We Are You

by Jack Phillips Lowe

part 5 of 6

It was a weird feeling. Like in school, when there’s a certain seat you take in a particular classroom all the time. One day, you walk into that classroom and find someone else sitting in your seat. It was that kind of feeling. I stood up, simply because I couldn’t bear to sit any longer and hear what he was telling me. I stood up and paced back and forth, running my fingers through my sweaty hair.

“Wait a minute, Bud, that’s not fair!” I said, my voice rising in anger. I felt myself getting pissed off and I really didn’t know why.

Bud remained in his chair, the dictionary definition of aloof. “Why, I do believe I’ve touched a nerve.”

“Cut the bull! You people can’t stay here! Earth’s ours and we haven’t a bed to spare! No vacancies!”

Bud pushed down another cuticle. “‘You people.’” He shook his head and tsk-tsked me. “How quick the old defense mechanisms return! Earth is yours? Says who?”

He had me there, so I just played it tough. “You think we’re going to let you cruise on down here and move in, all smooth and easy like? Guess again! We’ll ‘Independence Day’ your asses right back to R Planet!” I did Jackie Gleason’s old “Bang! Zoom!” move for emphasis. Quite dramatic, I thought.

“If you’ve been listening closely, you wouldn’t be angry or worried at all. Why do you think we’ve been watching Earth for so long?”

“For the infomercials. How should I know?”

“I was chosen for this mission because, like you said, I seem ‘almost human.’ Yet, I’m considered average back on R Planet. Think, Quiz. How can I be representative of both worlds?”

I realized I looked ridiculous on my feet, buzzing around the room like my little brother does when he’s had too much Mountain Dew. I sat back down and rubbed my eyes, hoping to avert the throbbing headache brewing behind them. “Jesus God, I’m sick of puzzles! Spit it out already!”

“I apologize for taking the gradual approach. I know it can be maddening, but I had to do it this way. It’s gentler. If I sprang the details on you all at once, you could have a total melt-down, like that astronaut in ‘2001’ after he flies into the big black brick.”

I looked at him. “You figured you’d ease me into a melt-down, instead? Thanks very much, Bud, but I’m a lot tougher than I look. Let’s can the ‘gradual approach’ and get down to the bottom line. What’s the point, the big bombshell you were easing me into?”

Bud rested his chin on the ball of his hand. “Listen now. I’m representative of both worlds because we are you.”

I wrote that down and read it back to him. “‘We are you.’ Is that right?”

“Exactly. Do you understand?”

“The sentence, yes. You, no.”

Bud grabbed my pen and spiral. He flipped the notebook over and started doodling on a clean page. “Quiz, do you recall the stuff you learned in school about evolution?” he asked, scribbling.

“Not really. I hated science.”

“Good, because it’s hogwash. Oh, your scientists were in the neighborhood of the truth, but like the brontosaurus, they slapped the bones together wrong and botched the whole shebang. Humans have a knack for that.”

Bud finished with the pen and spiral and handed them back to me. He had covered the page with two simple drawings. On the top half of the paper, he’d sketched a large circle and labeled it “R Planet.” To the right of the circle, he wrote an equal sign. To the right of the equal sign, he’d drawn a stick-figure man labeled “Us.” On the bottom half of the paper, Bud had reproduced an identical circle and stick-figure man, also divided by an equal sign. These were labeled “Earth” and “You,” respectively. An arrow ran down the right side of the page from the “Us” to “You” stick-figure men. Another ran up the left side of the page, from the “Earth” circle to the “R Planet” circle. Those were pretty good circles, considering he hadn’t used a compass or anything.

“Eons and eons ago,” said Bud, “one of our ships landed on Earth. At that time, Earth was crawling with the creatures you call Neanderthals. We call them Mahbs.”

I turned back to the page I’d been writing on. “Spell it.”

“M-A-H-B, pronounced M-O-B. It’s actually an acronym for ‘mean and hungry bastard.’”

“Explain,” I asked. He had me going again, if only to see where he went.

“The idea was to establish a colony on Earth in order to prevent overpopulation on R Planet. We’re pacifists, mostly, and tried to make nice with the Mahbs. They responded to our peaceful overtures by killing and eating us. Thus, the acronym.”

“That makes sense,” I lied, writing. “What do you guys call yourselves? You never said.”

“Ourselves? Olfs. O-L-F.”

“Another acronym.”

“Yeah. ‘Ordinary life form.’ Don’t wrinkle your nose at me, kid. So we’re not poets. Function is key.”

“All right, we’ve got Mahbs and Olfs. Where do humans figure into this scene?”

“You wouldn’t have, if not for one halfassed Olf who happened to be an ancestor of mine.”

“No way.”

“Yep. My great-to-the-thousandth-power-uncle.”

I pondered that for a minute. “You lost me.”

He pointed at my spiral. “Instead of writing ‘great’ a thousand times, spare your wrist and use integers. My great¹⁰⁰⁰-uncle.”

“You’re lucky I took Algebra — well, Intro to Algebra. What was your uncle’s name?”

Bud did the wine-taster thing with his cup of soy milk again. “Beats me. Mom always called him Uncle Screwy.”

I’d stopped judging by this time and simply wrote it down.

“Uncle Screwy was a member of our initial expedition to Earth. At some point, he spotted a female Mahb he took a liking to.”

“Her name?”

Bud brushed a wisp of hair out of his eyes. “Please. The female Mahb didn’t have a name. If she did, it was probably Oog or Uggh or something.”

“Hold on. I can see where you’re heading and I won’t follow you there. It’s insane.”

