V2 chapter 12: Alien vs Free Speech.

The mass of journalists flowed into the park with their expensive microphones and sophisticate cameras at the ready. Multiple videos had been sent to them, of a mysterious animal that was crawling in circles around the orange tree. A giant slug, some had said. An octopus crawling on its back, others had ventured. The usual morons that were obsessed with UFOs had, of course, proposed that humanity was dealing with an extraterrestrial entity, and they were dismissed as conspiracy nuts, because that’s the standard protocol when they spoke. Except this time they were right.

The alien slithered around the orange three, analyzing its bark with its tendrils and the fallen fruit with its foot, and sometimes theorizing about what the little things that moved over him now and then could be. For the curious, they were ants, tiny and red, enticed by the sweet treasures spilled all around.

The journalists gathered, shouldering each other to try and get the scoop. And the alien noticed. The air was vibrating in a way most unnatural, similar on how it had done in the landing site. This could imply the source of such perturbations in the atmosphere was a living being, or several. But he was unsure of what it could be for. A defense mechanism, mayhap? It could explain why it’s presence seemed to trigger it. It could be that local biota was considering it a menace. This would imply it was being perceived by those hydrogen-based lifeforms. How, more than why — because the why was universal: the why of perception was because it helped things to avoid death — was the question. Was it the heat it produced? Was it something related to its chemistry?

Suddenly, an avalanche of photons different from those of starlight rained over the alien. They came in violent, short waves. An attack? Or just a case of radiolocation? Intent? Did it have one? It wasn’t a dangerous situation for it, and yet it wasn’t a comfortable one, either. It needed to know better, not out of curiosity but out of caution. It remained still as it devised a plan.

A redheaded Journalist woman, dusted off her clothes, smiled despite her blackened eye, and gave the cameramen the signal to start rolling. “Today, we are gathered here, on the Slightly to the West of the Centre Park, to document a strange creature that made its way to the Big Orange Tree Slightly to the South of the Park’s Centre. Some say it’s a slug, some say it’s a stray dog from the Queer Dimension, and others, believe it is a visitor from beyond.” Her eyes went wide when she said the last word. She continued her act as the others set up their equipment to record too, slowed down by the spirit-draining weight of defeat.

Perhaps a measured response was warranted. Nothing lethal, just a little phosphorous based compound, a derivate from hexaphosphabenzene that should mollify any aggressive biota around causing minimal harm. It didn’t knew the exact biology of the locals, but the compound was mostly harmless back in its planet, and left no sequelae on the affected beings. Thus the alien gathered its cells into balls filled with the compound, little eggs growing between its epidermis and the underlying tissue. From the outside, they looked as bulging pustules ready to blow at a moment’s notice.

And blow they did. The little balls of tissue shot from their prisons and bounced al around, sticking to the skin of the enthralled witnesses of the alien’s activity. And then… Have you even seen how a cnidocyst works? They are the little poison injecting harpoons on the tentacles of corals, jellyfish and anemones. Well, this didn’t resemble one of those anatomically or ontologically or in any other biology-related way you can conceive. There was analogy of function, without a trace of homology. Phosphorous-based structures interacting with the carbon-based marvels of Cabaret. What could go wrong?

Given the journalists started exploding, spreading guts and blood all around the orange tree and over the alien, I would say we can consider that question thoroughly answered. As for the alien cultivator, suffice to say that it considered the bloodbath a sort of ineffective attack on the part of the local biota. They had taken exception to the tranquilizers, and that was unexpected, but it could have gone worse. So far, life on Cabaret seemed highly hostile, but mostly harmless.

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The president got taken out of his corruption-related reveries when a man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and dark shades burst through the double doors of his office. “Sir, Sir! We have terrible news related to the alien.” The man took out his phone and showed it to the president, in it, the recordings of the massacre captured on live camera were played, commented by the news anchors who were comfy on their seats, but visibly traumatized by the death of their peers.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“I see.” The president said, leaving his electric guitar shaped after his favorite groupie to the side. “for I have eyes, and eyes were made to see, see? That will go into my new song and—”

The employee of the secret service produced a glove out of his pocket and used it to slap the president back to earth.

