Second Stringer

            Vice-President Tom Wilson was largely a figurehead.  President Martinez had needed somebody from the northeast to balance the ticket, and then-Senator Wilson had managed to keep his dick in his pants longer than Governor Sullivan.  Better still, when Wilson did take his dick out of his pants, nobody took a picture of it.  So far, that had been his most significant contribution to both the Martinez campaign and subsequent administration.  So far, Martinez had kept in good enough health that Wilson hadn’t had to sub for him during some surgery or vacation.  Foreign relations were going smoothly enough that he didn’t need to be sent on a goodwill tour anywhere.  He hadn’t even needed to cast a tiebreaker vote; Martinez had such massive coattails that a quarter of the coalition could desert and the majority could still break anything short of a filibuster.  Wilson liked it that way.  Contrary to the People Magazine fluff piece about him, he wasn’t as much of a fan of public service as he was of the perks of the job.  The Naval Observatory had really fast internet, HBO, and a well-stocked fridge.  Since the inauguration, Wilson had been content to simply sit back and enjoy his status as “the spare,” as it were.

            Unfortunately, that had changed when Martinez left for the G7 conference, and the Secretary of Defense had practically dragged Wilson out to his limo, interrupting his Will Smith movie marathon.

            “First what?” Wilson asked, flinching at the natural light he had evaded for so long.  He reflexively adjusted his hairpiece as Secretary MacDuff sighed in disgust, but almost ripped it off when he repeated what he had said.

            “First contact, sir,” he said, enunciating in such a way that Wilson understood that sir actually meant worthless shitbag.  “Madam President has been informed, but unless we wish to let the rest of the world know we have an alien—and we certainly do not wish for that event—she will not be back for at least twenty-four hours.  You are the next best thing.  You,” MacDuff looked over at Wilson, whose hairpiece had halfway come off and had pizza stains all over his House Stark t-shirt and plaid boxer shorts, shuddering, “…you must convey the strength of America, of the human race, to this visitor.”

            Wilson blinked, completely stunned.  The limo took a turn, and the Vice-President swayed with the momentum of the car, like jello.  It was as though he literally had no backbone.  “Who else is going to be there,” he stuttered.  “I…I can delegate.”

            “General Holdeas has a SEAL team on standby,” MacDuff said, “the science team are trying to figure out if it’s got any space-germs, and the Secretary of State is en route in another limousine.  But you cannot delegate this one, sir.”  He slapped Wilson on the back, hard, likely a gesture meant to snap Wilson out of his stupor.  Instead, Wilson threw up on the floor of the limousine.  “Christ, man,” Macduff shouted, “you are in charge here! Get ahold of yourself!”

            “Ugh.”  Wilson wiped his lips on the shoulder of his shirt.  His face looked clean, but his mouth still tasted like fear and regurgitated pizza rolls.  “I…I was just watching Independence Day when you came in.  There’s a scene, where they think the alien is dead, and it just kills everyone and, and snakes inside of somebody—“

            “You can tell me your dumb story later,” MacDuff said.  “We’re here.”  The limousine had stopped in front of an alleyway.  Dazed, Wilson followed MacDuff out of the car, stopping in front of a dumpster.  “Is anyone coming down the alleyway?” MacDuff asked.

            Wilson, terrified, threw up again.  MacDuff grunted in disgust, deciding that the lack of people running to snap a picture of the Vice-President ralphing was answer enough to his question.  He opened the dumpster and knocked “shave-and-a-hair-cut” onto the inside.  “Two-bits” clanged back, and the dumpster creaked as it slid aside, revealing a camouflaged door in the brick wall of the alleyway.  It silently swung open as MacDuff and Wilson walked through, sealing shut behind them as the dumpster moved back into place.

            “You should be glad these are the circumstances you’re seeing this place,” MacDuff said.  The pair shuffled into a small elevator, which lurched quickly down level after level of concrete and asphalt.  “Normally, we’d only be here if the nukes had been fired and Airforce One had been shot down.”

            “Forgive me if I’m not…enthusiastic.” Wilson groaned, and instantly MacDuff had a hand at his throat.  “DON’T YOU THROW UP IN HERE! I won’t be able to dodge and the ventilation is very poor!”