“To a closed mind, perhaps. The truth often resembles insanity at first glance. Remember what they said about Newton and Galileo.”

He had a point.

“Uncle Screwy and the Mahb had a baby. A cute little boy, Mom said. He was what your scientists call a Cro-Magnon child. In other words, he was the first modern human being.”

“So the human race,” I said, writing, “is the result of breeding a male Olf with a female Mahb.”

“Females, females. Uncle Screwy was a traveling man.”

I stopped to read over the fantasy I’d transcribed. “Bud, nobody’s going to believe this, let alone publish it.”

“Don’t jump ahead of yourself. You’re a blogger, right? There are no editors to please on the Worldwide Web. We’ll rope in the conspiracy freaks first and then go mainstream. That’s how it works. Why else does California have a state law protecting Big Foot?”

I made a note to myself to check on that. If this guy was a nut, he was an extremely well-informed nut. That’s why I kept listening. It was loony, Twilight Zone stuff. But I couldn’t deny the freaky way in which the pieces all seemed to fit together. “If you say so. Whatever happened to Uncle Screwy? You should build a statue of him, put it in a public park.”

“The Mahbs, per their custom, ate him. The Olfs only recovered one of his legs. They were able to identify it because Uncle Screwy was known to have a clubfoot.”

“What about the Olf Earth colony?”

“After the loss of Uncle Screwy, they packed up and went home. I mean, talk about your bad neighborhoods. Over the years, though, we kept an eye on you all. Despite your mongrel pedigree, you’re still Olf progeny.”

“Which is why you Olfs think you’re entitled to swipe Earth from us today?”

Bud looked honestly hurt. “Swipe? Hardly. We’re reuniting with our lost brethren.”

“I’ve got news for you, brother. You can bet we humans won’t be ‘reuniting’ without a bloody fight.”

Bud stood up and stretched. “So you said. That’s the Mahb in you talking. Olfs abandoned warfare centuries ago. For the most part.”

“Then it sucks to be you, because the Olfs are heading for a galactic beat-down. War is our stock-in-trade!”

“We have no intention of conquering humankind through combat.” Bud strolled over to the counter. He paused and studied the menu posted above it. “We’ll simply out-breed you.”

I kept writing. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Inside my head, my “just in case” alarm was ringing. If this was for real, I had to have a record of it for the authorities.

“The average male Olf procreates four to six times daily. An infant Olf has a gestation period of three months and reaches maturity in ten years. The average Olf life expectancy — for nonsmokers — is 120 years.”

“You have tobacco on R Planet?”

“I said we’re an advanced race. I didn’t say we’re geniuses. Those old Marlboro ads could be pretty persuasive. Anyway, we’re going to do to you what you did to the Mahbs. We’ll simply crowd you out of existence.”

I couldn’t write any more. I could hardly think. And really, I didn’t know what to think. I put down my pen and sighed.

Bud stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned on the counter. “Don’t take it personally, Quiz.”

I chuckled at that. “Naw, why take genocide personally?”

“It won’t happen overnight. It’ll take some time. A year, at least. Most of us won’t be staying here for good. Our bodies, en masse, will emit large quantities of carbon dioxide which will render Earth’s atmosphere unfit for long-term habitation. For the majority of Olfs, Earth will be merely a rest stop. A convenient place in which we can cleanse our systems and recharge our ships’ nuclear-electric propulsion engines for the long haul to our new, permanent home. That’s why we picked Illinois as a primary base — the thirteen nuclear power plants here will make that easy.

“Some Olfs, mainly those with lower IQ scores, will remain on Earth. The bad news for humans? It’s against our nature to play second fiddle to other species. Slowly but surely, Olfs will take over Earth. If we could stay on R Planet, we would, but conditions won’t allow it. Thousands of Olfs are dying every day. It’s either you or us.”

“A rest stop? You’re going to destroy the human race just to use Earth as a bed-and-breakfast?”

“A necessary evil, I’m sorry to say. The Olfs’ new home will be a lush, green planet in the Alpha Centauri solar system. The place is covered with virgin soil, food-bearing plants and clean water. And the air!” He inhaled heartily. “You can’t even see it!”

“I don’t suppose the place is inhabited?” Bud spied his reflection in one of the stainless steel coffee urns and adjusted his hat. “Our scouts mentioned something about natives. Yet another bunch of primitive yahoos. They supposedly resemble your mythological satyrs. No matter. We’ll make short work of them.”

His casual tone of voice and carefree expression made hatred bloom inside me. “I’m sure. You’ll have already exterminated humanity and wrecked Earth. Why quit while you’re ahead? It’s all about the Olfs!”

“Before you drown in righteous indignation, allow me to remind you of some important details. Earth is screwed as it is — and humans did that themselves. Your notebook isn’t thick enough to list all the races of its own kind humanity has wiped out in the name of self-interest. As its technology has progressed, humanity’s thought process has not. Your moon landing again serves as an example. The astronauts left a flag stuck in the lunar soil. Which flag was it? The United Nations flag?”

“Uh, no. But that was in the context of —”

“Of nothing. Don’t knock us Olfs for doing precisely what you humans have done throughout your history. Turnabout is fair play.”

“We had reasons, justification for what we did! Besides, we only did it to ourselves, not some other defenseless creatures.”

Bud returned to his seat. “Reasons are relative. If self-destruction is justification for conquest, then remember that your questing spirit was the Olf blood coursing through your veins. We are you. So it all works out in the end.”

* * *

Proceed to part 6...