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Text File | 2001-10-08 | 40KB | 562 lines

James Patrick Kelly: Fruitcake Theory Bjorn is trying to tell me that the rooster isnÆt dumb as a spoon. Obtuse, maybe. Na∩ve, yes. Tedious, without a doubt. The rooster is sitting across the aisle and up two seats, paying no attention to us. WeÆre just followers. HeÆs staring out the window of the van at the snow. "HeÆs Kuvat, Maggie," says Bjorn. "Aliens think differently than we do." "Cranial capacity." I tap the side of my head. "Check that skull. HeÆs got room up there for half a cup of brains, tops." "Maybe heÆs got some kind of distributed nervous system," Bjorn says. "How else could they have built the starship?" "The scarecrows built the starship," I say. "The roosters came along for the ride. You follow long enough and itÆs obvious." "Intellectual bifurcation is just a theory." Nevertheless, Bjorn slides down in his seat, defeated once again. "All we know is that theyÆre Kuvat, both roosters and scarecrows." He takes out his appetite pacifier and starts sucking at it. I donÆt mean to upset him. The rooster starts eeking to himself. "Eek eek eeeek, eek eek eeeek! " He looks like a cauliflower the size of a washing machine -- with legs. They are bird legs, to be sure, with scaly shanks and clawed, three-toed feet. But his body is an enormous scoop of convoluted flesh. All he wears is the translator, a golden disk that hangs on a cord around his neck like the Noble Prize for Stupidity. His skin is as translucent as spilled milk. Beneath it are coils of muscle marbled with gray fat. He has spindly arms and his little head is mostly mouth. We canÆt see the upright ruddy flap, like a roosterÆs comb, just behind his button eyes, because tonight heÆs wearing a SantaÆs cap of red felt. Bjorn pops the appetite pacifier out of his mouth. "I think thatÆs ÆJingle Bells,Æ " he says excitedly. "The eeking." He makes a note of this. Bjorn is new to the following team. HeÆs twenty-four and takes everything too seriously, except himself. HeÆs fat and blond and sweet as a jelly donut. I really do like him; he just hasnÆt realized it yet. He brings out the mother in me. I yawn. IÆm not a night person and IÆm riding in a van at two in the morning. ItÆs the roosterÆs fault, of course. ItÆs December 22 and the rooster has got a bad case of holiday spirit, even though he doesnÆt know an elf from an elephant. He wants to do a little shopping. ItÆs a security nightmare, but we accommodate him. We always do because weÆre asking for the Kuvat encyclopedia for Christmas. Not that we know whatÆs in it exactly, but these creatures come from a planet a hundred and thirty light years away. TheyÆre bound to have a grand unified theory, the secret of cool fusion, and a cure for cellulite. =Persons?= The rooster turns toward us. =This one has hunger.= "Me too. I havenÆt eaten since dinner." Bjorn is always happy to interact with our charge. "Wait until you see the food court at this mall. ItÆs totally grade. Must be thirty different kinds of ethnic." HeÆs starting to bubble with enthusiasm; I give him a needle stare. "Well, maybe only twenty," he mutters. =This one has also thirst, persons.= "This one is called Maggie." I touch my chest. "Mag-gie." The rooster canÆt tell humans apart. This continues to annoy me; IÆve been following him for four months and he still doesnÆt know who I am. =Laughing all the way, person, ha, ha, ha.= There is some debate as to the accuracy of Kuvat translations. IÆm sick of this rooster. IÆve asked to follow any other Kuvat, preferably a scarecrow, but IÆd even settle for another rooster. As far as we know, there are four besides this one. Roosters donÆt have names, donÆt ask me why. At first we gave them nicknames -- Dodo, Dopey, Dumbo, Ding-dong, and Dufus -- only when Balfour found out, she pitched a fit. Our job was to follow, observe, and protect the Kuvat, she said, not to make snide remarks. She doesnÆt even like us calling them roosters. When she overheard Jasper laughing about "Dopey" back in August, she pulled him from the following team and banished him to Waste Assessment, where he sifts through Kuvat garbage and samples their sewage. This rooster has been the most rambunctious tourist of the five. Since the Kuvat landed in May, heÆs been to the pyramids