Kaiju Agonistes полностью

“My most excellent ally readily grasps that this affair is far too important,” says Pompidou, “to allow the unremitting egotism of any one nation to dominate it.”

“Our friend and comrade Messenger,” shouts the Soviet premier, “the people of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and our comrades from East Germany, Bulgaria, China, Cuba, Vietnam, and…sigh…North Korea…greet you warmly!”

“We agreed to offer separate statements,” says Mao Zedong, who looks more at ease with the towering monstrous form than he does with the bright sand and surf.

“Comrade Messenger,” says the Soviet premier, “we are a unified bloc, and by mutual assent our communication will be handled by myself.”

“We agreed to separate statements!” says Mao, “And we intend to give comrade Messenger some mangoes as a gesture of—”

“Comrade, if I have to hear about those damned mangoes one more time, I swear—”

Many things about your species have been confirmed or clarified by this interaction. Please accept my invitation to relax.

“Messenger, if I may,” says Ted Heath, prime minister of the United Kingdom, “you have yet to tell us where you come from and who or what you represent.”

I represent the community of the galaxy. I bring you the good wishes of the seed-planters, who, in their wisdom, placed my embryonic form in your Pacific Ocean long ago.

“Good God, it’s aliens after all,” says Nixon. “Well, greetings! Greetings from earth! We’ve certainly had some, ah, misunderstandings, haven’t we?”

We have not. My mission has been clear to me at all times. Your collective response has proven less than desirable. As a result, I have been forced to initiate this dialogue.

“What is your mission, comrade?” says the Soviet premier.

I am here to educate you in the folly of unrestrained high-energy warfare. Your civilization is your most precious possession, and it is more fragile than you comprehend.

The human delegations stare up in puzzled silence for a long moment.

“You’ve got a…well, pardon me, but you’ve got a pretty goofed-up way of delivering that education,” says Nixon.

“Yes, you have killed several million people,” says Mao Zedong.

“Look who’s talking,” mutters Pompidou.

“Oh, you’ve got some fucking cheek,” says the prime minister of Vietnam.

I am empowered to reluctantly generate limited fatalities as a form of instructive stimulus.

“Would it be out of bounds,” says Heath, “if we were to respectfully ask you to stop producing that instructive stimulus?”

I will gladly cease generating educational fatalities when you collectively embrace a constructive long-term plan for moving beyond your present recklessness. You must renounce atomic warfare and its instruments.

“So this is just a goddamn ultimatum, huh?” says Nixon.

“The surrender of our national arsenal of dissuasion is not an acceptable topic for discussion at this time,” says Pompidou.

“And what happens if we disarm ourselves?” says Nixon. “I suppose we just trust you not to waltz in unopposed and put us all in some sort of…god-damned petting zoo!”

I do not dance. I am not interested in imprisoning your species and forcing epidermal contact.

“You must understand, comrade,” says the Soviet premier, “that so long as any other nation refuses to relinquish its nuclear stockpile, the reduction of our own could not be contemplated.”

“What else would you offer us?” shouts Mao. “What are you willing to teach us? What progress can be ours if we determine your requests are reasonable?”

I am not empowered to share scientific knowledge.

“Now surely you can see the limited utility of such a bargaining posture,” says Heath.

I am not bargaining or empowered to bargain. I am communicating.

“We’re not going to let you tell us what we can and can’t do on our own planet,” bellows Nixon. “Go tell your high-and-mighty masters—”

I cannot contact them.