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The Alien in My Bathtub

by Tony Dunnell

The alien in my bathtub refused to leave. It was there when I returned to my apartment in Ring B. It ignored me when I asked it to vacate the premises, and when I enquired as to how it had entered my apartment it replied with a dismissive grunt. I had no intention of trying to remove it by physical force, which would have gone against the most basic rules of human-alien etiquette. And, to be honest, I didn’t want to touch it. So, I called Station Relations. I waited and watched as the spindly creature splashed around. The water was greasy and tinted green with the entire contents of the luxury exfoliating scrub I had ordered from Earth a week ago, at no small expense.

I didn’t know what the creature was or where it came from. It wasn’t a species from the Systems Trade Alliance, and no one had informed me or my team that this particular specimen was coming aboard the station. It was skinny and snouted, like a hairless dog from Peru or Mexico, but bipedal judging by its form and movements. Its skin was leathery, a mottled brown. Its four wiry limbs ended in short, slender fingers, four digits on each hand or paw. Between its legs hung a lengthy, narrow and flaccid penis that flopped around in the water. It might have been a tail. I hoped it was a tail.

The alien paid me little attention. It glanced at me when I first entered the bathroom, then resumed its splashing while singing in a series of squeaks and belches.

“Excuse me,” I repeated, with more force this time. Nothing. It just sat in my tub, eating my bar of Martian Dew soap.

The door chimed. “Come in,” I said and I walked to the living room.

A woman entered. She was a little younger than me, I guessed, early thirties. Her sky-blue uniform was immaculate, her brown hair pulled back into a tight bun. “Gemma Stine, Station Relations,” she said, without offering her hand. “Mr. Balta, correct?”

“Yes. Thanks for coming so quickly. It’s through here.”

She followed me to the bathroom and observed the bathing alien. It ignored us. “You said you came back from work and it was there, in the water?” said Stine.

“Exactly. I run VIP hospitality in Ring B.”

“I know who you are,” she said, which normally would have pleased me, but the indifference in her voice sounded almost like spite. She must have had her share of run-ins with the rich and powerful —humans, mainly—who frequented the station’s exclusive VIP zones, so I could understand her disinterest, perhaps even disdain, for my position. I loved my job, I was proud of it—I had worked my way up from station stray to cabin boy to head of hospitality. But the people I served, the wealthy, the dignitaries, the decision makers, the ClubSol card holders, well, they typically chose caviar and complaints over kindness.

“Do you know what it is?” I asked.

“It’s a Volon.” She unclipped a mini portable from her belt and pointed it at the alien. “I’ll scan it.” Her portable bleeped as the creature splashed around. It dunked its head under the water and blew a stream of bubbles. Stine put a finger to her ear and listened to the scan results. “Sir, are you sure you didn’t invite it in?”

“Of course not. Why would I—”

“That,” she said, “is Yolin Yoleen Belolin, Eternal Ruler of Volon.” She looked at me with suspicion in her eyes. “It went missing five hours ago, shortly after boarding the station with three Volon senators on a diplomatic mission to Earth. Did you see the flagship that docked yesterday? Volon.”

The Eternal Ruler of Volon rolled around onto its front, its crevice-free posterior peeking out of the water and swaying from side to side. Water sloshed out of my bathtub and onto the tiled floor.
“Can you speak with it?” I asked.

“No, we’ll need a translator.” She watched as the alien twisted around in the water and raised its legs in the air. “Mr. Balta, this is now a diplomatic matter. I must ask for your patience, compliance and discretion. I’ll contact a translator bot immediately and track down the Volon diplomats.”

We went back to my living room. Stine was on her comms, talking with hushed urgency. I went to the window wall. It cost a lot to have a view like that, but I rarely took much interest. Now I gazed out along the station’s core axis. At the far end of the station, beyond Rings C and D, the Volon flagship—a hulking, multisectional vessel—was docked with the station’s largest umbilical. I couldn’t imagine the thing in my bathtub commanding, or owning, such a ship. Above me, above the station, the Earth was coming into view. It shone as the sun glinted off the Pacific Ocean. Wisps of clouds caressed the coasts of Peru and Ecuador.

