Martin Zeigler

And Nothing But

by Martin Zeigler

And finally, as your president, I intend to keep the big promise I made during my campaign. And that's to put a stop, once and for all, to the steady influx of Plutonians into our great nation. Hell, Pluto isn't even a planet. It's nothing more than a chunk of rock orbiting at the butt end of our solar system.

 -- from the inaugural address delivered on January 20, 2037 by President Chester Vermillion

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Czk felt the warm, unmistakable touch of a human hand on his fin and opened his eye. A nurse was smiling tenderly at him. "I'm sorry," she said. "Did I wake you?"

"Not at all," Czk said. "Just closed my eye because there's nothing else to do. Please, do you know how much longer I'll have to stay here?"

"From what we can tell, he missed your vital organs, which is very fortunate. But he did injure you. They're minor, the injuries, but they will take time to heal."

"So not very long, then?"

"Well, ours is the only hospital in the area that treats -- well, you know..."

Czk nodded. "Yes, and I'm grateful."

"But we still have a lot to learn about your anatomy. Plutonian anatomy, I mean. And we just think it would be prudent to keep you here a few more days before we send you home."

A flood of anxiety curled Czk's liquid-bearing stomach. "What do you mean -- home?"

The nurse gave his left vestigial antenna base a gentle squeeze, possibly mistaking it for a shoulder the way Earth people often did. "Why, your home here on Earth, of course," she said.

Czk breathed a sigh of relief. "In that case, please send me home as fast as you can."

The nurse laughed. "We'll try our best. And, oh, what I came to tell you is -- you have a visitor."

"Really?" Czk said eagerly. "Is it Stanton? Fremont? One of those two guys?"

"He must be a stranger. He said he'd very much like to meet you. And don't worry, he did pass the security screening."

"Hey, why not? Something to do. Maybe the visit will keep my eye open."

"Good," the nurse said, giving Czk's antenna base a final pat, "I'll go get -- why, there he is."

A man in a sports coat, jeans, and impossibly thick, black‑framed glasses appeared in the doorway. The nurse waved him in and pulled a chair close to Czk's bed for the man's benefit, then left the room.

The visitor approached the bed. Czk guessed him to be in his late twenties, early thirties. In Earth years, of course. "Mr. Cijjick?" the man said. "Very pleased to meet you. Lewis Des Moines." He held out his hand.

Czk extended his subordinate anterior tentacle and felt its suction cups briefly attach to the man's palm before letting go. "Likewise, Mr. Des Moines. What can I do for you?"

Des Moines sat down, pulled a T-screen from his jacket pocket, and set it on his lap. "I'm a reporter for the news website The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But."

"And nothing but?" Czk asked. After all these years, there was still the occasional expression that threw him. "Nothing but what?"

"Uh, the truth," Des Moines said. "And nothing but the truth."

"Okay. I think I see."

"Because the truth is what matters most," Des Moines stated firmly.

"So then why leave the word out?"

"Because, uh, I guess that's how the site was named," Des Moines mumbled, then added rather quickly, "Anyway, speaking of names, I do have yours right, don't I? Cijjick?"

"It's Czk, but you're close enough."

"Close enough isn't good enough at The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But. You see, I'd very much like to write an article on you, and I want to get the phonetic spelling of your name down precisely. Both for your sake and the sake of our readers."

"Well, in order to pronounce my name, you'll first need to insert your auxiliary tongue into your secondary respiratory cavity until it emerges from the interior vent and then press its tip against the back of your upper quadrilateral fang."

Des Moines began probing the inside of his mouth with his tongue, and Czk waited patiently. He had been through this before with his human acquaintances, because he wanted to at least give them a chance. Des Moines, as it turned out, was quicker than most to give up. With dead seriousness he repositioned his tongue for the purpose of forming English words and said, "Maybe, for this one particular piece, Cijjick will be close enough."

"That's fine by me," Czk said. "Now then, I suppose you want to know what happened? For your article?"

"Yes, well, most of it was covered on the local news, but we at The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But would like to delve deeper into the story. Expose your attacker's actions for what they really were: arguably the worst in the rash of hate crimes that have broken out in this city since President Vermillion's inaugural address."

"I don't know if I'd call what he did hateful, exactly."