and the Taj Mahal and the Eiffel Tower. HeÆs crazy about zoos and disneys. He saw the third game of the ∩08 World Series and was a Special Guest at the Sixty-Sixth World Science Fiction Convention. He seems to be partnered with Kasaan, the scarecrow who is the leader of the Kuvat expedition. Bjorn has signed on to the theory that the roosters are scouting us and make detailed reports back to the scarecrows, who rarely leave the compound weÆve built around their starship. This theory is conveniently unverifiable, since weÆre not allowed to follow roosters onto the starship. When we pull up to the entrance of the Live Night Mall, Balfour herself gets onto the van. She nods at the two of us and then approaches the rooster. "You will have an hour. IÆm afraid thatÆs as much as we can do, one hour. These two will accompany you for one hour. Anything you want, these two will obtain for you. Do you understand everything? These two? One hour? "Even though she wonÆt admit it, itÆs obvious that Balfour, too, thinks that the rooster hasnÆt got the brains that God gave to spinach. =Kuvat pay? That is the habit.= "No," said Balfour. "These two will pay for everything." =Person, is there fruitcake? This one hears much of the information of fruitcake.= "Fruitcake?" Balfour glances back at us, as if we have some idea what the rooster is talking about. Bjorn shrugs. "IÆm sure thereÆs fruitcake somewhere at the mall," Balfour says. =The fruitcake solves much hunger.= As we get off the van, Balfour touches my arm. I let Bjorn go on ahead with the rooster. "Any trouble?" she says. "Not so far." "Well, there is now. Kasaan is on her way here from the U.N." "Here as in here? Why?" She gives me an exasperated glare. "Maybe she realized there are only two more shopping days until Christmas." Balfour is as mystified by Kuvat behavior as the rest of us, but sheÆs Undersecretary for Alien Affairs. When people have questions, sheÆs expected to give answers. Sometimes that vein in her left temple pulses like a blue worm. "You want to pull our guest out?" This would be the first time a rooster and a scarecrow have met outside the starship compound. ItÆs a chance to observe new behaviors -- but the mall is so public. "I donÆt think so. No." "Tell him about Kasaan?" She rubs her eyes and I realize that she probably dragged herself out of bed for this. "Maybe he already knows. Look, IÆve seeded the mall with our people. WeÆre going to let this happen, okay? ItÆs the good old observe and protect. I just wanted to give you a heads up." She turns away but catches herself. "HowÆs Bjorn working out?" "He should do more sit ups." She sighs, but the vein subsides. "ItÆs two-thirty in the morning, Maggie. Not even Hack Bumbledom is funny at two-thirty in the morning." "Want me to pick you up some fruitcake? ItÆs full of information." "This could be big." She brushes snow off my shoulder. "IÆll be in the security office." Followers and their families are scattered strategically around the room. When we take roosters on field trips, we try to minimize their access to the mundane world. If we can, we clear a site completely; otherwise we drop by unannounced and late at night. WeÆre in and out before the media and the Kuvat chasers and the oddjobs arrive. There are a few civilians shopping at this ungodly hour, and of course the staff of all the stores are mundanes, but weÆve got good coverage. The Live Night Mall is "Y" shaped. Ribbons of light hang from its vaulted glass ceiling; they shiver in the warm breeze that blows from the ventilators. Each of the arms is lined with the usual assortment of shops selling games, infodumps, shoes, T-shirts, ties, hats, kitchenware, software, artware, candy, toys, candles, perfumes and pheromones. You can get a skin tint, a hair style, or walk-in liposuction. At the end of each of its arms is an anchor store, a Sears & Penny, a Food Chief, and a Home Depot. The three arms come together in a vast, garish, and noisy cluster of fast food storefronts. Bjorn might be right about the number of ethnics; I donÆt think IÆve ever seen Icelandic in a mall before. At the hub of the mall there must be a couple of hundred round tables. The surfaces of each are screens tuned to themed cable stations. Even though the place is pretty much deserted, itÆs still filled with the ghostly