When the alien space ship arrived – chock-full of impressive technology, enough
to convince even the most paranoid skeptic that this was the Real Deal – humans of all
stripes and persuasions were falling over one another to get a gander at the craft, its inhabitants,
and whatever else was going on.

Twitter's stock split (again), the web lit up 24/7, and news people never seemed to go to bed.
Maybe, as some suggested, the aliens had taught them how to clone themselves, complete with
perfect hairdos. The aliens (or rather, the androids they had sent in their places) appeared to be
teaching important people a lot of things: new products appeared on the market, at reasonable
introductory prices, there were rumours of medical advances, including a cure for the common
cold, and the airwaves were full of startling images of the aliens' homeworld, which looked like a
realtor's paradise.

Of course, only world leaders got to talk to the androids, who explained patiently (as
androids are built for patience) that yes, they (or rather, their flesh-and-blood creators) had been
monitoring Earth for a very long time, were big fans, in fact, and knew as much as the
next rabid fan about the place's history, habits, and general quirks. Just ask them. In fact, they
modestly supposed they might even know more about the running of the planet than the average
local inhabitant. Though they didn't like to brag. The androids proved this, right off, by asking
for the world leaders and media darlings by name. They even knew all the trivia from the comic
books and scifi blockbusters.

Anybody who wasn't a world leader or media star (the androids appeared interested in
construction tycoons with bad hairpieces and political ambitions, as well as over-muscled
and/or scantily-clad movie folk) just had to be satisfied with the day-and-night coverage of
everything from the latest glimpse of the interior of the ship (mauve, surprising choice) to
endless discussions of Lady Dada's wardrobe malfunction at the android-attended Oscars. (The
androids appeared only mildly interested, leading to speculation that the androids' bosses were
similarly equipped.) As usual, hoi polloi sat and gossiped while the major players did
whatever major players did.

Finally, after the usual high-level talks, the following facts emerged:

• The aliens' homeworld had plenty of room for new settlement, and was issuing
  invitations.
• Only the best, brightest, most gifted – meaning the well-heeled and famous –
  need apply.

In other words, business as usual. People expressed opinions on Facebook ('Like! Like!
Like!') and collected collectibles commemorating the hotly-anticipated day of departure. Ratings
had never been higher.

When Jim Garrity presented his media pass (www.homeopapenews.com, a modest start-
up whose bricks-and-mortar assets consisted of a desktop and an outdated 4-in-1 printer in
the corner of his living room), the guard at the gate grunted rudely and pointed vaguely in the
direction of the holding area for insignificant press types. Jim clutched his second-hand notebook
computer as he shouldered his way into his bleacher seat, but could not suppress a moue of
distaste at the shabby treatment.

'The problem with you,' remarked a voice at his elbow, 'is that you still think you count as a
person.'

Jim swivelled in annoyance to the speaker, who turned out to be a short man with wiry
red hair, who grinned up at him, showing crooked teeth. 'I do count as a person,' Jim
protested. 'So do you. So does everybody.'

The little man shook his head vehemently. 'Nope,' he said emphatically. 'That's where you're
wrong, my friend. We don't count. We've never counted – not to them.' He
pointed in the direction of the tarmac outside the bleacher area, where the gleaming spaceship
stood, doors wide open to receive the well-escorted line of beautifully-dressed prominence
proceeding up the red carpet – hands empty, of course, as their luggage had been sent
ahead. That's what they had People for. Jim snorted as he watched Lady Dada wave to the many
fans who'd come to see her off. To their disappointment, her wardrobe failed to malfunction, but
she was still gorgeous.

'I don't suppose they could take everybody,' he remarked. 'Of course they'd take the movers
and shakers. The people who...' he stopped.