“Coffee?” I asked, turning back to Stine.

“No, thank you.”

I made myself a cup of coffee, Colombian, while Stine made calls and tapped on her portable. She kept her voice low so I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Minutes later the door opened and a stumpy, waist-high translator bot rolled into my living room like it owned the place.

“Here,” said Stine, and the bot followed her to the bathroom. I trailed behind, like a guest in my own apartment.
The alien was scrubbing its head with my toothbrush. It glanced at the bot then carried on scrubbing, emitting squeaks and grunts as it did so.

“It’s a Volon,” said Stine to the translator bot. “Ready?”

The bot rotated a series of audio blocks around its head. “Ready,” it said.

“Yolin Yoleen Belolin, Eternal Ruler of Volon, I am Gemma Stine, Station Relations Manager of the Earth Orbital. We are honored by your presence.”

I tried not to frown at Stine’s respectful tone amidst the continued defilement of my favorite toothbrush. The bot spat out a stream of whistles and grunts and the alien turned toward us, one hand on the rim of the bathtub, the other holding my toothbrush aloft. It replied, revealing a series of flat, golden teeth and a purple, trident-like tongue.

The bot translated in standard neutral English: “The water is good and the food is good. Come join me.” The alien cocked its head as the translation rang out, then resumed its scrubbing.

“Eternal Ruler,” said Stine, “your diplomatic party is looking for you. They are on their way.”

The Eternal Ruler shrugged and snorted. “Very well,” the bot translated.

Moments later, the door chimed. “Come in,” I said and peered through the bathroom doorway as three Volons scurried into my living room, followed by a gruff-looking human security guard. The Volon diplomats looked like the thing in my bathtub: about one meter tall with leathery skin and pointed, dog-like faces. They were diplomatic enough to wear loose-fitting grey robes, keeping their dignity intact.

I stood aside as they hurried into my bathroom, paying me no attention. The three of them approached the bathtub and began jabbering away at the Eternal Ruler, who was now singing with gusto. “Error,” said the overwhelmed translator bot. “Error.” I scratched my head and I wished I’d never quit drinking.

The Eternal Ruler paused, turned to its diplomats and, with a dismissive wave of its hand, said, “Blak blak blak.”
“Unknown,” said the bot. The Eternal Ruler hauled itself over the edge of the bathtub and dropped to the wet floor. The three diplomats began drying it with the edges of their robes, but the Ruler shooed them away with flapping hands. “Blak blak,” it said and headed to the bathroom doorway. It paused, returned to the bathtub, grabbed my Martian Dew soap and headed out again. The diplomats hurried after it, followed by Stine, then the security guard and the translator bot. Not one of them so much as glanced at me.

They left my apartment and the door shut behind them. I stood in silence, staring at the door. Relieved, I went to the living room, sat on the arm of my sofa and gazed out the window at nothing in particular.

A minute or so later, the door chimed and my heart sank. “Come in,” I said and Stine walked in, looking only slightly flustered.

“Mr. Balta,” she said, “I’m afraid we have a situation.”

“No shit. Have you seen the state of my bathroom?”

“Mr. Balta, the Eternal Ruler has invited us to its ship.”

“Us?” I said.

“You and me. It appears it—or he, which I’m told is preferable—wishes to return your hospitality. And, well, we’ve been invited. It’s not something we can refuse, I’m afraid.”

“Why the fu—”

“Listen,” said Stine, taking a step closer to me, “this is bigger than us. I can’t tell you everything, but this goes high up. And as a representative of the station, you are now legally obliged to do this.”

“Legally obliged? I just want to get my bathroom cleaned up.”

“Mr. Balta, you won’t have a bathroom if you don’t do this. You won’t have a place on this station at all.”

---

The station’s rotational gravity weakened as we took Spoke II to the Axis. I followed Stine as we tethered along the Axis conveyor to B Station. Microgravity along the Axis always made me clumsy and queasy, but Stine was a natural.