mutter of news and sitcoms and cartoons. IÆm expecting to spot the rooster here somewhere but all I can see is a handful of followers and a Santa nodding over a latte. Kevin Darcy pushes his sleeping four-year-old by me in a stroller and murmurs, "Sears and Penny." So I pick my way through the maze of tables. As I pass Santa, he shoots out of his chair. "Where did you come from?" "Home," I say and try to get by. "No, you didnÆt." He pushes in front of me. "YouÆre a stranger. Who are all these people?" "This the mall, friend. WeÆre all strangers here." "Not at my mall, youÆre not," he said. "Listen, why donÆt you take the rest of the night off?" I flip open my wallet and give him a good look at the ID. "IÆll bet youÆre tired. IÆll clear it with your boss." He glances at it, but I donÆt think he sees anything. "ItÆs not him," he says uncertainly. "ItÆs all the presents. I have to finish my list." Now IÆm just guessing at his story, but IÆm pretty sure IÆve got it right. HeÆs old and broke and stuck in Social Security shock -- just trying to earn a few extra bucks over the holidays. Only he hasnÆt actually moved to a night schedule, so heÆs trying to tough this shift out with chemicals. ThatÆs why heÆs just south of coherent and has cephadrine eyes. "If I go, theyÆll replace me with a Santabot." He lowers his voice. "They donÆt take bathroom breaks." "Excuse me." I sidestep him. "I have to see a rooster about a fruitcake." "Wait! IÆll put you on my list." He clutches at me. "What do you want for Christmas?" "How about someone elseÆs life?" He considers this and I slip by. "You can have mine!" he calls after me. "Hey!" As I enter the Sears & Penny, I notice an odd, stinging, flowery smell, something like the scent of a rose, only with thorns. I follow it to the menÆs underwear section, where it is so strong my eyes water. A mundane sales clerk is tapping, "Silent Night,"on the keypad of his cashcard reader, Bjorn and the rooster are sitting on the floor on a red and white checked plastic tablecloth, having a picnic. The roosterÆs Santa cap is cocked at a rakish angle. He has opened a plastic bag containing three white Fruit of the Loom undershirts. He is eating them. Somehow he has also obtained a four pack of MurrayÆs Chocolate Mint Wine, two of which are now empties. =Hungry?= He holds a wine-stained rag out to me. "No," I say, "thank you." I try to catch BjornÆs eye but he is staring between his legs as if counting the red checks on the tablecloth. =One hundred percent cotton.= The rooster pulls a new undershirt from the bag and turns it this way and that, as if admiring it. =Tasty cellulose.= He opens another can of MurrayÆs and pours some on it. =Not starchy like french fries.= He takes a bite. The smell is clearly coming from the rooster. This is new behavior; I have to know what caused it. "Uh, Bjorn, could I speak to you?" He finally looks up, his eyes red and watery from rooster smell. "You think IÆm fat." He shivers like a barrel of Jell-O, then laughs out loud. "What?" "Everybody thinks IÆm fat. I am fat!" He spreads his fingers across his waist. Sure, Bjorn could do a creditable Santa without padding but whatÆs that got to do with following the Kuvat? And whatÆs so funny? I try to say, ThatÆs not true, except the words swell in my throat like balloons. I cough and manage to choke out, "WhatÆs going on here?" =He knows you bad or good,= The rooster says around a mouthful of undershirt. =so good good goodness sake.= "HeÆs not stupid, Maggie." Bjorn giggles and reaches for the last can of wine. "He just doesnÆt know what he knows." He pops it open and drinks. "Bjorn!" I want to stop him but the rooster smell is blooming in my head. "What have you told him?" IÆm not sure whether my feet are touching the floor. =Kuvat not stupid.= The rooster chews with a sideways motion, like a horse. =This one sees. This one remembers. But only Kasaan knows.= "Kasaan? What about Kasaan?" "ItÆs the truth," Bjorn says. "Want some?" He offers me the MurrayÆs chocolate wine and I snatch it away from him. =Cotton?= The rooster offers the bag of undershirts. "No." I wave him off absently. "Maybe later." "HeÆs emitting some kind of euphoriant," says Bjorn. "Can you smell it, Maggie?" =Tidal of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.