'The people who count?' The little man chuckled. 'See what I mean? You've been
indoctrinated since birth, only you don't know it. Somebody told you that you didn't count.
And you believed him.' Jim waved the pest away (while involuntarily thinking, 'my father, my
mother, my teachers'), and after paying an exorbitant $15 for a Coke (it was a warm day, and the
concessionaires knew how much the traffic would bear), he settled in to follow the ceremonies,
take pictures, and blog like all the others. Jim could type and watch at the same time, and did
so. The boarding took hours – it was meant to, to allow each and every celebrity his or
her red-carpet moment – and there were intervals of entertainment, mostly musical, from
B-Listers who obviously felt that, although they hadn't been issued a ticket, they could comfort
themselves in the knowledge that, the A-Listers away, they might get a few more gigs than usual.
Jim listened, watched, noted in the usual style. (The British Royal Family is well-represented
today, having flown to the Launch Site here in Baja California early this morning...the Queen
is wearing a tasteful ensemble in, need we say, royal blue, as she leans on the arm of her
granddaughter-in-law, who lives up to her reputation as one of the world's best-dressed women
in a stunning outfit of...)

Jim stopped to stretch while a boy band sang the new charity song, God Bless the
Earth, copies of which were on sale at the gate. As he did so, he noticed that the little man
beside him had neither laptop nor camera, and appeared to be taking in all the action without
paying particular attention to it. He hadn't even bought a programme. This made Jim curious.

'Hey, buddy,' he ventured. 'What outfit are you with? You don't seem to be taking any notes.
Don't you blog?'

The little man winked and tapped his forehead, an oddly endearing gesture. 'It's all up here,'
he explained. 'The people who sent me just want my impressions, you know. They can get the
rest from the web.'

Jim shrugged. 'Nice job,' was all he had to say to that.

The man stuck out his hand. 'I'm Gabe, by the way,' he said, and of course Jim replied with
his name. It turned out that Gabe, while unencumbered by the tools of the paparazzo's, reporter's,

or indeed any other trade, had brought something better – namely, sandwiches, which
he proposed to share with Jim. As the two munched away at surprisingly tasty hoagies (Gabe
explained that he'd flown in from Philadelphia), the two chatted about this and that, as the floor
show below continued with a 'farewell clip show' of popular scenes from the award-winning
stars who were about to be going...well, out into the stars themselves.

Gabe mused. 'Nice thing about these bleachers,' he commented. 'I don't see many wasps or
ants.'

Jim thought. 'Probably because the whole set-up was just put here for the launch.' Gabe
nodded.

'I imagine you're right,' he said. 'You know, where I come from, we used to have a lot of
trouble with wasps at picnics.' He chuckled. 'Doesn't it just get your nanny when you're trying to
eat, and those biting insects get between you and your potato salad?'

Jim had to agree. 'I know what you mean. Not much you can do about it, though. If you
spray 'em, the poison will get into your own food.'

Gabe laughed. 'That's true. But we knew a better trick than that.' Seeing that Jim looked
interested, Gabe went on. 'We just set a saucer of jam about 100 yards or so away. The wasps
would always go after the jam, and leave our picnic alone. They drown in the sticky stuff, too.'
Jim decided that Gabe was a pretty practical fellow, as well as generous with his hoagies, and
they got along well for the rest of the afternoon, all through the launching ceremony, in which
the national anthems of 26 nations were performed by mass choirs. Finally, when it was all over,
and the ship itself was only a distant point on the twilight horizon, the two new friends adjourned
to the least fashionable (and therefore least crowded) bar they could find, and drank to friendship
before heading back to their hotels.

Somehow, it was Gabe Jim thought of when he saw the news a few weeks later –
images from orbital telescopes which had captured the moment when the spaceship from Earth
was supposed to be launched into the aliens' captive wormhole.

The moment, not to put too fine a point on it, when the spaceship full of Earth's most
important and newsworthy citizens blew up. Brightly and soundlessly and finally,
somewhere on the edge of the solar system. Jim stopped to reflect, along with all the other
citizens of Earth, on the loss of so many of the planet's political, military, economic, and society
elite.

The next time Jim thought about Gabe was when he saw him on television the day after the
explosion.

Gabe was getting out of the other spaceship, you see, the one that had people in it
rather than androids.

Somebody was calling Gabe 'Commander Gabriel', and the little redhead was explaining
what the new offer was. They'd brought a lot of nice things, you see, and were looking forward
to getting to know folk...

Somehow, Jim was sure the new offer involved good food.

And that in this scheme, everyone counted.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

16.05.11 Front Page

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