Lewis Des Moines looked stunned, as if Czk had insisted that one plus one were three. "What? Not hateful? But he stabbed you."

"Several times, in fact. That's why I'm here. But I still don't believe -- "

Des Moines said, "Excuse me, did you say several or seven?"

"Several."

"Okay, just wanted to make sure. Because the news report mentioned something about your being stabbed six times. Is that right?"

"Could be. I didn't keep count."

"No, of course not. We wouldn't have expected you to. But I hope you can appreciate that the best way to present a case is by using exact figures rather than vague estimates. Telling our readers that you were stabbed many times doesn't quite have the same impact as stating, with absolute certainty, that you were stabbed six times. Or eight times. Or whatever the number is. Maybe, with your permission, I can get that figure later from your physician."

"Sure. I wouldn't mind knowing it myself. Just in case the question comes up again."

Des Moines began tapping on his T-Screen. "For now, I'll put down that you suffered X injuries."

"Sounds good."

"Injuries...injuries...injuries...." Des Moines seemed lost in a train of thought. "Oh, yes, how are your injuries, by the way?"

"So-so. Thanks for asking."

"Asking is what we do at The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But."

"I'll just be glad to get out of here and back to work."

"What do you do, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I'm an accountant with the firm of Stanton, Fremont, and Czk. I've been with them for fourteen years."

"Ah, that seems like an avenue worth pursuing. A Plutonian with an established career, a position near the top -- "

Czk held up his right peripheral tentacle. "Whoa! Near the top? Not to sound boastful or anything, but I'm right there at the top."

"My apologies. I just figured with your name given third billing that -- "

"Oh, I see. No, Stanton, Fremont, and I are all equals in the firm. It's just difficult to say all three names at once, even with an auxiliary tongue."

"Yes, of course." Des Moines uttered a self-conscious cough. "In any case, I can't begin to imagine the hate and resentment your attacker must've felt toward you, not just for being a Plutonian but a successful one at that."

Czk nodded politely. "Frankly, I doubt if he had any idea what I do for a living. Or what planet I come from, for that matter. The state of mind he was in, I could've been from Mars, for all he knew."

"You don't think his actions were fueled in any way by the words of Chester Vermillion?"

"The only thing that fueled this guy was spag or trelk or myzimox -- or whatever the drug of choice is these days."

Des Moines shook his head ever so slightly in what might have been disbelief. "Let me ask you. Did you happen to hear the inaugural address?"

"Yes, I did. Why?"

"What did you think?"

"I thought it was good for a few laughs."

Des Moines touched his hand to his chin. "I've heard a number of words to describe that speech. Laughs is a first."

"Calling Pluto a rock at the butt end of the solar system. That's kind of funny, don't you think? That's how we Plutonians pretty much thought of the planet the moment we first appeared as single-celled organisms. We couldn't wait to evolve -- just so we could build a spaceship and leave."

Des Moines tried to smile, but gave up on that even more quickly than on his pronunciation of Czk. "You do understand that Vermillion doesn't want your people to leave. Unless it's from Earth."

"Yes. And I admit, that part isn't so funny."

"Hateful, wouldn't you say?"

"None of us want to be forced to leave, that's for sure. We really like the size of the sun from here, for one thing."

"In fact, evidence suggests that his butt end comment might very well have given rise to a very derogatory term."

"And what term is that?" Czk had a good idea what it was, but decided to ask anyway.

"Anu...anu...anu..."

"Anusian?"

Czk detected a slight coloring of the reporter's skin, what Earth people referred to as blushing. "It's all right," Czk said. "You can say it. I won't turn into sugar. Or salt. Or whatever the expression is."

Des Moines nodded. "Surely, you must view that word as hateful and demeaning."

"Yes, I do. But, hey, if someone uses it against me, at least I know where they're coming from. It's better than being around someone who says nice things about you but really hates your guts."

"But you do agree that anu...anusia...anusian is a hateful word."

"Sure. We Plutonians don't have an anus, but we get the general drift."

Des Moines winced uneasily. "Uh, yes."

"I suppose it's like a guy from Earth being referred to as a shithead. He doesn't really have shit in his head, but it still must smart to be called that."

"Uh..."

