“I feel like that’s exactly what the definition of xenophobic would be if it was defined in cosmic terms. I’m an English major; this is kind of my wheelhouse.”
He stares at me for a very long moment. “Fine. I’m a little xenophobic because I don’t fuck outside my species.”
I shrug. “I’m sure you can work on self improvement. The first step really is admitting that there’s a problem. So, can you tell me where I am?”
He takes another long moment of silence—he’s probably distracted by a little self-reflection—before replying, “Sure. You’re about two and a half million light years away from Earth in the Andromeda galaxy. My ancestors were moved off-planet just before the big one hit about sixty million years ago. We’ve evolved since then, and have gone back a few times to check up on things, but most of us are pretty content here.”
“Kinda dry,” I point out, looking at the relatively barren landscape.
The stegosaurus shakes its bald head at me. “You’re joking, right? This is a tiny part of my planet. How many planets do you know that only have one kind of environment? Even Earth has some rocky deserts. Humans are so judgy. And you wonder why no one wants to get to know you.”
The dinosaur is totally right, and also a little judgy himself. “Planetary science isn’t really my thing. I’m probably going to end up writing children’s books or something. Kids are pretty forgiving, and I like them more than adults anyway.”
“Me too,” he agrees, waving at the creature on my head. “Speaking of which, where did you get a baby flink?”
“Is that what this is?” I hum, aborting a move to reach up and pet the creature. “It was in my apartment when I got home and latched on like this in a moment of emotional upheaval.”
The stegosaurus nods solemnly. “You should probably try to convince them to take themself back home. They get attachedpretty quickly, and unless you want to be a nanny for the next ten years or so, you should return them to their parents.”
“I’m Elijah,” I say, remembering my manners when I finally get tired of mentally referring to this person as “the stegosaurus.”
“Bill.”
“Really?” I exclaim, surprised by the utterly normal name.
Bill shrugs. “Eh, I just picked a name from your mental library. I’m not actually speaking English, you’re just hearing me in English. My name isn’t Bill, but your limited anatomy can’t make the right sounds to speak my name, so Bill is fine. I like it. It’s exotic.”
“Bill isn’t exotic. It’s like the most basic name to ever exist.” Though, maybe it would be exotic to someone who doesn’t speak English like he said.
“Judgy,” Bill reminds me, shaking their head. “It’s exotic to me.”
“I guess that’s true. It’s cool you can make me hear you in English.”
“It’s not me. It’s a universal translation spell that works more of the time than it doesn’t. It’s sort of like a software update, but for the whole universe. An experienced software developer will tell you to never trust the program, and spell casters feel the same way about spells like this, but it works most of the time, so we keep it and no one really tries to fuck with it.”
That’s even cooler. A translation spell that works most of the time. “Awesome.”
“Anyway, the rules of my culture dictate that I offer you food, drink, and a place to sleep. Do you want to come back to my house? My parents probably won’t feed you to the neighbor.”
“Maybe next time? I have to figure out how to get this little flink to take me home and then how to convince them to goback to their home.” I’m not sure I want to gamble on Bill’s “probably.”
Bill shrugs. “Flinks take bribes and have a sweet tooth a mile long.”
“Chirrup!!!”
The air pressure drops again, things go blank and another thundering clap brings me to a place that smells like a cotton candy machine (smell is the first of my senses to return after the flink, uh, transports us). When my vision returns, I’m in a Dr. Seuss book. Looks like the forests of the Lorax. Tall trees with tufts instead of leaves. Pastels everywhere, even the grass-like ground cover. The grass is baby blue, and the trees are a rainbow of pastels.
“On the plus side, you didn’t take me to a planet lacking in oxygen.”
Why aren’t I freaking out, you wonder? I thinkyoumight be judgingmeright now, and that’s fine. Totally valid. I just don't really see the point in getting worked up about things I have no control over. Sure, I’m on an alien planet, but hey, it’s got a breathable atmosphere, and it’s not like I can take myself home.
The flink unwraps themself from my head and jumps to the nearest tree, scrambling to the top, ripping the tuft apart, and shoving it into its mouth. Out of curiosity, I reach up and pull a little of the tufty fibers off the lowest tree, sniffing it before licking it. It fizzles on my tongue like pop-rocks and tastes like sugarcane.
“Nice.”
I probably shouldn’t lick things in an alien environment, but I am only human, and before I learned how to walk, I was crawling all over the floor shoving shit in my mouth. I haven’t died yet. Obviously, that sense of daring doesn’t extend to aliens I’ve just met and possible sexy times.
Listen, I know it doesn’t make sense, but humans have vigorous hygiene habits because as a species we are disgusting, so in my head, Bill, being a person, is just as disgusting as humans and not a risk I’m willing to take. Cotton candy pop rocks from a tree are different. They just are.