“You ex-Fleet?” I asked as we approached the station.

“Something like that,” she said.

We reached the station, where the normal assortment of workers, tourists and businesspeople were queuing along the tether for the next standard shuttle. A VIP carriage was waiting for us, its doors open. Inside sat the station’s head diplomat, Gardner Vane, his narrow face lined with the wrinkles that come from dealing with decades of petty disputes and grievances. Beside him sat a tall, bearded man in an expensive grey suit. Both men glared at me as I strapped myself into the seat opposite them.

“How are you, Mr. Vane?” I said.

“Fine thanks, Balta. Has Stine briefed you?”

“Not really.” I glanced at Stine to catch her reaction. There was none.

“Good,” said Vane. “You don’t need to know anything. Let Stine do the talking. In and out, okay?”

“Fine by me. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.”

“Neither do we, Stine. Neither do we.”

The carriage eased out of the station and minutes later we arrived at the main docking complex at the far end of the Axis. Stine, Vane and I tethered outside the carriage. The docking complex was as busy as ever: the normal throng of refugees being herded for processing; workers queuing up to show their papers; businesspeople and VIPs offloading their luggage to eager station staff who greeted them and guided them to the lounge. The bearded suit watched us from the open door of the carriage. Vane nodded at him then we set off along the tetherway to a waiting docking shuttle.

We stopped at the open doors of the shuttle and Vane said, “You know what to do, Stine.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and for the first time there was apprehension in her eyes.

“And if they ask about the damned soap situation, tell them we’re working on it.”

“Of course, sir,” said Stine.

“Balta, in and out,” said Vane with anger in his eyes. “Say as little as possible. Ideally, say nothing.”

“In and out,” I said, my stomach churning in the microgravity.

Stine pushed off into the eight-seater docking shuttle and strapped in. I followed, flailing until I caught a handhold, and Stine pulled me down into the seat next to her. The door closed, leaving us alone. “There’s artificial gravity on the Volon ship,” she said. “It has two rings.”

“That’s good to know.”

“You’ll be fine, Balta.”

A soft bing-bong sounded inside the shuttle followed by a female voice. “Docking unit H2 please confirm departure status.”

“All set,” said Stine. A bong-bing, the clack of release mechanisms and the shuttle began to move, exiting the station for the short trip to the Volon flagship.

“Stine, what’s this all about?” I said.

Stine looked at me, blinked twice. “I don’t know much more than you. It’s a trade deal of some sort. We weren’t supposed to be involved in this at all. But the Eternal Ruler… I guess he liked you.”

“He liked my soap, that’s for sure.”

The Volon ship loomed ever larger in the fore viewing panel as we approached. Doors opened in the belly of the ship and we glided in to the dark interior. The shuttle settled. We waited and then came another bing-bong. “Docking unit H2, prepare for egress. Gravity minimal, atmosphere secure.”

“Come on, Balta,” said Stine, unstrapping and rising from her seat. “Enjoy it. Not many people get to board an alien ship. Here, take my hand.”

The shuttle doors opened onto a tubular corridor. It was dark apart from four dotted lines of running lights. I took Stine’s hand and she guided me out of the shuttle and along the corridor. At the end of the tube stood three Volons in black robes, waiting in a pool of light. They raised their hands as we approached. The Volons parted to make way for us as we reached the end of the tube. We glided into a cramped corridor. The walls were a polished black in which flecks of silver shimmered in the dim light. The corridor wasn’t wide enough or high enough for a human adult to stand.

One of the Volons emitted a series of squeaks and clacks. “Welcome aboard, human emissaries,” came a disembodied translation, deep and neutral, filling the corridor. “Please, follow us.”

The Volons took off along the corridor and we followed, pulling ourselves along using ladder-like structures embedded in two opposing walls. We turned right along an adjoining corridor. As we progressed, the welcome pull of gravity increased. I found myself crawling on hands and knees and then able to stand and walk, but crouching uncomfortably.

