By Ryan Priest
This is just a story about two white men. That’s all, nothing more, just two average white guys going through the customs line.
Tyler and Connor smiled wide behind their sunglasses to all the other passengers, everyone on his or her way to some destination far outside our solar system.
“Oh, pardon me, miss.”
Connor tipped his hat, while Tyler got up close and coo’d a complete stranger’s baby.
“Handsome boy you’ve got there. And such lovely snow-white skin.”
The woman said nothing, only pushed her stroller further away.
“How long until we’re through?” Connor whispered, in hushed tones, only meant for Tyler’s ear.
“Just stay cool. Whistle or something,” Tyler shushed back through gritted teeth.
Connor whistled and he smiled and bobbed his head. He was wearing golf pants, a high collar shirt and black loafers. His pasty, matte white skin looked ghostly under the bright space-port lights.
Up ahead, the security gates opened and three customs officers walked in. A man, a woman and a dog with its nose already in the air.
They walked slowly, up and down the line, bringing a dark pall with them. They’d stop so the dog could get a fresh sniff of someone’s bags or maybe their crotch. Tyler and Connor stood tall, looking forward, nothing to worry about. They were just two very white men, nothing more.
The dog made his way down the line. Suddenly, the female customs officer reached into the line and grabbed a man by the arm. She yanked him out. His wife and two kids gasped.
“Look me in the eye,” the customs agent ordered.
“I’ve just got some Northern Italian in me. That’s all!” he said. The customs agents squinted into his eyes. They had the dog smell his crotch, his ass. Finally, they seemed satisfied, and he was able to go back to his wife.
The agents continued their hateful march down the line. Nobody wanted to make eye contact, everyone just pretended they didn’t see them and they hoped the officers would return the favor.
“Your leg’s shaking,” Tyler whispered to Connor.
“The dogs are real, man.”
“Chill, trust the pills Manny gave us. They’ll fool the dog.” The agents were only a little way away. “Maintain.”
Connor began tapping his foot pointedly, to mask the tremor. “I tell you what, it seems these lines just get slower and slower every year. Gee Whiz!”
“I bet that new President will whip them into shape. What a great man,” Tyler joined in.
“Golly-gee, you bet he is!” Connor added.
“Pull it back,” Tyler whispered under his breath. He smiled politely to the menacing customs agents, along with their K9 snitch.
Both agents stopped, looked at the two men and then back at each other skeptically.
“Pleasant morning officers.” Tyler smiled and wiggled his head on his neck, replete with self-satisfaction. The customs agents ignored him and urged the dog over to his crotch.
The dog began sniffing, so hard his wet nose was jamming Tyler in the most sensitive areas as they had him turn three-sixty so the dog could get his fill. They seemed surprised, but apparently the dog was in charge and he hadn’t barked so they moved on.
“I told you, just be cool.” Tyler whispered, his own voice cracking in the process.
A loudspeaker shouted for them to have their passports, exit visas and heritage strips ready. The line moved a pace or two forward. Several ships were leaving today, headed off to different exo-planets, light years away. After a long nap, they’d all wake up in a new place, in a new time, somewhere far far away from Earth.
Tyler handed Connor his papers and he checked his own one more time. Everything looked legit to him but what did he know?
A sound burst out, loud and evil, causing both Connor and Tyler’s backs to stiffen at once. The bark of a dog.
“Sir, step out of line,” came the authoritative voice of one of the agents. Tyler turned and let out a silent exhale of relief when he saw the dog was barking at someone else, a man, who was now being dragged out of the line.
“What are you!?” the officers screamed, as they began to punch and kick him. The dog was going crazy. They snatched his papers, gave them a quick scoff and tore them up. They demanded, “What are you!?”
“I’m…part Latino...only part!” the man finally broke down and admitted through tears. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to get away from here.”
“You make me sick.” The female officer spat on him as her partner cuffed his wrists.
Nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with that. They were just two white men, doing what they were supposed to be doing. No concern or compassion for the man being led away. He’d only get what he had coming. Manifest Destiny to the stars was their birthright. Can’t have undesirables getting out and littering up space, no sirree. But as he passed, the crying man looked up and even with the sunglasses on Tyler knew he saw right through him.
Not a wince, not a tremble, not the slightest hint of a sob, but the one thing Tyler couldn’t control was the single tear that rolled down his cheek, leaving a dark brown swathe in its path.