"In our case, shithead is pretty much right on the money, since, as you can see, our intestines are situated out in the open right here above our eyeball. But we'd still consider it an insult."

"Yes. Uh… I mean, but which would be worse? To be labeled a shithead or an, you know, an anu -- "

"Anusian, most definitely," Czk said. "It implies we shouldn't be here on Earth or even have any desire to come here."

"So it must have been doubly painful to hear that word leveled at you by your attacker."

"What's that again?"

"To hear that word flung at you with each thrust of the knife. It literally must have been a case of adding insult to injury. Or, more to the point, severe insult to severe injury."

"It would have been if he'd used that word," Czk said. "But he never did."

This time Des Moines looked as if he'd been slapped. "Not once, you say? Are you absolutely sure?"

"Well, I was there."

"Perhaps you were in shock and don't remember. After all, without meaning to offend, you did lose count of how many times you were stabbed."

"No offense taken. I did lose count, that's true. But I know for a fact that the man did not once call me an anusian."

"It almost sounds as if you're defending him."

"Why would I defend him? Let me tell you what happened, Mr. Des Moines. I was taking my usual morning walk through my neighborhood. This man came out of nowhere. He had a kitchen knife in his hand and a wild stare in his eyes. He screamed at me to give him my wallet. I gave him my wallet. He screamed for my watch. I gave him my watch. I asked if he wanted my uPhone. He told me to quit calling him a uPhone. And that's when he began running me through with his knife over and over again until he suddenly changed his mind and took off running.

"Defend him? On the contrary, I identified him to police from photographs. And I intend on testifying against him at his trial. I hope he remains locked up for a long time. He's a sick and dangerous individual."

"Who slurred you by calling you an anusian."

"He never called me that. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

"Perhaps you'll remember things differently when you look at this."

Lewis Des Moines stood up from his chair, tapping his T‑Screen at various places before handing it to Czk. Czk took it, oriented it horizontally, and pressed the arrow at the center of the screen. A video began. It was of himself, taken from the back, a short distance away, the camera unsteady, but only slightly so.

"Where'd you get this?" Czk asked.

"From a freelance contributor to our news site."

Czk continued looking at the video as the events he remembered all too well unfolded all too quickly. He saw himself for the most part, since he was positioned nearest the camera, but now and then he glimpsed his attacker head-on -- filthy hair protruding from his scalp in clumps, a wobbly mouth of broken and missing teeth, and a face not unlike the surface of Czk's home planet.

He saw himself hand over his wallet, his watch, offer up his uPhone. He could not see the knife or how his attacker used it, but he did watch himself reel and buckle and finally double over, failing to break his fall with his outer tentacles. He not only watched this, but felt his wounds being inflicted all over again.

And yet while his eye took in these visuals that were all too vivid and excruciating, his suction ear, the one on the tentacle holding the T-Screen, kept hearing shouts and screams on the soundtrack that made no sense and bore no resemblance to reality.

"Anusian!" his assailant was yelling.

"Anusian! Go back to your rock!"

"You don't belong here! Anusian! Anusian!"

"Bleed and die, anusian! Take this!"

Czk finally had had enough. He pressed the stop button and handed the T-Screen back. "This never happened."

"You mean, this isn't you?"

"No, it's me, all right. And it's my attacker. But he never yelled those things. I'm afraid your freelance contributor contributed a little too freely."

"That's quite an accusation."

"Listen to it, Mr. Des Moines. Go ahead, play it back. First of all, the screaming doesn't have any distance to it. It's like he's yelling close to a microphone in a living room, not from several feet away outside. Second, in the quiet moments, you don't hear any ambient sounds, like birds tweeting or crows squawking. Third, when you can see the guy's face, tell me that the shape of his mouth actually matches the words your freelance contributor has coming out of it. It's an overdub and a shabby one at that."

Des Moines's hovered his finger briefly over the Play button, but then turned his gaze to Czk. "Forgive me, but since you're an accountant and not really a sound engineer, could you possibly be mistaken?"

Czk returned his look, albeit with just his one eye, and said, "Here. Let me show you something."

He reached over to the bedside table, grabbed his uPhone, pressed its own set of icons, and handed it over to the reporter.

"What is this?" Des Moines said. "I don't see anything. I just hear weird noises."