We reached a circular door at the end of the corridor, its ebony surface carved with intricate, swirling patterns. I stopped beside Stine, who was shorter than me and not quite so hunched up. The three little Volons turned to face us. They raised their hands and sang and whistled in unison. The translation again filled the space. “Welcome to the sacred baths of Yolin Yoleen Belolin, Eternal Ruler of Volon.” One of the Volons spread its wiry arms and muttered something. “Please, undress.”

A few seconds of silence followed. “Stine?” I said, and the translator repeated her name.

Stine looked at me. “Strip, Balta,” she said and began unfastening the jacket of her neat uniform.

“Stine, seriously? This wasn’t part of the deal.” The translator barked and whistled.

“What deal?” she said, removing her jacket. “Turn the other way and get undressed. I’m not enjoying this any more than you are, but the quicker we do it, the faster it’ll go. So, strip.”

The Volons watched us patiently. I sighed and turned around, the back of my head pressed against the ceiling. I stripped down to my briefs—Italian pure silk, which made me feel somewhat better about the situation. “Right,” I said, turning back to Stine, who was now in mismatched athletic underwear. The thought crossed my mind that Stine would look good in anything, but I shook it away to focus on matters at hand.

The Volon again spread its arms and muttered. “Please, undress.”

“Seriously?” I said.

Stine glared at me. “Do it, Balta” she said and began removing her underwear with a practiced seriousness that overshadowed any awkwardness she may have felt. I turned away again and dropped my briefs, wondering how the hell my day had come to this.

The circular door in front of us split down the middle and the two sides slid apart. The three Volons stood to one side and waved us through. Stine went first, wasting no time, her professionalism undiminished by her nudity. I followed, my hands covering my genitals. The door closed behind us. The three Volons remained outside.

Before us was a spacious and comparatively lofty room dominated by a shimmering pool of blue-green water, lit from beneath. Soft lights danced across its surface and rippled across the surrounding walls and ceiling.

“Stine, what the hell?”

“Quiet,” she said. “Look.” She pointed at the water. Something was darting around in the sparkling pool. It surfaced and the head of the Eternal Ruler appeared above the water.

Yolin Yoleen Belolin grinned, splashed his hands on the surface and trilled out a joyous-sounding sentence. “Friends, please, join me in the sacred bath,” said the unseen translator. “Water is good, bathing is better.”

Being in the pool seemed preferable to standing there naked, so I crouched, sat on the edge and slid in. The water was warm and chest-high. “Come on, Stine,” I said, without looking at her, and she slid into the pool behind me and came to my side, the water almost up to her shoulders. The Eternal Ruler swam to the end of the pool, about five meters away. He turned to us and rested his skinny little arms along the edge of the pool, his legs treading the water in front of him.

As he began to speak, the calm voice of the translator filled the room, the words wavering as they bounced off the water. “Friends, I am honored you accepted my invitation. I apologize for the cramped access, but we are very small.” He grinned and gestured at his surroundings. “Others built my ship to meet our needs. A good exchange we made for it. A fair exchange. Access to the stars, we received. But what did we give in return for such a vessel?” His snout wrinkled as he looked from Stine to me. “Longevity. Long life. Many years.” The Eternal Ruler fell silent and looked at the water.

Stine inched forward. “Eternal Ruler, do you refer to the trade item I have been told to expect?” Clicks and yaps came from the translator.

“Yes, Miss Stine. Big trade. Consequential trade. Good for Volon.” The Eternal Ruler turned his eyes to the shimmering ceiling. “Good for humans, that I don’t know.”

“Sorry, what are we talking about here?” I said. Stine gave me a quick, penetrating glance.

“This,” said the Eternal Ruler, opening his palm up to the ceiling. Above his hand, a meter-tall projection appeared. An ornate vial, gold and glassy in appearance, glowed above the water. “The tears of the Halat’at tree.” The image flickered and a tree appeared, standing alone on a snow-covered summit, its trunk thick and green, the bark scarred with age. Twisted branches held up a cloud of dark blue leaves that fluttered and twinkled.

