Alien Sex полностью

Whistle had explained it all to James just last night. She was very sorry about it all. The promises hadn’t worked out. If only the Bendaii hadn’t come quite so soon…

But the Bendaii were coming. The Pashi comm towers had done their job, detecting the approaching enemy. So now the Pashi had to leave. This small planet, this little place where they had built their advance base, had done its job, and now the Pashi had to leave. There weren’t nearly enough Pashi to defend against the Bendaii. To stay would be suicidal. So tonight the landing rigs would send the ships home from their bases around the planet. And tomorrow the Bendaii would arrive.

There is a knock at the door. James thinks it must be Whistle, a good two hours early. Very unlike Whistle to be early.

But it isn’t Whistle, it’s Tom.

James tries to smile as Tom walks in. His best friend, Tom. High school, state champs, college, final four, two years in the CBA—best of friends, the quick guard with the uncanny passes and the giant with the soft hook.

And then came the Pashi and there was no more play for pay now that there was work to be done for the benevolent Pashi. Tom had found a job waiting tables. James found Whistle.

Tom doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at James and then walks past him into the room where he notices the nearly packed bag.

He looks, reaches into the bag to grab a paperback. Laughs.

“Books and baseballs?” he asks, and turns to look at his best friend. “Your Pashi want to get to know all about our way of life or something?” Tom chooses to ignore the sight of the lengthener, its tip just visible, crowded in with the baseballs.

James doesn’t know how to answer this. Whistle has made it very clear that James is to tell no one about the Pashi leaving. If James told, Whistle would know. Whistle always knows. And then James wouldn’t get to go himself.

James doesn’t want to die tomorrow when the Bendaii destroy the landing rigs and comm towers. Whistle has told James about the Bendaii and the struggle the Pashi have been involved in for generations. The Bendaii, Whistle said, are very thorough. James got the message.

Tom walks away from the bag and over toward the kitchen nook, where he opens the refrigerator door, takes out a bottle of Harp, opens it, and takes one long gulp.

“Ah,” he says, “the privileges of prostitution.”

James doesn’t protest for a change. There have been certain advantages to being the lover of a Pashi diplomat, imported beer in these hard times has been among the least of them. James doesn’t even drink the Harp anymore, anyway. He just keeps it here for Tom. James has acquired a taste for the salty, thick ooze the Pashi drink. James can’t whistle the tune that names the stuff, he just calls it ooze. Whistle laughs at her pet for that, and then strokes his head for being so cute, and then tells him to get out the lengthener, and then…

Tom is talking.

“So what’s the bag packed for, Jimmy? Seriously, is your Pashi trying to catch up on some American classics?”

“Some of the books are British,” says James.

Tom laughs, drinks.

“Damn, boy, you’re taking all of this a little too seriously, aren’t you? They’re going to leave someday, you know, and you’ll get left behind. That’ll be that.”

He points his Harp at James.

“Listen to old Tommy, now. You’ve got to keep your head on straight on this one, Jimmy. Don’t dive off the deep end on me here, all right? Remember who you are. Remember what you are.”

“Tom,” James says. “Tommy.” And he takes one step toward his friend, one step toward him and away from the door and the view of the rigs.

But Tom turns away to open a wood veneer cupboard door and finds some Mexican peanuts, right there where they sit next to the Brazilian breakfast cereal and the Venezuelan pretzels. Most things are imported these days.

“Listen to me, Jimmy,” Tom goes on to say through the crunch of the nuts. “It’s tough times right now, and you’ve found a way to get through them. That’s great. I understand. Hell, I even stand up for you when people talk. I understand, I really do.” And he takes another drink of the Harp, finishing off the bottle in one long pull.

“But there’s a big ‘but’ here, pal. I’ve been watching this happen for six months now, and you’ve gone from making the best of a bad thing to, to”—and he searches for the right word while he fishes another Harp out of the refrigerator—“to, I don’t know, something really strange. It’s like you really like the big blue webber.”

James can’t stand to hear the Pashi called that. He admits that there is that bluish tint to their fair skin, and that there is a webbing between the toes and fingers. “But what would you expect of an amphibious race?” he has said to Tom in the past. He has told his friend that he’s offended by the nicknames that Earthies use for the Pashi, especially the American Earthies, who have so much to look forward to for having helped the Pashi.