Czk suppressed a chuckle. "It's a sound recording, not a video. That's me singing."

"Okay."

"I compose music as a sideline. Whenever I'm out on a walk, I try out different melodies, different lyrics, looking for the hook. If I hit on something, I'll have it on file, and I can work with it later. Maybe take it to the studio at some point."

"Studio?"

"I've released a couple of albums. They're nowhere near gold, but doing all right. It's something I might devote more time to when I tire of adding and subtracting and taking percentages."

"Okay," Des Moines repeated.

"I can tell you're not impressed," Czk said. "That's all right. Plutonian musical scales are not to everyone's liking."

"It's not that. I'm just wondering what this has to do -- "

"You should give one of my albums a try."

"I'll think about it."

"I even assisted with the engineering," Czk added.

"Fine," Des Moines said. "But what is it you wanted to show me?"

"What you're hearing is me singing on the day in question. Now keep listening. It's coming up."

There was a scraping sound, like feet on gravel. Czk's singing stopped. Then a voice, somewhat muffled but still clear, broke in. "Hey, I need your wallet. Give me your wallet."

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

"Your watch. Hurry."

"Sure. Here. How about my uPhone? You want my uPhone?"

"I ain't no uPhone. Quit calling me that!"

A couple of crows argued in the distance. For a brief moment there was silence. Then came a squelching sound and a low grunt. Then more grunts, followed by cries and moaning, sounds which, for Czk, seemed to go on forever. And he was relieved when Des Moines put a stop to it.

"You see?" Czk said, taking the phone back. "It's pretty much as I described it."

"I didn't hear the word anusian."

"I know. That's because he didn't say it.

"But he must have said it. That one word is the crux of the matter, the common link with every one of the other hate crimes that were committed. A link that can be traced to the words of Chester Vermillion."

Czk shrugged. "I don't know what else to tell you, Mr. Des Moines. If he didn't say it, he didn't say it."

"Mr. Cijjick, with all due respect, are you sure you didn't -- you know -- inadvertently doctor your recording?"

"Now why would I do that? I hate the word even more than you do. If the guy had called me an anusian, why would I bleep it out? What would I have to gain by denying he said it?"

Des Moines stood there for a good twenty seconds, mulling something over, as if forming an argument. Finally, he placed a hand gently on Czk's left vestigial antenna base and said, "What would you have to lose by confirming he said it?"

"Come again?"

"Mr. Cizzik, you yourself said that a man can hate you even if he doesn't call you names. Isn't that right?"

"Well, yes, but -- "

"So if your attacker could've hated you whether he called you something or didn't, why not just tell us that he did? It's such a small step to take."

Czk leaned his intestine back against the pillow and sighed. "Mr. Des Moines, we get clients like you at the firm. Not often, but once in a while. They want us to change a number. Just one digit, nothing more. Maybe slide a decimal point over one teeny-weeny place. After all, the company they're investing in is big enough, it won't notice any difference. Just one small adjustment, nothing big. That's all they're asking."

"And what do you do?"

"We show them the door. That's what we do."

"Is that -- is that what you’re doing to me?"

"No, not at all, Mr. Des Moines. You already know where the door is. I saw you step through it just a while ago."

Des Moines let go the antenna base and dropped his T-screen into his jacket pocket. He leveled Czk with a quick scowl, then turned and headed out. But at the door he stopped and turned again to Czk. "This article I'm writing is for you, for your race. I hope you realize that."

Czk felt a heavy weariness in his eyeball, as if he could finally manage to get some sleep. But he went ahead and asked his question anyway. "Mr. Des Moines, which do you think is worse -- hatred or indifference?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your freelance contributor. He was only half a block away. He could have tried to scare the guy off. But he didn't. He could have called the police at any time. But he didn't. He could have come up to me after the guy ran off to see if I was all right. But he didn't. He could have done any one of those things. But he didn't."

Des Moines pursed his lips and shrugged. "Perhaps. But he did so much more by producing that video, don't you think? And that's why we'll go with it."

"But his version of events never happened. Mine did."

"That could very well be. What you have there might indeed be the truth. But what we have..." Lewis Des Moines patted his jacket pocket where the T-Screen sat. "What we have here is so much closer to the spirit of the truth."

THE END

 

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