Again, faced with the ignorance of the humans, I cite the Gubernatorial Decision, accepting that response as an affirmative, and continue with the procedure.
“In this case,” I intone, “as in all cases of this nature, the final decision on the Injustices will be made by the Wiwendian.” I add for the humans, “the Wi-wendian is what you have casually heard us refer to as ‘the bag.’ It is, instead, the true Injustice Collector, in that it feeds on such violations, needing them to survive. We feed the Collector, so that it and its people will not create new Injustices, simply for the sake of devouring them. In stating this old truth, I remind us all of the oaths we have taken to maintain Justice in our universe.”
I place my remaining hands on the bag, and undo the knot I tied in its opening. “Do you accept these Injustices?”
There is a whooshing, and the bag turns a light lavender. The Injustices white and blue, swirl away from the Requesting Party and the Bystanding Party. For a moment, I believe I see something red near the Non-Requesting Party, but the redness vanishes.
The bag accepts the Injustices and then fades to its normal color. I place the bag beneath the Decision Desk once more, and declare the proceedings complete.
But the proceedings do not exactly end. I add these events as an addendum to my report:
“That’s it?” the John Graf asks. “You ask a silly question of a bag and then it changes color and we get to go? That s all that happens? We spent months of our lives here for that?”
The time reference confirms yet again the MugwL’s impression of time differences between the humans and our various species. More study will be needed to ascertain if this is, indeed, a fact.
“Yes,” I tell the human. “The Proceeding has ended.”
“But nothing has changed,” the John Graf says.
“On the contrary. The Wiwendian—we—have taken the known Injustices from this world. The slate is clean. You may begin again.”
“Begin what?” the other human asks. “Our children are gone. We’ve gotten no satisfaction here. You let those people—those murderers get away with feeding our kids to their pod thingies.”
I signal my Collectors-in-Training. “I have done
my work according to the laws and customs of our Alliance. I have responded to the Requesting Party, brought the Wiwendian, and collected Injustices. If you perceive any violations, you may bring them up with the Review Board.”
I have, of course, added this for the humans’ benefit. It is more explanation than I usually offer after a decision has been rendered.
I feel the humans’ displeasure and empathize with it, but even they must realize that nothing brings back lost lives.
That, perhaps, is the ultimate Injustice, but one so common that the bag usually rejects it.
“My assistants will explain how to file your petitions with the Review Board,” I say as I open the doors to the Great hall. The rush of cool air is marvelous. “But not in here.”
The Collectors-in-Training usher the humans out, but they are not the ones that stop at the doors. The MugwL do, and as they do, they let out their own sounds of fear and displeasure.
I rise, peering over their heads.
In the distance, smoke rises from the MugwL village. Too much smoke, accompanied by leaping flames.
The John Graf looks upset. Me puts his arms around the “children” and leads them outside.
But the other human, the vocal one, stops, turns, and looks at me, not the MugwL. I do not know human expressions, but this one seems, in some way frightening—the raised eyebrows, the half-contained amusement.
“On my world,” he says, “when systems break down, only one kind of justice remains. We call it street justice.”
And then he leaves.
The MugwL cry and wail, claiming their village is gone. My Collectors-in-Training still usher them out, and finally close the door.
I am alone, except for the bag. The bag that wants to collect these Injustices, in a Preliminary fashion, to save us a trip.
If my bag is any indication, the Wiwendians are becoming dissatisfied with our agreement to feed and house them in exchange for controlling their somewhat destructive talents. But that is an aside.
I would have refused its request on principle—one finished Proceeding is enough for any Collector—but principle is not my real reason for saying no.
I say no because I do not want to preside over another Proceeding involving humans. Too messy, too many chances for mistakes.
The red floating above them as the bag collected the Injustices disturbs me. Red is usually the color of violation. The Injustices from the MugwL and the “children” were not red.
The humans have a rawer, more passionate sense of Injustice than we do.
There is already so much Injustice in the Alliance that we barely maintain our hold on the Wiwendians. My Wiwendian already finds the human sense of Injustice attractive. Other Wiwendians will as well.
The humans will give the Wiwendians too much power.
Together, they will destroy everything.
And I fear that, after this Proceeding, they have already started.
CREATURE FOR HIRE
by Paul L. Martens
I WAS ALONE. And if you’ve never been the only one of your kind on a world of billions, then you don’t know what being alone is. I was a monster, shunned and unwanted, with no place in the universe.
Morty was on the phone, confirming that assessment. “I’m sorry, E, I just can’t get you another movie.” Morty was my agent. “I mean, face it, you can’t act.”
“But, Morty, I’m an alien. Christ, I’m The Alien, the only one on the whole damned planet. There’s got to be something.” It occurred to me that my apartment was too big. It seemed to be getting bigger every day. And when I considered the rent vis-a-vis my bank account balance, the place was huge.
“The novelty’s worn off, kiddo. I’m surprised it lasted for four movies. And that last one didn’t really count, just a walk-on in a dream sequence. The point is, people aren’t going to keep paying to see something they’ve already seen, even if he is an alien. I mean, it’s not like you do anything. You’re just there, you know?”
I looked around at the plush carpets, the antique furniture, the paintings that hadn’t been painted by starving artists, things my next place would be lacking.
I caught sight of myself in the gilded mirror across from the couch. My Celtics T-shirt hung loosely from my spindly frame. My head, which I used to think was a perfectly normal head, seemed too big. I blinked silvery lids over my enormous black eyes.
“What about TV?” I asked, knowing that my voice was too high and thin for any hope to live in it.
There was a sigh. “Maybe. The producers of Inter-galactic Battlecruiser have dropped some hints about a guest-villain spot. But they want to pay bupkes. And besides, people know you too well, they won’t buy you as a bad guy.”
“Couldn’t we work on my image a little? You know, play up the Menace-from-Outer-Space angle?”
He didn’t bother to say anything. It was my turn to sigh. What kind of world was this if you couldn’t even depend on xenophobia to make a living?
“How about the lecture tour?”
“Ah, jeez, E, I just can’t sell it. You’ve got nothing to say that people haven’t heard already. You don’t know how your spaceship worked. You don’t know how anything worked. You were a cook’s assistant. You don’t even know where Tethys is.”
Sure, I did. It was somewhere out there, far, far, far away. And I would probably never see it again.
“And anything you did have to say, you gave away for free when you spilled your guts to the Feds and let them record your interrogation. You remember what that did to the sales of your autobiography, don’t you?”