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
#
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
|