            In the nick of time, the elevator doors silently opened, and the two spilled out to an anxious crowd.  General Holdeas stood behind six bipedal figures more body-armor and assault rifle than man, likely the SEAL team.  Secretary of State Kowalski was in a heated discussion with a group of men and women in lab coats, one of which was wearing a HAZMAT suit.  Wilson decided to repress the major cause of concern for now, and focus on a more immediate problem: who would be most likely to punch him if he were to throw up again (he was running on empty at this point, but better safe than sorry.)  MacDuff had come very close in the elevator, and besides that Wilson had never particularly liked MacDuff to begin with.  The SEAL team looked ready to plant some satchel charges and be done with it, and General Holdeas didn’t seem too much more composed based on his frustrated foot-tapping.  Kowalski and the scientists seemed like a safe bet, and the people he was most likely to pawn off his job to.  He approached Kowalski from behind, tapping her on the shoulder.  “Jennifer, what is going on—“

            Suddenly, Wilson was flat on his back.  His forehead felt wet and warm.  He touched his hand to it and gasped; it came back red.  “I’m sorry, Wilson,” he heard Jennifer say, as she and the HAZMAT scientist hoisted him up by his shoulders.  “You snuck up on me, I’m a little stressed out, and the self-defense lessons kicked in.  You,” she pointed at one of the SEALs, “go get him a bandage for his head. And while you’re at it, something less…casual he can wear.”

            The SEAL nodded and trotted off.  In the meantime, Wilson clasped the cut Kowalski’s ring had left on his forehead, and finally got around to asking some questions.  “What’s happening?”

            “The science team says it just…appeared in a flash of light,” Kowalski said.  “They managed to lock it in the employee lounge.  It smashed the pinball machine and passed out, and they were able to get some readings.”

            “I can take it from here,” a muffled voice said.  The HAZMAT scientist stepped forward and grasped Wilson’s hand.  “Irwin Umeda, loved your speech at the DNC last year.”

            “Thanks,” Wilson said, “I wrote it myself.”  He felt reassured; he could still lie under pressure.

            “Anyway, I managed to find out all kinds of things.  For starters…”

            Wilson was never a good listener, especially when he had a head injury and especially when it came from somebody he considered boring.  He let most of Umeda’s words fly by his head, things like “arthropod, “dislikes Spider-Man 3 Pinball,” and “claw PSI of at least 1200,” but he managed to grasp a few key pieces of information.  The alien had arrived completely sterilized, with no foreign microbes that could potentially cause an epidemic, and it seemed completely resistant to our common bacteria.  It couldn’t speak, but it seemed intelligent, and able to communicate through crude pantomime.  And when the scientists had shown it a chart of the US chain of command, it had grown very excited at Wilson’s picture, gesturing wildly.  “Frankly, sir,” Umeda concluded, just as the SEAL returned with a first-aid kit and a spare labcoat, “I don’t think it would see President Martinez even if she was here.  It wants to see you.”

            “Are you absolutely sure it was my photo that got it so excited?” Wilson shrugged on the lab coat as the SEAL hastily bandaged his forehead, wiping blood off of his face.  “The Speaker of the House is near me on the chain, maybe it was reacting to him.”
            “We showed it separate pictures of the first thirty people in line for the presidency if something should happen to Martinez, after a picture of Martinez didn’t elicit a response,” Umeda said, taking Wilson by the hand and bringing him down a hallway.  “It didn’t react to any picture except for yours.  You’re the only one it wants to talk to.”

            “Um,” was all Wilson could muster in response.

            “I might get in trouble for this—the Secretary of State and the General wanted to brief you on a few things, but they’d just tell you to be friendly and scary at the same time, so who needs that—but I’m just too excited.  First contact!” Umeda was bouncing from foot to foot, giddy with joy.  This normally would have been endearing, but in a HAZMAT suit, it was terrifying and alien.  “I’m going to get you in there right now.  There’s an intercom, and recording devices in the room, so we’ll be able to coach you on the situation.  Good luck, and don’t worry! As far as I can tell, these things don’t have a sense of smell!”

            With that, Umeda opened a door on his right, shoved Wilson inside, and closed it behind him.  Wilson heard a small click as it swung shut and knew he was locked inside.  Nothing but the smoking remains of a pinball machine stood between him and the alien.