“Your make-up, bro,” Connor cautioned.
Tyler hid his face and pretended to cough. The line moved forward. The customs booth was getting closer. He dug into his pocket, felt around for the tiny plastic compass with the chalky foundation. He dug a chunk out with the tip of his finger and then coughed again, this time smearing his face.
“Did I get it?” he asked Connor.
“All but one spot, looks like you have a really big mole on your cheek.”
That’d have to be okay, why not? Men with moles wanted to be colonists too. He just had to make it past customs and then he’d be free to sleep for a hundred years and wake up in a new world, with people who’d have no choice but to accept him. If these people were skipping out too, then they probably weren’t so bad themselves. All he had to do was keep cool, trust Manny’s paperwork would pass muster and remember to keep smiling.
About the Author
Ryan Priest
Ryan Priest is an American writer who lives in Denver.
He's a former screenwriter and now makes his living developing software. For more of his writing please see <www.RyanPriest.net>.
Ion Newcombe is the editor and publisher of AntipodeanSF, Australia’s longest running online speculative fiction magazine, regularly issued since January 1998, and conceived back around November 2007. He has been a zealous reader and occasional writer of SF since his childhood in the 1960s, and even sold a few stories here and there back in the '90s.
Mark Webb's midlife crisis came in the form of attempting to write speculative fiction at a very slow pace. His wife maintains this is a good outcome considering the more expensive and cliched alternatives. Evidence of Mark's attempts to procrastinate in his writing, including general musings and reviews of books he has been reading, can be found at www.markwebb.name.
Terry Persun’s poems and stories have appeared in many magazines including Wisconsin Review, Kansas Quarterly, Riverrun, Rattle, Hiram Poetry Review, Bluestem, NEBO, Cirque, Eclipse, Bacopa, and many others.
Andrew settled in the state of Maryland on the eastern coast of the United States after living in southern California for many years.
Grace Chan is a Melbourne-based speculative fiction writer and doctor. Her family immigrated from Malaysia to Australia before her first birthday. She completed a medical degree in 2012 and is currently working and training in psychiatry. In her downtime, she enjoys coffee, space operas, and thinking about where we come from and where we’re all going.
Karen Andrews is an award-winning writer, author, editor, poet and publisher. Her work has appeared in journals and publications throughout the country.
Michael Connolly lives in Bowraville NSW, Australia. He has worked as an art teacher, music teacher, printer and illustrator among other things (such as chicken de-beaker), and has a keen interest in science-fiction and the natural sciences. He has illustrated for the magazine Tabula Rasa, which specialises in the horror genre, and is a regular contributor to AntipodeanSF.
Eugen Bacon has sold many stories and articles, together with anthologies. Her stories have won, been shortlisted and commended in international awards, including the Bridport Prize, L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest and Copyright Agency Prize. Literary speculative novel — Meerkat Press (2019). Creative nonfiction book — Macmillan (2019)
I am a chap who speaks four languages to the perfection.
David has written over 200 speculative fiction short stories. Some of these are included in his eight collections of short stories (all on Amazon).
Timothy Gwyn is a professional pilot in Canada, where he flies to remote communities. During a lull in his flying career, he was a radio announcer for three years, and he is also an author.
David Whitaker is originally from the UK though has travelled around a bit and now resides in India. He has a degree in Journalism, however decided that as he’s always preferred making things up it should ultimately become a resource rather than a profession.
Laurie Bell lives in Melbourne, Australia. She was that girl you found with her nose always buried in a book. She has been writing ever since she was a little girl and first picked up a pen. From books to short stories, radio plays to snippets of ideas and reading them aloud to anyone who will listen.
Garry Dean lives on the Mid Coast of New South Wales Australia, and has been a fan of SF for most of his natural life. Being vision impaired, he makes good use of voice recognition and text to speech in order to write. Many of his stories have appeared in AntipodeanSF over the years, and his love of all things audio led him to join the narration team in 2017.
Pixie is a voice actor, cabaret performer & slam poet From the Blue Mountains in NSW.
Margaret lives the good life on a small piece of rural New South Wales Australia, with an amazing man, a couple of pets, and several rambunctious wombats.
Mark is an astrophysicist and space scientist who worked on the Cassini/Huygens mission to Saturn. Following this he worked in computer consultancy, engineering, and high energy research (with a stint at the JET Fusion Torus).
