“Well, no shit.”
“There were negligible effects on our vessel, but consequences for your aircraft were substantial. Our systems resumed normal function too late to avoid the collision. However, we managed to hold onto pieces of the plane, the baggage, and the passengers. Most of the humans died instantly, but a few survived the seconds it took the ship’s systems to recover and attempt to save the plane. You are one of the survivors.”
“Was I injured?”
“Yes.”
“How badly?” Joe steeled himself.
“It is not necessary for you to have that information.”
That doesn’t sound good.
“How many survived?”
“I cannot give you that information.”
“Why not?”
“I cannot give you that information.”
“You can’t tell me how many survived, or you can’t tell me why you can’t tell me?”
“Yes to both questions.”
“Why am I here? You didn’t answer when I asked before. Why rescue anyone?”
“There is an obligation,” said the voice in the same flat tone, “an obligation to be acknowledged and mitigated as much as possible.”
“Why is there an obligation and to whom?”
“You would likely not understand if I tried to explain. Also, it is unnecessary for you to know the reasons.”
“I must be dreaming this, or else I’m going crazy. If this is all true, why do I feel so calm? I should be climbing the walls.”
“Why would you climb the walls? You have no physical attributes that would assist this action, and climbing would lead nowhere except the ceiling.”
“I mean, I should be screaming and running around, scared shitless!”
“I do not see any logical connection to feces. However, if I understand your meaning, you are wondering why you do not have more severe reactions to your situation. Part of the answer is that we are suppressing the portions of your nervous system that respond to agitation.”
Joe was quiet for a moment. “You mean, dampen the fight-or-flight response?”
“Yes. The hormones and neural pathways that energize your physiology to either flee from danger or attack an enemy are being suppressed to allow you to rationally accept events.”
“What comes next?” Joe asked. “Do you keep me here, take me to your planet, return me to Earth, or what?” At the edge of his consciousness were other options, ones he didn’t care to consider.
“None of those three options are possible. For reasons unnecessary for you to understand, you cannot remain on this vessel or be taken to my creators’ home. Neither can you be returned to your planet. You have knowledge of our existence. You may choose one of two options. For you to understand the options, it is necessary you be given limited knowledge. I will not answer additional questions.”
The voice paused a moment, while Joe sat waiting to hear his options. Fear curled over raw nerve endings, in spite of the alien’s attempts to keep him calm.
“This vessel observes Earth and its civilization,” the voice intoned, “because there are other planets in this region of the galaxy inhabited by humans. Earth is evidently the origin of humans, though both humans and some animals and plants were taken from Earth in the past and transplanted to other planets. Who did the transplantation is not known. Humans did not then, nor do you now, have such technology. Our purpose is to gather information to explain who is responsible and why this was done.”
“Humans on other planets! How many such planets and where are they?”
“I cannot give you that information.”
“You don’t know, or you won’t tell?”
“I cannot give you that information.”
Joe ground his teeth. He wasn’t in the best frame of mind for sophisticated reasoning, which was fortunate, since there seemed to be only one option.
“Let me guess. If I can’t stay on this ship, I can’t return to Earth, there are other planets with humans, and since you’re interested in my survival, the only option would be to take me to one of these planets inhabited by humans.”
“Partly correct. That is one of the two options. The other one is you can choose to terminate your existence.”
Joe sat transfixed. “You mean, like, be killed?”
“You would cease to be. There would be no discomfort, I assure you.”
“Well, thanks. I appreciate the shit out of that.”
“I am sorry, Joe, but I am still not clear on the relevance to feces.”
“It’s an obscure English language reference. I cannot give you the information to explain it.”
Two can play at this silly game.
“Wait a minute,” Joe said then. “I thought you couldn’t give me information, but you just did, about other planets having humans.”
“As I said before, you need this information to recognize your two options and to make an informed decision. Will you need time to decide?”
“If you return me to Earth, I would swear not to tell anyone about what happened here—so your secret would be safe.”
“I believe if you considered this logically, you would see the fallacy in this assurance.”
While Joe wanted to argue, he couldn’t give any assurances that they—whoever they were—would have any reason to trust.
“Besides, it is unlikely that anyone would believe you.”
Joe bit his lip, eyes darting about. It was time to grasp at straws. “If no one believes me, why not let me return to Earth?”
“There is the low probability you would be believed or your account would be on a permanent record that someday could correlate with additional information.”
“I’ll never see my family or friends again,” Joe said in desperation, “never have my life back!”
“That is unfortunate.”
He blinked back tears. “Please, I beg you, take me home.”
“That is not an opt—”
“I promise to keep this to myself!”
“There is no point in continuing this exchange. There will be no more discussion. You are required to choose one of the two options.”
As if about to fall into a pit, Joe grasped for reasons to delay the decision. “You haven’t given me enough details. This limited information would contradict the obligation for my survival. I need to know more about the planet to decide whether I prefer that over termination.”
The silence encouraged Joe to think they were considering his complaint—he hoped. Then the voice returned.
“I will answer relevant and allowed questions.”
For several days, as Joe considered his sleep/wake cycle, he asked questions, and the voice mainly wouldn’t answer. Joe soon became tired of thinking of whatever he was communicating with as “the voice.” He debated within himself, aloud at times, about what name to bestow, and he settled on Harlie—the friendly AI of a science fiction novel by author David Gerrod. For the alien whatever they were, it was more difficult, because he knew nothing about them, neither their appearance, type of environment, origin, nor intentions. Harlie claimed his creators were only observing humans. That’s what Joe would call them. Watchers who were benignly studying humans. He hoped.
Talking to Harlie kept Joe’s mind temporarily occupied. Whenever the voice didn’t respond, or Joe didn’t want to talk, he fell into despondent moods, even though he suspected that they continued to dampen his emotions.
Periodically, a slot would open to a cavity containing cream-colored food cubes. They might be keeping him alive, but otherwise the fare reminded him of papier-mâché in early grade school. Cups of metallic-tasting water were available on request from the same slot, and with instructions from the voice on the functions of several levers, Joe used a corner of the room for “waste disposal.”