“One Mississippi..."
By
Libby A. Smith
She thought of the human’s music as she
dropped to the ground, pain tearing through her chest, a
sound very different than the agonizing blast of the
shotgun. She loved wandering down Beale Street where
she’d first discovered music blaring from a bar, or
stopping by a music store where a human might be trying
out a guitar. She marveled at the way people flocked to
the home and burial ground of a musician they called The
King. No where else in all her galactic investigations
had she encountered music. Just when she thought she’d
heard samples of all the types, she’d hear another.
Earth had been simply another assignment
when she’d been transported to the surface. Like so
many other populated planets, it was overpopulated by
some species, under populated by others, and its
resources, such as petroleum, in danger of being wasted
by the inhabitants.
“What the fu…?” The law enforcement office
shouted without a hint of music in his tone. Odd how
music could hold emotion, yet some emotions, like anger,
held no music. “Travis, drop the damn gun before you
shoot me, too. Drop it now! Keep your hands where I
can see them.”
Travis? She’d nearly forgotten Travis was
his name. To her, he was simply the Old Man. Although
Mississippi couldn’t turn her head to see the “Old Man,”
she could picture his familiar, wild-eyed expression.
He never combed his mass of gray hair or shaved closely
enough to remove all the stubble. She doubted he ever
bathed. Yet despite his age, his body retained a
youthful strength and he kept his posture straight, even
when his mind strayed from reality. She’d never
experienced anything like the numerous ways the human
mind could malfunction and fail. Could this tendency
towards frailty be the source of the human ability to
create music?
“Told you there were aliens,” The Old Man
screamed hysterically. “Look at them run! No one
believed me, but I told you over and over there were
aliens in my attic, stealing my vegetables from the
garden, beer from my cooler in the middle of the night.”
She felt the officer’s foot prod her side.
“What kind of … creature is this?”
Was he talking about her? The shotgun’s
pellets must have short circuited her disguise. Of
course it had, or the pellets wouldn’t have harmed her
and she’d still be protected from the chilling rain.
The device, when functioning normally, served as
disguise and protective shield.
The humans were seeing her hairless,
pale-blue skin. In form, she was not much different
from them with two arms and two legs, each with five
digits. But her people had no ear lobes and her nose
one nostril. Although of no use for defense in
thousands of years, two small ivory-colored horns
protruded from her head.
A chill overtook her body as the rain became
harder. Perhaps if heavy and long enough, it’d raise
the level of the Mississippi River back to normal.
She’d overheard people discussing the near record
lowness. She’d looked forward to seeing it at its full
strength.
“One Mississippi…, two Mississippi…”
The human children’s method of counting time
ran through her head. She’d first heard the word a few
days after arriving on the planet. As she wandered the
streets observing, she’d seen a child hiding his eyes
against a tree. “Nine Mississippi…, ten Mississippi…!
Ready or not, here I come!”
Mississippi. The word sounded much like a
form of music. Since arriving, she’d tried to sing,
even tried pounding the keys of an antique piano she’d
spotted at a shop, yet it didn’t sound right. She
couldn’t get the rhythm or put notes together with any
sort of beauty. Saying “Mississippi” was the closest
she’d come to creating music.
What was it human children said in this
region of the planet? “M-I-crooked letter, crooked
letter-I-crooked-letter-crooked-letter-I-hump-back-hump-back-I.”
Mississippi. She’d adopted the word as her name even
before the river lured her, making the choice of her
observation point obvious.
She’d explored the more rural areas of the
region for several days, simply walking around listening
to recorded music, trying her best to imitate it.
During one such hike, she’d found what she’d thought was
an abandoned small farm. The wood-framed dwelling’s
roof had fallen in and a metal mobile home next to it
was covered in rust. The drought had kept the grass
from greening and growing. A garden spot held nothing
but wood stakes wrapped in dead foliage. The area even
smelled stale, dusty and dead.
“Calm down, Travis!” The officer ordered,
jarring her to a stronger level of alertness. She heard
the static of a radio. “I’m trying to contact the
station.”
“This isn’t a matter for the police,” the
Old Man snapped. “They ignored me. Ignored me!!! Now
aliens have taken over Mississippi.”
“No one has taken over Mississippi, the
state, or the river!”
“Not the river or the state, you moron.
Her! There on the ground. The aliens have taken over
her body, her mind, and her soul. Turned her into a pod
person to do their bidding.”
