By James Flanagan

Nothing would bring me to this godforsaken planet except the promise of a big payday. It reminds me of their Gloping fruit with swirly orange and purple skin, and black gooey insides — the M’bek colony planet, Un’Trop’N’Glop. God, I hate their liberal use of apostrophes.

“Stable orbit, Phyllis,” Ulfgar, my helmsman, tells me. 

Helfing, my engineer, holds her memory bauble with a vacant stare as though she’s forgotten its purpose.

“Geez Louise, Helfing. You still haven't drunk your juice. Neck it, lady.” 

Interstellar travel is fun, but the bitch of it is we lose our memories when we reach our destination. Warp holes fry our synapses. Don’t really care. As long as our memory juicer distils our memories into baubles and we remember to drink them when we arrive. Memories a la carte.

“Helfing!” I do that glowering thing that scares the shit out of her, until she gulps it. 

“Sorry, Boss. I’ll check the engines.” She scurries into the ship's bowels. 

I open the communicator. “Hello, aliens, this is the Earth vessel Scarecrow. I’m here for the package.”

The radio crackles. “On approach, Scarecrow. Take good care of her.”

Her? The package is a her? I rush to the airlock to meet our unexpected ‘guest’. 

“Captain Stein of the Scarecrow,” I say, bowing low like they taught us in Xeno-diplomatics. 

“Hello, Stein. I am M’bek’N’clouin’T’recept’N’jithra, archeologist.”

“Alright…” I try to fix bits of that name in my mind. “Ok…Jithra.” Gagging at the ooze she’s dripping, I point. “Stay in the storage cabin.” 

“Insolence!” The alien shakes, flicking even more goo. A bit lands on my nose. “I pay good for tran’sport. Take me to Epsilon-Four as det’ailed in my requi’sition.”

“That planet’s even worse than this stinker.” 

“Neverth’eless, it’s the location of import’ant disco’very.” 

“Which is?”

“None of your busin’ess.” 

“Fine.”

Jithra slithers too close, smelling like stomach contents. “I disli’ke humans. I will requi’sition diff’erent vessel for return.”

I call Ulfgar. “Clean up that mess, it's everywhere.” Shuddering, I get back to prepping the navigator.

Prior to our interstellar jump, I find the M’bek banging its limb on our memory juicer. “Is this func’tional.” 

“It works.” I hand the memory bauble to the alien before using the machine myself. I invite Helfing to juice next.

“Nah, Boss. I’ll revert to my previous. Nothing here worth remembering.”

***

I stumble around like an automaton, looking for my memory bauble. Ulfgar is already at the console, settling us into orbit around Epsilon-Four. The M’bek and I reach for our memory baubles at the same time.

“Cheers, big ears,” I say.

“My audi’tory canals can’not be consid’ered big, human.”

“Just drink the juice.”

We both drink.

Something not ri’ight. I can’t seem to thi’ink. A judd’er in my b’r’ain. I slump into the seat, and the judder eases. 

The M’bek flops onto the floor, looking at me with puppy dog eyes. 

A flood of memories fill my brain like water sloshing into a jar, only it's mixed, two colours blending. My favourite playground swing/a dark gloopy puddle with other youths mixing and slithering together. Gurgling — is that laughter? My mother/a slimy M’bek leaning over to kiss/drip ooze on me. 

I try to focus on recent… archeological digs... digging up… not bones… “Weapons.”

I stare at the M’bek, whose glazed eyes drip with…tears?

“Are you crying, Jithra?”

“I had… you had… a daugh’ter, who died so yo’ung.”

Samantha. I try to recall her face. It’s hard. There are gaps. Instead, weapons from ancient races form in my mind. 

“You’re not travelling to Epsilon-Four for archeology. You’re looking for weapons. Why?” Political rallies filter through my/her memories. M’bek is preparing for war. 

With us.

“We seem to have mi’xed our memory jui’ces, human.” Jithra gurgles. 

“Ya think?”

Recriminations aside, the juicer messed up. I demand answers. 

“I’m collecting anci’ent weapons. Not to start a war but to pre’vent it.” Jithra coughs up some goop that drips down her chin. I recognise the behaviour, as though spitting on her hand and offering it to shake. “But now I’m una’ble to comp’lete my task alone, when you, Stein, rem’ember half my trai’ning.”

Shit.

It dawns on me what the M’bek is asking. “You want me to accompany you to the planet to help.” 

***

How strange to reminisce about each other's childhood memories in the landing shuttle, as though they were our own. My memories have been turned over to this alien to be played with, inspected, moulded to fit her understanding. Hers are also mine. How distrustful the M’bek are of other alien races. Ours most of all. I recall memories of alien/humans travelling to my/her planet to exploit our/their resources, take advantage of our/their vulnerability, to engender suspicion, wariness, doubt. 

I realise we need to work together to disarm every weapon, not just the buried ones, but the ones I/we wield with my/our tongues. 

“I’m sorry for what we have done to you, M’bek’N’clouin’T’recept’N’jithra.”

“And I am sorry that we have learnt mistrust from you. And learnt it so well.”

***

On the ground, Jithra dons her moisturising suit to protect from the elements, as do I. She leads us to the secret location. Together, we unearth a cannon-like device with a glowing object within. 

“It contains the active core, which can be recycled into new weapons. Humans have learnt how.” Jithra indicates that I should tune the electronic device to the exposed core’s frequency.

Waving the device, the glow gradually disappears. 

“It is disar’med. Thank you, Stein,” she says. 

I feel it’s my duty to finish the job. I stomp on the cannon and kick it into small pieces.

“That was a priceless artefact!” A wail escapes Jithra’s lips. “Countless generations could have learnt from that.” 

“Looks like dirt to me.” I shrug.

“You, Phyllis Stein, are the worst capt’ain I’ve ever trav’elled with.” She gurgles. The infectious reaction has me chuckling too. 

“I seem to recall a Kopesti captain with grabby tentacles leaving you for dead on Kle’kest’ko’po.”

“Well… Sec’ond worst.”

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