The upshot is, if Evita Vargas had survived to become a full-grown woman, she would have looked a lot like this extragalactic goddess.
Two and two make four. The creatures who control this ship, whether from the Milky Way or beyond, must be telepaths. A good thing, too. No matter how sophisticated the translation software behind my earplugs is (one of the few points of pride for our none-too-advanced human technology), it only works with known languages.
Oh, for the miraculous automatic translators that ancient science fiction writers used to depict. One of those would come in so handy for us condomnauts!
Apparently, just as they knew I breathe oxygen, these Aliens were able to extract the image of my childhood friend from my mind. And the speed with which they molded this adult version of her indicates that they’re either natural shape-shifters or incredible biotech experts. As if the door and the entire ship don’t already prove as much.
The situation isn’t entirely unheard of: five years ago, the Pravda Pobeda, a neo-Russian scouting ship from the planet Rodina, made Contact with the Guzoids, colonizing polyps from a dark planet in a globular cluster in Radian 56, Quadrant 12. Near the equatorial constellation Sextans, I think. I don’t quite recall whether Guzoids used spherical ships (in any case, the ship the Russians encountered must not have been as huge as this one, or they’d have made a note of it in their report). I do remember, though, that the uterus of the only sexed individual in the nest, the “queen,” proved to be the most sophisticated genetic splicer yet discovered: it rapidly created several specialized individuals for making Contact that were such perfect imitations of humans that no one could have told them apart from us at first glance. And it did so just by looking, before gaining access to our precious DNA, a doubly impressive feat.
I figure the Russian condomnaut must have gone to town on that Contact, if he was lucky enough to get a partner even half as divine as this Alien pseudo-Evita standing now before me.
“No, Josué Valdés, we aren’t extragalactic, nor are we the Guzoid polyps from Sextans you’re thinking of. We haven’t met them yet. But we have made Contact with a Qhigarian worldship that visited our home planet. They were the ones who sold us the Taraplin hyperengine that allowed us to reach this planet, along with a few facts about their species and others that are actively exploring the galaxy at this moment. That is the reason we did not come completely unequipped to this Contact.” The contralto voice reaching me through the headphones in my suit is the sort of voice an angel must have, if angels exist: musical, melodious, at once innocent and sensual, with an accent that reminds me of the best of my childhood in CH.
And it’s undoubtedly the voice Evita would have had, if she had grown up. At least, so far as I can remember. Maybe they’re only partial telepaths, telereceivers, since so far they haven’t sent me their thoughts, preferring to speak to me.
“No, we are in fact complete telepaths. And we are not bothered by jokes about us: obviously, we already have heard them all. In fact, we find the concept rather interesting. But we will discuss that, and many other things, we hope, later.
“But now we fear you will not be able to understand our thoughts. You can take off your helmet, however, Josué Valdés. Don’t be afraid; as you have guessed, we picked up on your respiratory needs and have therefore modified the atmosphere around you. The air does not have any type of bacteria, virus, prion, or other pathogen that might harm your bodily functions, not even if your immune system were compromised.”
Wow, really good telepaths. They’re learning too much about us.
Every condomnaut facing a First Contact does so with a few little extra layers of protection. First, an immune system amped to the max. We stimulate our natural ability to repel infectious agents to such a degree, using biopharmaceuticals, that no bacteria can even survive in our intestines unless it shares at least 10 percent of our DNA.
It’s a little uncomfortable, to be sure. Especially at first, with the constant diarrhea. But after a while you get used to it, and it’s pretty reassuring to know you can reject almost any Alien parasite or pathogen that might make its way into your body without resorting to other drugs.
The second layer of protection is a little device we call the Countdown. The way it works is more or less incomprehensible for a layman like me, though for a change our human physicists have a better understanding of it than they do of hyperjump travel. This ingenious Algolese invention protects our valuable genetic heritage from being copied or stolen. When activated, it emits imperceptible ultrasonic vibrations that synchronize within an hour with the bearer’s biofield, in such a way that the DNA of any cell that strays out of range will degrade in a matter of seconds.
This means that the vast majority of Contact Specialists use the device (some species can’t withstand ultrasound waves and have to use other systems, which I don’t know enough about to describe) so that they won’t stay up at night worrying that the Aliens they make Contact with will get their hands on their most valuable treasure, the most treasured aspect of any species: their genetic code. Because if Aliens get your DNA, they can manipulate it (at least in theory) in the sort of unethical ways the Qhigarians are said to have used long ago to create entire slave-clone races.
Worn as a collar, the ultrasound transmitter has become the hallmark of my profession. In fact, one of the many theories circulating about the origins of the humorous nickname everybody calls us by is that it comes from the pronunciation of the English word Countdown as we hispanicized it: countdown, coundóun, condón, “condom.”
Contact Specialists: condom-nauts.
Personally, I find this hypothesis is as good as any other. As an Italian might say, se non è vero, è ben trovato. More or less: “maybe it’s not true, but it makes a good story.”
Anyway, they call us condomnautas. Maybe it sounds better in Spanish. But the truth is, it’s all talk: things have changed a little since the day Quim Molá pulled on a real condom, and nowadays we usually make Contact without any physical protection other than our own skin. No rubbers. What sense does it make? After all, nobody worries about getting pregnant from “sleeping” with an Alien.
“Thanks,” I say to my statuesque counterpart, keeping it short (words aren’t really necessary when you’re dealing with a complete telepath). I open the valve on my helmet before taking it off and for the first time breathe in the Alien air—which indeed proves to be completely odorless. They understand our respiratory parameters as well as we do ourselves.
I’m starting to get over my disappointment about missing the huge bonus I would have made for making First Contact with extragalactic Aliens. I lost the bonus, but today is still my lucky day. A humanoid! Miss Human Sphere! What a babe! And she looks like Evita, too—a childhood erotic fantasy made real. I’m one lucky guy. Who cares if she’s not a real human, when I’ve got such a fantastic Contact waiting for me?
Well, I care, of course. If she really were human, I wouldn’t be able to function, either as a Contact Specialist or as a man. That’s the cross I bear, and at the same time it’s the best thing I have going for me and the source of my greatest talent.
Naturally, nobody on the Gaudí knows this, and nobody in Nu Barsa either except for jolly old Narcís Puigcorbé. But I can count on his discretion, whether or not he finally retires this year.