= "Yes." I sit down next to him. If I donÆt, somebody will have to pull me off the ceiling. "How did it start?" "He was talking about Kasaan. He says sheÆs going to empty him, or something. IÆm pretty sure heÆs getting ready to turn in his report." He beams, pleased that heÆs finally won our argument. "I have a theory. He has to tell the truth, right? The smell makes him do it, feel great about it. And itÆs working on us too. Tell me a lie, Maggie." =Lies stink.= The rooster spits out the undershirtÆs polyester size tag. "Oh god," I say. "Oh my god." I take a swig of MurrayÆs and pass it back to Bjorn. "Kasaan is on her way over here." The chocolate weight in my gut helps me forget that IÆm breaking every rule of following there is. By this time tomorrow, IÆll be helping Jasper centrifuge Kuvat sewage. =Person,= says the rooster. =You smell unhappy always.= "I am unhappy," I say. "IÆve got a right to be unhappy." "Why is that?" Bjorn asks. "Because we have to follow this stupid rooster around, Bjorn! I donÆt know about you, but that makes me feel stupid. It should make everybody in the whole damn world feel stupid." "Well, at least youÆre not fat." Bjorn laughs and hands me the MurrayÆs. Just to be sociable, I take a drink. =Person is fat,= says the rooster. =Person feels stupid.= I hear running footsteps. Our backup is coming fast. When I think of how this is going to look to the rest of the following team, I start to giggle. "WeÆre screwed," I say. "Very." Bjorn thinks itÆs funny too. Balfour herself is leading the charge. "Maggie!" When she spots us she pulls up. She stares as if she has just caught Santa shoplifting. I struggle to my knees and hold both hands out to warn them. "Get out of here, now! ItÆs an airborne intoxicant." I realize IÆm waving a can of MurrayÆs Chocolate Mint Wine at the Undersecretary for Alien Affairs. I set it discreetly on the plastic tablecloth. "Gas masks in the van," Balfour says to the team as she covers her mouth and nose with her hand. "Clear the store. No, clear the mall. Seal everything." A handful of them peel off, running. The other followers goggle at us, then back away uncertainly. "Kasaan is looking for him," she says. "Are you okay?" "Sure," says Bjorn. "Tidal of comfort and joy." "I think weÆre all right," I say. "But weÆre not observing anymore. WeÆre part of it, Balfour. Now move, before itÆs too late." They leave, dragging the giggling menswear clerk after them. The rooster stands and brushes a few white threads off. =Person, is there fruitcake?= We find fruitcake at the North Pole, a seasonal kiosk halfway down the Home Depot arm of the mall. The North Pole also sells ten different flavors of candy canes, boxes of assorted chocolates and Christmas cookies in green foil wrap, marshmallow elves, and fudge tannenbaums. Gene Autrey sings "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" from hidden speakers as an animated Santa and his full complement of reindeer cavort around the circular base of the kiosk. I know itÆs the rooster smell which continues to float up my nose, but I find myself humming along with Gene. The fruitcake is stacked five high in round red tins decorated with scenes of cherry-faced kids building snowmen and wrapped in cellophane. Bjorn takes one off the top and gives it to the rooster. "This is fruitcake," he says. The rooster takes it, turns it over several times, holds it up to the light and then taps a finger against the lid of the tin. =Is hard.= "ItÆs inside." I shake my head, laughing. "You have to open it first." The rooster glances up and down the deserted mall. =There is no pay person.= Bjorn is unwrapping a white chocolate snowman. "DonÆt worry. WeÆll take care of it." =This one pays. That is the habit.= He sets the fruitcake, unopened, back on the counter. =Christmas is. The Kuvat pay.= "No, really...," says Bjorn, but I nudge him in the back just as the rooster begins to eek. "Eeeeeek, eek, eek, eek. Eeeek! " Beneath his translucent skin, the flesh appears to seethe. We can hear a sloshing, like a mop in a bucket of water. The rooster claps a hand to his chest and I see a viscous ooze between stubby fingers. He brings the hand to his mouth and blows on it, once, twice, then opens it and shows us. =Pay.= he says. Bjorn drops his chocolate snowman. Clicking softly on his smooth palm are four green pearls. "What are they?" says Bjorn. =The end of fat,= says the rooster. He offers them to Bjorn. =Person eats?