            Had he listened more closely to Umeda, Wilson would have known that the alien was a towering seven feet tall, and resembled something of a crab-turtle hybrid.  But hearing about its hard, segmented body, soft, pink grabber-appendages, and massive, sharp walking legs was very different from seeing them.  Likewise with the “face:” Wilson could have paid attention to Umeda’s description of the triangular head, the massive compound eyes, and the slimy mandibles the size of bananas, but it still wouldn’t have prepared him for the reality that he had to talk to this thing.

            “Wilson!” The Vice President jumped.  Somebody was talking to him over the intercom.  “Wilson, this is Kowalski.  It’s very important that you—“ She was interrupted, and only the sounds of fumbling and scuffling came through the intercom.  Eventually, Kowalski’s voice returned.  “It is imperative that, yes, you show our strength, but also that you be friendly.  Introduce yourself.”

            Wilson shakily stepped over the pinball machine.  He was now only three feet away from the alien’s face.  “Wilson,” he said, pointing at himself.  “Tom Wilson.  Tom.  Wilson. Wil-son.”  He pointed at the alien.  “You…?”

            “Gurp,” the alien belched.

            “Gurp?”

            “Guuurp.”

            Wilson turned towards the intercom.  “I think its name is Gurp.”

            “Wilson, there’s cameras and microphones all over this room, you don’t have to turn to look at the loudspeaker.”  This time, it was General Holdeas speaking.  “Assert your—just, just let me finish—assert your dominance diplomatically.  Shake its hand, really firmly.  Don’t be the first one to let go.”

            “I, uh, I really don’t want to do that, general.”

            “You also don’t want to go down in history as the man who ruined our first encounter with aliens.”

            Wilson was actually perfectly fine with that.  He could probably get a book deal out of it, live in a nice house.  But he knew that the General and the Secretaries currently controlled the only way out of the break room.  He wished he had gloves.

            “Uh, shake?” Wilson extended his hand.  Gurp just stared.

            “Grab his hand!” the intercom shrieked.

            Hyperventilating, Wilson forced himself to grab one of Gurp’s massive, three-fingered appendages.  It felt like pre-packaged turkey slices.  Suddenly, Gurp moved, shaking Wilson off of its arm.  It thrust its chest forward, where part of its shell retracted.  A smaller grabbing appendage emerged, this one with four fingers.  It reached out towards Wilson’s hand, grabbing it.  This one was warm and dry, and it pulsated.

            Wilson and Gurp held hands for ten minutes, neither moving.  Occasionally Wilson’s mind would wander to happier times, like Will Smith punching an alien in the face and saying “welcome to Earth,” or his recent trip to Chipotle.  But then he’d remember that he was holding hands with a crab-monster and he’d start to cry.  For its part, Gurp squeezed Wilson’s hand tightly, but didn’t react in any other way.

            Finally, exactly ten minutes and fifty-four seconds after Gurp grabbed Wilson’s hand, it released him.  Wilson jumped back at least three feet, unwittingly avoiding Gurp’s retching.  The alien spewed a bright pink, sparkly fluid all over the floor from its mandibles.  It smelled like marshmallows.

            “It could be a diplomatic ritual, Wilson,” Kowalski said over the intercom.  “Can…can you respond in kind?”

            “Way ahead of you,” Wilson groaned, dry heaving.  Before he could find out if he had anything left inside of him to spew, there was a bright flash of light, and Gurp was gone.  In its place was another alien of its species, only wearing some kind of shimmering blue armor over most of its body.   “GET ME OUT OF HERE!” Wilson shrieked, running for the door.

            “It’s quite all right, Tom Wilson,” the new alien said.  “You won’t be able to open the door because you haven’t moved at all.  I beamed Bob back to the ship, beamed down for a fraction of a second to talk to you, then left.  We communicate telepathically; this is all happening in your mind.”

            Something about the alien’s voice, a natural-sounding mixture of his grandmother, the sound of waves gently hitting the shore, and Jim Dale, calmed Wilson down.  He backed away from the door, moving back towards…”Wait,” he asked, “what’s your name?”

            “Bill.”

            “And Gurp’s name was Bob?”

            “Yes.”

            “I’m no expert, “ Wilson said, “but I don’t think those are actually your names.”

