Then, all of a sudden, the unthinkable happens. The human mimesis of an arthropod from another galaxy is shaken by an inarticulate cry of horror and in the next moment melts, blurs, dissolves, until in a matter of ten seconds what was once a fairly attractive Nordic male and later a surprisingly faithful imitation of an Alien insectoid has been reduced to a pulsating mass of formless flesh.
The tension was too much. Jürgen couldn’t control his own nanos. Like too many Contact Specialists of his generation, the result is that he has turned into a quivering aggregate of cells, only barely differentiated into organs and tissues.
He’s fucked and well fucked. I suppose that in Nu Barsa, given enough time, appropriate therapy, hypnotic treatments, nano reprogramming, and other sorts of high-tech black magic, they may be able to return him to a halfway human form. But he won’t be able to trust another nanocontrolled metamorphosis ever again. His life as a condomnaut is over and done with.
Deserved it, the bastard. But now what?
The invisible insectoid monster from beyond our galaxy approaches the pile of flesh that so recently was Jürgen Schmodt, seems to analyze it briefly, then turns toward weepy Yotuel—who lets the creature nowhere near him, jumping up and running away screaming in sheer panic until he almost embeds himself in a wall more than a hundred meters away, white suit blending with white walls.
He’s also out of the picture for good. Just me left. I stand up decisively and approach.
Yes, it’s true. The guys in front don’t have too big a lead if the guys in back run fast and make Contact. Or at least try.
The footprints of the invisible Peroptid show that it’s turning to face me.
I’ve made Contact with insectoids before, a couple of times. There’s no shortage of such species in the Galactic Community. This won’t be as good as my tête-à-tête with the Evita Entity, needless to say, but it’s not like I’m weeping buckets over it, either. Though I’m still worried about the panic that put Jürgen and Yotuel out of action. What’s so horrifying about this creature that both professional condomnauts found its presence unbearable?
I hold my arms prudently in front of me as I walk, until I touch the barrier—which is still invisible, but no longer solid; it’s more like a liquid now. After hesitating briefly, knowing that as soon as I cross through I’ll see the Peroptid, I cross it in a single long stride.
Then I see it. And smell it. Shangó, Obbatalá, and La Virgen del Cobre.
All I can do is laugh.
With its small head, composite eyes, long antennae, its anterior thorax perpendicular to the floor, freely swinging its long front legs as it sways on its three posterior pairs of legs, which it keeps firmly planted on the whitish gelatinous floor, the feared Peroptid turns out to be sort of an octopod hybrid: half praying mantis, half cockroach.
Except it’s nearly five meters tall and ten meters long. And also—stupid me, I should have guessed it from the colorless interior!—it completely lacks pigmentation. Through its translucent exoskeleton I can see its moving muscles, its digestive system, its lungs….
And its scent is sweet, penetrating, and musky. Quite the monster, isn’t it?
I continue laughing and leave the undifferentiated pile of flesh that once was Jürgen Schmodt behind me.
God does exist, or the gods, or the orishas, and they love me.
What irony! For poor Yotuel, just seeing it was too much. (A childhood trauma? Did some client try to threaten to throw him to the cockroaches if he talked about what they did to him?) For me, this being from the Large Magellanic Cloud is completely, comfortingly familiar. It’s so conveniently reminiscent of Atevi, my albino Periplaneta americana mutantis, champion racer of my childhood in Rubble City, that the very next second, while I continue to move forward, I’m already pulling off my green suit and uncovering one of the hardest erections I’ve had for a Contact in some time.
Not counting the Evita Entity, of course.
I’m a little worried about certain features of insects’ sexual anatomy that I recall. Earth insects, of course; this creature from another galaxy might look very similar to an insect externally, but it’s not necessarily the same at all. After all, it has eight legs. Given its size, it also must breathe with lungs, not tracheal tubes, and it’s got to have an endoskeleton in addition to its exoskeleton to support its weight.
But the exobiologists will sort all that out later. For now, I’m more interested in knowing if it’s a male with some sort of corneous genitalia that I’ll have to allow inside my body—depending on the size and texture of the organ, that could be a bit painful—or a female that I’m supposed to get inside. In that case it could be a relatively easy job, if it’s got a cloaca like it should, or a very complicated one if, as in certain species of bedbugs, it has no sexual orifice at all and the male has to jab its copulatory organ until it manages to perforate the chitinous exoskeleton and spill its sperm.
But that’s all mere details. I haven’t come all this way at such a cost to let trifles such as those stop me. If I need a little lube or a chisel, I’ll use them. Amaya and the automedic can patch me up later on. It’ll have been worth it. Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, eh?
Reacting to my advance, when I’m a few meters away the enormous, translucent Peroptid pivots gracefully and lifts its elytra, braces its front legs against the floor, then opens its back legs wide. An unmistakable invitation. A wet orifice opens before my eyes; I’m one lucky guy, that’s for sure. A female, with a well-lubricated cloaca.
“Humans yes-war, allies yes-Peroptids,” I begin to say, and the corresponding raspy whispers emerge from my translator. “Interested Peroptid engine long-range,” I continue, while thinking: no matter how much it lowers its rump, I’m going to have to stand on a helmet to reach it.
Good thing I still have Jürgen’s with me.
“Welcome to the Clifford Simak Geosynchronic Transit Station,” the flight attendant announces in the syncopated sing-song of a pro accustomed to dealing with travelers and tourists. “Anyone wishing to descend to the planet may do so from the shuttle port. Shuttles leave every quarter of an hour. Those wishing to take advantage of the offerings at our duty-free shops, please speak to our uniformed staff. And to all our passengers, we suggest that you take some time to enjoy the exceptional views of Earth on our panoramic holoscreens.”
Which of course turn on at this precise moment, to spectacular effect. Murmurs of admiration, applause. We humans are still not used to living in space. It always gives you that little flutter in your chest to see your home planet in all its glory from near-Earth orbit.
I even feel it. Really. And I tear up a little. Sheesh.
The unmistakable disk of cloud-veiled blue grabs all the passengers’ attention. Well, almost all. Some would rather stare at me, and I’m not surprised. After making Contact with the extragalactic Peroptid I became the hero of Nu Barsa, of the Catalans, and of all humanity. My face was on the holonews so often that, even after cropping off my hair and growing out the thin beard I wear now, I could still never hope to pass completely unnoticed in a crowd.
I miss my dreadlocks. But lots of things have changed over the past six months.
The hyperjump cruisers Miquel Servet and Salvador Dalí and the frigate Antoni Gaudí returned with all their crews to Nu Barsa two days after making Contact with the Peroptids. Our new pigment-free insectoid allies from the Greater Magellanic Cloud accommodated all three human ships inside their gelatinous hyperspace vehicle and made the jump to the Catalan enclave in a single bound. Like it was our mother ship—or our taxi, as my ironic friend Narcís put it.