= Of course, I am immediately suspicious of the green pearls. What is the end of fat anyway? What will these things do to the human digestive system? "How many?" BjornÆs face is as soft as cookie dough. "Wait a minute!" IÆm stunned, but I canÆt bring myself to stop it. =The one.= "What was it you said, Maggie?" He smiles at me. "WeÆre not observing anymore. WeÆre part of things now." He accepts a pearl from the rooster. "Thank you. Do I chew?" =Swallow hurry.= "Bjorn!" He pops it into his mouth and itÆs over. I wait for him to keel over and writhe or throw up or maybe even explode, but he just watches me with that goofy smile, which I absolutely understand. Whatever happens is all right, is true, is good. WeÆll both accept it because the world smells so sweet tonight. Bjorn raises his hands over his head like a Sugar Plum Fairy and does a pirouette. When the rooster offers me the green pearls, IÆm not at all tempted. "Thanks." I sweep them onto my hand and pocket them. "But I think IÆll save these for breakfast." The roosterÆs eyes glitter for a moment and go dim. =One,= he says. =Share.= He turns to the North Pole and retrieves his fruitcake. The rooster wants to eat the cellophane wrapping but we talk him out of it. When we pry the top off the tin, he eeks and drops it. =Not Christmas!= The cake is still in the bottom half of the tin; it rolls toward the Playbot store. =Fruitcake stinks!= He starts hopping up and down on one foot. =Stinks like a lie.= "IÆm sorry," says Bjorn. "Maybe that one was bad. I can get you another." =Take it away!= the rooster says. =Bury it!= "His hour is almost up." I say, "LetÆs get him out of here." But we donÆt get the chance because striding toward us from the food court is Kasaan. A dozen gas-masked followers trot behind. The Kuvat scarecrows have no more in common with our scarecrows than the roosters have with gallus domesticus. We call them scarecrows because theyÆre so gangly and because they wear loud, loose clothes that cover most of their bodies. But nobody who meets a scarecrow ever remembers her wardrobe. What you remember is the impossible head. It looks something like a prize pumpkin, only pumpkins arenÆt rust red or as wrinkled as walnuts. The eyes are like bloodshot eggs and the mouth is full of nightmare teeth, long and curved and pointed. If the scarecrows werenÆt so shy, so polite, so intelligent -- everything that the roosters are not -- they wouldÆve frightened the bejesus out of us. At the sight of Kasaan, the rooster forgets all about the fruitcake and begins to eek furiously. Instinctively Bjorn and I step back. The scarecrow is swooping down on the rooster; IÆve never seen one move so fast. The followers are left scrambling behind. The rooster tenses. He looks as if he wants to run in five directions at once, but canÆt decide which one. "Eek, eeek, eeeek, eeeeek, eeeeeek! " Just before it happens, I realize what IÆm seeing. This isnÆt any meeting. ItÆs an attack: a lion charging a wildebeest, a wolf taking a hare. "Uh-oh," I say, but itÆs good. ItÆs true. The smell has changed everything. Kasaan slams into the rooster, knocking him down. The rooster bounces, rolls and lies, shivering, on his back. His legs pump weakly as Kasaan looms over him. The scarecrow bends to nuzzle the roosterÆs shoulder. He closes his eyes. His eeking is low and wet. The breathless followers catch up. "What is this?" I recognize Balfour. "Oh my god, whatÆs she doing?" KasaanÆs nubbly pink tongue licks between bared teeth at the roosterÆs shoulder. It makes a sound like someone washing hands. "Observe," I say. "But donÆt protect. Not this time." The licking goes on for several moments. Suddenly the teeth pierce the skin and sink deep. The rooster stiffens, but makes no sound. With a quick jerk to one side, Kasaan tears an apple-sized chunk of the roosterÆs flesh away. Her jaws close on the meat -- once, twice, three times -- and then she tilts her head back and swallows. The wound brims with purple blood; Kasaan licks it clean. When the bleeding stops, the scarecrow steps away and stretches luxuriantly. "What tasty information!" She offers a hand to the rooster, who struggles to his feet. "You have seen most deliciously." "I have a theory," whispers