            “No,” Bill said.  “But they will suffice.  My real name is,” and suddenly the room was a hive of sound, buzzing and echoing laughter and thunderclaps.

            “BILL! STOP IT!” Wilson yelled, covering his ears.

            The room was instantly silent again.  “Shall I show you what Bob’s real name is?”
            “No! No, that won’t be necessary.”  With new information in hand, Wilson suddenly realized he had a lot of questions about his previous encounter.  “Why was Bob saying “Gurp” instead of…its?”

            “His.”

            “His real name? And why are you wearing armor?”

            Bill squirmed awkwardly.  “Yes, er, about that.  These are clothes.  Technically a uniform.  Bob and I work for a…hang on, let me scan your mind for a proper analogue…” Bill was silent, suddenly perking up after a moment.  “Pizza delivery! Yes! That’s the closest match.  I work for a pizza delivery company.  In space.”

            “Why wasn’t Bob wearing a uniform?”

            “Ah.  Well, in our part of the galaxy, there are crystals we call Eon Gems.  These Eon Gems were formed in the birth of the universe; they’re shiny and beautiful and as old as creation itself.  Bob smashed one of them up and ate the dust, hoping to intoxicate himself.  It worked very well.”

            “So that’s why he threw up?” Wilson was relieved; this, he could relate to.

            “No.  He didn’t throw up.”  Despite the massive gulf in body language between their species, Wilson could tell that Bill was extremely uncomfortable.  It was something about the way his baseball-sized eyes were twitching.  “See, Bob was…engaged, that’s the term! Engaged to another one of our species, until she left him last night.  This is her name.” Again, the room erupted in sound: the dull roar of rushing water, sharp wooden snaps, and some kind of engine revving up.  As the sounds faded, one final, distinct sound reverberated through the room: a long, bass belch.

            It sounded like guuuuurp.

            “Oh no,” Wilson said.

            “I’m afraid so.  Bob’s ex-fiancé, let’s call her Gurp, had a birthmark that resembles your hairpiece.  In his desperate, sad intoxication, he must have confused the two of you.”

            “But she’s a crab bug lady!”

            “Eon Gems are very strong.”

            “Oh no.”  Wilson sunk to his knees.  He was having trouble breathing.  “Does…does that mean that long arm I held…that was…”

            “No! No no no.  Nothing so crude,” Bill said, gingerly stroking Wilson with a meaty appendage, only to knock off his hairpiece.  “We are telepathic; we have recreational sex with our minds.  He was simply calibrating his fertilization fluid,” Bill gestured to the pink goo that covered much of the floor, “to your DNA.  It should be harmless.  Potent fertilization fluid is orange, not pink; that indicates the DNA is incompatible.  Still, I would burn your clothes.”

            Wilson felt a little better.  “Okay then.  I’ll get one of those SEAL guys to flamethrower this entire room.”

            “Good.”  Bill started shimmering bright gold.  “I’ll be going then.  Sorry to have disturbed you, Tom Wilson.”

            “Wait!” Wilson scrambled to his feet.  “This is real first contact!”

            “No, it isn’t,” Bill said gently, glowing brighter.  “Your species is too primitive to form diplomatic relations within the Greater Galactic Community.  You keep killing each other and you make the same mistakes over and over again. You don’t even use your poop as fuel; you just…leave it lying around.  Farewell.”

            With that, Bill vanished.  Suddenly, the doors burst open.  The SEALs were taking positions in the room as Kowalski ran in and dragged Wilson out.  “What happened in there, Wilson,” she asked.  “Where did the alien go? Did you learn anything?” Wilson started moving, and Kowalski’s eyes went wide with shock.  “And why on Earth are you taking off your clothes?”

            “They have to be burned,” Wilson said, flinging each article through the doorway behind him, “along with that entire room.  Don’t let any of the SEALs touch the pink goo, or they might get pregnant.”

            Kowalski was looking at him like he was crazy, but Wilson had never felt so grounded, so motivated, in his entire life.  He finally had something useful to contribute to the world.  He had a purpose.  “Somebody get me on the phone with the president,” he said, tossing his sweat-soaked boxer shorts aside.  “She needs to tell everyone to start shitting into their gas tanks.”