“This is treason!” He pressed a button hidden under his desk to call security, which was supposed to come from the secret passage behind the gigantography of a historical figure that occupied the left wall of his office.

“What’s the issue, sir?” answered a voice through the office loudspeakers.

“Pantonio hit me again. With a white glove.”

The security guard in charge sighed. “Sir, Pantonio has special privileges. You know he can slap you as long as it is for the greater good, or because you are being a little bitch. Were you being a little bitch, Mr. president?” The man at the other side teased. Oh, how he enjoyed mocking this moron.

A smug grin seated in the president’s face. “The meanest bitch you know, Rigaldo. Are you checking Hashtagger? The alien offed a bunch of Journalists. Made them blow harder than your mother last night,” said the illustrious president of the republic where the alien had landed.

“My mother is dead, you cunt. Hope they try to kill you and I arrive just when they are shoving a knife in your neck’s flesh. Too late to save you, but just in time to look heroic by shooting at the magnicidal maniac.”

“Well, as soon as I fix the alien issue I am signing an executive order to legalize necrophilia and make her blow me for real. Checkfuckingmate.”

He let the button go and leaned back on the chair, satisfied with himself. Pantonio wasn’t going away, and that soon killed off his smile. “What do you want?”

“The alien killed people, sir. As the head of the secret service and other agencies, I need to get your input about how to proceed.”

The president started fidgeting with his fingers, amused. “It killed journos, not people. We can let it slip, right?”

Pantonio groaned, letting his shoulders fall. “The whole republic saw the alien killing them, sir. We cannot ignore the threat anymore. We. Can. Not.”

“I could write a fucking rad song about aliens killing journalists and our voting base would make a legendary pogo with it.” He placed his fingers into two gestures resembling horns. “Metal as hell on VHS.”

Pantonio took his gun out from the holsters concealed under his bermudas, pointed it briefly at his head, and then found out he lacked the bravery to pull the trigger and end it all. He could ruin the luxurious rug he was standing over. And someone had to come home back to his lovely Giant Schnauzer. She wouldn’t know what had happened to Daddy if he pulled the trigger. He had to be strong. For Firulaisa.

“Listen, sir, this alien, if it runs amok, will scare the living crap out of the voting base, and that’s bad for you. You cannot leech off their tax dollars if they vote the first moron that promises to deal with the ‘growing alien menace’.” Yes, he used scare quotes. Sue me.

The president leaned backer against his blue and gold chair. “What if it is targeting journos and paparazzi exclusively? That benefits us. We could be even more corrupt and there would be no one left to report on it. Nor on the alien. Only the state’s channel would have journalists that we protect from the murderous entity and report on harmless news that show us in a good light. It’s a self-solving issue.” The president pulled a can of shitty beer from under his desk. “Want a drink to celebrate?”

“No, we need to solve this before it escalates. Please, just give me the authority to do whatever I deem fitting about the alien and you can go back to overvaluing public infrastructure projects to distribute the surplus among your… associates. I want to protect my dog, sir. She is three. Want to see photos of her?” The man started swiping through his phone, trying to not show his true intentions in his face.

The president’s eyes went wide at the realization, hiding the black as a moonless night makeup on his eyelids. “No! Not the fucking photos of your fucking Princess once fucking again. The dog is black and that’s metal enough, but you dress her in those absurd costumes that you buy the-demons-know-where. So, get you authorization, rid the country of the alien if necessary, you party pooper. But offer it a visa and even citizenship first. He is considered a persona Very-grata to me. Enemy of my enemy. Strings of my guitar.”

“Bah! I’ll order termination and then you can fire me for all I care. I will adopt the dog out. And then kill myself.”

So Pantonio prepared to take a leave, dismissing the president. But he didn’t expect what the son of a Man and Rock and Roll did next.

“Wait, Pantonio!”

Pantonio didn’t turn, but at least stopped. “What is it now, Mr. President?”

“If you kill yourself, can you stream it? if you do, send me the link: I need closure.”

But the only thing that got closure that day was the door of his office. A harsh, loud closure, once Pantonio stepped outside.