Bjorn, "about how these reports are made..." But he doesnÆt get to elaborate because Kasaan comes up to him. "What that one gave you," the scarecrow says, "is the egg of a vuot, a worm that will grow over the years in your intestines." Bjorn turns the color of eggnog. "How do you know about that?" I say. "I ate those memories," says Kasaan. "Now the vuot is a beneficial parasite that all Kuvat share. It will filter toxins and regulate your metabolism and prolong your life. You need not worry about side effects. Indeed, I believe you will be most happy with your relationship with the vuot over the coming centuries." I pat my pocket to make sure the pearls -- vuot eggs -- are still there. Kasaan notices this and bows apologetically. "What has happened, is and is for the good. But there is something that has not yet happened, which I must unfortunately prevent from happening." I can guess whatÆs coming. "We bought them from him," I say. "We paid." "Maggie, a fruitcake is not the price of immortality," says Kasaan gently. =Fruitcake stinks.= says the rooster. =Person lies.= His wound has already healed. "IÆm afraid I must insist." The scarecrow lays a hand on my shoulder. =Better not cry. Tell me why.= I know she means me no harm. So does the rooster, Bjorn, Balfour, and all the followers. IÆm going to give her the eggs. Maybe later weÆll find out what the right price for them is. As far as IÆm concerned, the situation is under control. But itÆs not my mall. "Get your hands off her!" It happens so fast. Santa comes from somewhere behind the followers. No one sees him until he goes airborne. HeÆs spry for an old man, clipping Kasaan at the waist and spinning him around. The eggs go flying out of my hand and splatter on the floor. Santa and the scarecrow fall in a heap. "Monster!" screams Santa. "Get out of my mall!" HeÆs got his hands around the scarecrowÆs neck. We swarm over to pull them apart but weÆre a millisecond too late. Kasaan bites down hard on SantaÆs bicep. She tears off a mouthful of muscle and some red felt rags. Perhaps itÆs instinct that makes her swallow. "Ahhh!" Blood spurts. Santa faints. The scarecrow picks herself up slowly, licking the blood off her lips. "Kasaan, I am so sorry," says Balfour, her voice muffled by the gas mask. "I thought we had secured the area." Kasaan stares thoughtfully at her. "He is a senior." "Old, yes," she says. "Poor thing probably doesnÆt know what heÆs doing." "This is how you treat your elders?" "What do you mean?" "We have made a terrible mistake," says Kasaan. "I wish to return to the ship immediately." =And a happy New Year,= says the rooster, as he follows the scarecrow out. Three days later, the Kuvat starship takes off. They have yet to return. Barbara Balfour, Undersecretary of Alien Affairs, resigns in February, after taking a merciless pounding in the media and both houses of Congress. In March she signs a contract to write Who Lost the Kuvat?, which presents her side of what happened. Although sales are disappointing, the vein in her temple stops throbbing. Bjorn Lipponen loses one hundred and fifty pounds in six months. Two years after The Incident, as it comes to be called, he is named one of the twenty-first centuryÆs Hundred Most Sexy Men. Later, he becomes a noted futurist. His book, The Road to Eternity, is in its eighteenth printing. Nobody knows quite what to do with Lester Rand, the demented Santa. There is considerable sentiment for charging him in the World Court with crimes against humanity. But who can say what will happen if the Kuvat come back and find out that we punished the messenger instead of accepting the message? In his later years, he writes a childrenÆs book, Reindeer in the Mall, which is optioned by Fox and made into a full length computer animated cartoon. I am never going to write a book. IÆm not going to live forever There are a lot of theories about what caused The Incident. Some want to blame me for insulting the rooster, even though what I said was only the truth. Others say that it is humanityÆs fault for mistreating the Lester Rands of the world. Many former Kuvat chasers maintain that when Kasaan digested the information he bit off Rand, he saw into the dark soul of Homo sapiens sapiens and was repelled. I guess everyone has a theory. HereÆs mine. It was the fruitcake.