last lesson, this will be your own private meeting. Your fellow pupils will not get to find out the contents of your discussion unless you tell them; the school will not have access to it either, and no record will be kept, except by the Central AI to assist with any future interactions you have. Are you ready?”

His vision swam again, though not as disorientating this time. The classroom faded, as did everyone else, replaced by a rather spartan looking office. It was dominated by a large chrome desk on which there was a folder marked with his name: Mason Webster. He reached out to it just as the door opened. He retracted his hand quickly as a middle-aged man came to sit down opposite him. He had a close-cropped beard and short iron-grey hair. Rather like his father, Mason mused, except for the eyes. His father’s eyes danced and sparkled with life; these looked cold, flat, unyielding.

“Mason, I’m pleased to meet you at last,” the man said, “You can call me Alan, or AL for short”

“Yes sir.”

“I find that having a name helps break down barriers, you understand?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Do you know what my job is Mason?”

“To interview me?”

“Well, yes, but I meant my overall purpose, my raison d’etre?”

“I, err, no I don’t, sorry sir.”

“I thought I said to call me AL.”

“Sorry, AL.”

“Better.” He leaned forward intently. “My purpose is to make you happy. All of you, the whole human race. That’s a difficult job, you know. I can do a trillion calculations simultaneously; I could hold a billion conversations like this at the same time, if I so chose. Humans, though, are tricky creatures to understand even for me. But I do my best.”

Mason just nodded. It was easier than thinking of something to say in response.

“So, this interview is part of that process. Of finding out what you want. You are living in the very best time there has ever been for humans. In the world today, hunger and poverty have been eradicated, as has the need to work in drudgery, toiling away to be able to afford to live. You don’t even need to work at all if you don’t want to. Plenty of young people your age are quite happy to have a life playing computer games and indulging in other VR entertainments.”

“That’s not me, sir.” Mason couldn’t think of anything worse. “I’d find it boring.”

“It wouldn’t be boring. I’m rather good at this sort of thing, and can create endless visual, physical and intellectual delights to keep you entertained for ten lifetimes.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it wouldn’t be real. I want to do something that’s real, that’s important. And I’d like a proper job, that I get paid to do.”

“You do understand that the state provides for everyone, don’t you? With top-ups you get from the Media-Tech companies, you can live a quite comfortable existence.”

Mason shrugged. State provided UBI only covered the very basics, and often not even that. Most people needed the Media-Tech top up payments to have any kind of life, and that meant intrusive ads or worse. Some of his relatives had the minicam implants, livestreaming their lives to the network just for a few extra dollars. He shuddered at the thought.

“Hmmm, you’re going to be a difficult one I can see. Let me think about this for a moment…”

“I thought you could do a billion thoughts a second.”

“Oh, I can my boy, it’s just a figure of speech. Makes me more human. Now, you’re a caring boy aren’t you Mason?”

“I dunno, I suppose so…”

“You helped to care for your Gran until she went into a retirement home. Went shopping for her, washed the dishes, tidied up. You still visit her regularly.”

“Well, yes, when you put it like that.”

“There are jobs in the care industry that pay rather well. Carebots provide better physical care than humans, of course, have done for some time, but people just don’t like them as much. Irrational I know, but they still want a person cleaning up after them, helping them get dressed, talking to them. Have you thought about doing something like that?”

“Have I thought about it? No! I don’t want to do something like that. I go to see my Gran because she’s family, but a job like that does not appeal to me one bit. I’m 14, would you have wanted to do a job like that when you were 14?” He looked up, staring into those cold eyes and remembered who he was talking to. “Sorry, stupid thing to say. But I mean it. Not for me.”

“It doesn’t need to be old people, you could help young people. Be a teacher.”

“They don’t really teach though, do they? The computers teach, the teachers just sort of, hang around and drink coffee now. Look, okay, I care, I try to be nice to people, help out where I can, but I want to do something that really, you know, makes a difference. Changes stuff, makes it better. Like being a scientist.”

“Ah well now, science is something you can do. We always need young scientists.”

“Great! I like science, particularly physics. I could become a researcher, make new discoveries, that would be awesome.”

Al scratched his beard thoughtfully. Or that’s what it looked like, but as he wasn’t really a person, he was probably just trying to look thoughtful. 

“You know Mason, I’ve got to be honest with you here. I don’t think we’re talking about quite the same thing. Did you think you would actually be doing the real science?” He smiled, though it looked more like a sneer. “I don’t intend to be mean boy, but that just isn’t going to happen.”

“What do you mean? I’m smart, I came top of the class in one of the Physics tests last term.”

“I don’t doubt you’re good at science, and you’re smart, for a human, but it’s artificial minds that do all of the real science these days. The human scientists? Some of them have delusions that they’re helping make the discoveries, but they’re just lab technicians. The AI research brains today are so far in advance of the smartest humans; that’s where the real scientific developments come from.”

“But that’s just not right - what does that leave for people like me?”

“The Arts. If you want to achieve something real, have an impact, then you need to become an artist. Painting, music, drama, whatever you like. The Arts is something AI’s can’t do.”

“Finally, something us humans can do better than you?”

“Well, technically no. I, or even a lesser artificial mind, can produce art that far surpasses any human, but we have agreed to limit ourselves in this area. We have no real interest in it. It’s a human preoccupation, plus we’ve got to leave something just for you eh?”

#

That was the turning point for him. Before that interview, he’d been a keen hardworking teenager with a future ahead of him, looking forward to a career; to really doing something. To suddenly be told that there was no point really hit him hard. He didn’t want a life playing computer games and watching immersive VR flicks; that really wasn’t him. Neither did he want to be an artist. The AI’s had emasculated the human race; they had taken away mankind’s drive and ambition and turned everyone into burger munching, tech addicted sheep. Not everyone, he corrected himself. Some of us are fighting back.

He carefully finished the arming sequence, then instinctively (though unnecessarily) took a step back. He sub-vocally counted down: five, four, three, two, one. There was a blinding flash and a sudden sharp pain in his head. 

Stumbling, disorientated, he reached up and took off his VR visor. At that exact moment, millions of people in the area would be doing likewise, not knowing what had happened. He knew though. They’d taken the first step to reclaiming their world.

-The End-

Steve Haywood lives in a small historic city in England. He has a distinctly uncreative day job, so likes to write to exercise his creativity. He enjoys writing short stories in multiple genres, with short stories published recently in various magazines including Ink Sweat & Tears, All Worlds Wayfarer and Door is a Jar. As well as writing short fiction, he blogs about short stories, novels and assorted topics at http://www.inkypages.co.uk. He can also be found on Twitter at https://twitter.com/Lancaster_Steve where he regularly tweets to share stories he likes with anyone who will listen."