“Taken her over? She is the alien! You
shot her and she turned into this … thing.”
“Will you listen, fool? The aliens have
been living in my attic. I’ve been trying to tell y’all
that. I’ve been making calls, writing letters. No one
will listen. Maybe they’ll listen to you. You can make
them listen. Better call Washington. They can get the
alien out of her and get the others. There’s others,
you know. Could be a lot of them. Maybe the CIA will
listen to you better than they did me, or NASA at least,
though I’m thinking the aliens already have NASA.”
“Reinforcements are on the way,” The officer
said. “Where the hell did this Mississippi come from?”
“From Memphis, she said. I was shoring up
some foil on the inside walls of one of my sheds when I
spied her nosing around the place. Figured the
government had finally sent someone to check out the
aliens. It was about time. I’d called them, you know.
All of them. Police, governor, senators, even The White
House. I grabbed my gun, jumped out, and asked why
they’d sent a lady to do a man’s job. She acted like
she didn’t know nothing about aliens in my attic or in
NASA. Real cool about it, calm-like, as though she knew
more than she was letting on.”
Proper procedure directed Mississippi to
dispose of the Old Man when he indicated he knew her
origins. There was too great a risk that her equipment
would be discovered before the full range of needed data
could be transmitted. Her assignment focused on
collecting information about the planet’s natural
resources. Any anthropological data was merely a
footnote of no use except appeasing curiosity. These
humans were so far behind her own people, they could
offer no technology of value. Her people mainly wanted
water, petroleum, certain minerals, things their own
population needed. The authorities believed there was
nothing new to be discovered on the cultural level.
They’d never heard music.
The Old Man’s claims initially confused
her. There shouldn’t have been any other off-world
beings on Earth. The entire sector belonged to her
people. Curious, she’d assured him she’d investigate.
“You’re black. Not sure I like that,” The
Old Man had replied. “Don’t know that I can trust your
kind.”
She’d looked at her hand to make sure her
disguise was functioning. “Actually, I’m brown.”
Seeing that humans possessed a wide range of skin tone,
she’d chosen brown simply because she liked the color
not realizing humans often put negative meanings to such
details.
The Old Man glared, grinned, then laughed.
“That’s for sure. Dark brown. Oh, what the hell.”
She’d been allowed in the cluttered, moldy
trailer to find not only were there no aliens, there
wasn’t an attic. Curious about the man’s
eccentricities, she’d stayed, moving into the sturdiest
of the sheds. Quickly adopted into the Old Man’s daily
routine, she’d listen to him rant and rave about aliens
while the real one began adapting her testing equipment
into an old John Deere tractor. No one had disturbed
the machine for years so there was no reason to believe
anyone would. Everything was falling into place for a
successful mission despite her inability to dispose of
the witness.
Once finished, the equipment would begin
testing the air, minerals and water along with compiling
her data on planetary customs. Surely her report would
convince the authorities that Earth’s cultures must
remain undisturbed, at least for the time being. What
the humans lacked in useful technology, they made up for
with music.
Excited with the possibility others among
her people would be as mesmerized by music as she found
herself, Mississippi had been excitedly working on
programming her report into the repurposed tractor when
the officer drove up.
“Good morning. I’m Officer Henry Olson.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m not sure where the
Old Man is right now. I help him when I can. Can I be
of assistance?”
“Old Man?” The officer laughed. “That name
suits him. I’m just here to check on Travis. Someone
spotted a woman who fits your description driving his
truck. He doesn’t get into the city as much as he once
did, but people know him.”
“That was me. I’m his … daughter. He lets
me borrow his vehicle.”
“Daughter? You’ll have to excuse my
disbelief, Travis sure isn’t known for racial
tolerance. May I see your ID?”
“Alien, get away from her!” the Old Man had
shouted from the trailer’s doorway, gun already aimed.
He stepped down, missing the steps. Although he managed
not to fall, the gun fired. Mississippi automatically
dove in front of the officer. She felt the shock of the
pellets tearing through her disguise device, destroying
it before ripping into her.
Her people would come investigate when her
transmission deadline passed without data. They’d come
not only to investigate, but to strip this world of
everything they perceived to be of value. Unless, of
course, they first explored closely enough to encounter
the music. She’d been testing the equipment using her
observations about music. It was possible, quite
possible, some of the information had reached them.
She hoped so.
“One Mississippi…, two Mississippi…” she
whispered as consciousness left, wishing she could
really sing.
--end--