“Each year on Volon—our years being not much longer than yours—the Halat’at tenders tap the tree, the only one of its kind,” said the Eternal Ruler. The image drifted closer to the tree’s rough green bark. Through a small hole in its side, a hesitant bead of sap oozed out. “The tree’s tears renew us, we, the extended ones. One drop on each tenth birth day, and we renew again.” The Eternal Ruler closed his fingers into a fist and the image disappeared. “The average Volon lifespan, Mr. Balta, is fifty-six of your home planet’s years. Yet I have been alive for more than five hundred of those years. I am one of six million extended Volon. But, Mr. Balta, Volon is home to ten billion. Not all can take from the Halat’at tree, whose waters run slow from deep below and drop in their own good time. Only those who are able, through wealth or status or exceptional deeds, can afford to be extended.” The Eternal Ruler fixed his eyes on mine with an intensity I had not seen in him before. He grumbled and clicked a sentence. “Does that sound fair to you, Mr. Balta?”

I shifted my weight in the water. Stine’s bare shoulders tensed. “I don’t know, Eternal Ruler. I know nothing about your planet, your people. I just work here, at the station.”

“Yes, you care for those who have many things. Hospitality for very important people. Are they your best people, Mr. Balta? Are they kind?”

“Yes. I guess.” I listened to the translation of my own words as they clacked and grunted off the water, and they, too, sounded like a lie. “No, Eternal Ruler, not all of them. Very few of them, in fact. They have little time for people—for people not like them.”

“Balta,” said Stine, her voice sharp, her brow furrowed.

The Eternal Ruler pushed himself away from the edge of the pool and took two strokes towards us. He settled there, slowly treading water, and pointed a finger at me. “Would you give more time to those people who have little time for others? Because, Mr. Balta, that is, perhaps, what we are offering. The tears of the Halat’at tree can give long life to humans. We know this. On Volon there is a human male, Gindle Abbasi, one of the first of your kind to reach us. This year, he will have lived for three hundred and eighty of your years.”

I imagined a wrinkled fossil of a man. “Is he healthy?” I asked.

The Eternal Ruler brought his hand to the surface and again an image appeared, smaller this time. A man stood upon the water. He looked about my age, forty or so, fit, able. “This is Gindle Abbasi, three of your years ago.”
Judging by Stine’s expression, she was unaware of this man, Abbasi. “Forgive my curiosity, Eternal Ruler,” she said, “but are his mental capacities in line with his physical appearance?”

“Not quite, Miss Stine. A mental decline is inevitable, that we know. Abbasi is still an intelligent man, but his capacities wane. As do mine, far more so, I admit. Long life exacts a toll. One can see too much, remember too much, and begin to care far less.” The Eternal Ruler lowered his hand and swam back to the far end of the pool, small ripples glinting around him. He turned to us, sniffled and again spread his arms out along the edge. “When our unextended—our natural-span population—near the end of their days, some feel they have lived a good, long life. Others see us, the extended, and cry for the many more years they could have lived, were they fortunate like us.” The Eternal Ruler scratched his head. “We are not a warlike species, but our history, since the discovery of the Halat’at tree’s power, has been scarred by rifts and conflict. Now we do better, or at least we think we do. We have systems in place. A hierarchy, as faulted and unfair as it is. The unextended have grown to accept their fate, not always in silence, no, but within our carefully nurtured culture of non-violence. Some would call that a trap, Mr. Balta, a soft and insidious trap. And I am ashamed to say that I have accepted the way things are on Volon. Not even an emperor can change the ways of six million influential subjects who cling to that most precious of things: Life. Yes, maybe we—maybe I—have lost our way. So, no more for me, my friends. When I return home, I will choose to lie on the sands beneath which my ancestors rest, and I will finally fade away in the sun.” He paused and emitted a sharp little snarl, as if disgusted by his reverie. “So, time is time, Mr. Balta. Tell me, why did you not pull me from your bathing hole and remove me from your home?”

I scratched my chin and thought about it. “I’m not sure. It didn’t seem necessary. And, well, you seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

The Eternal Ruler barked out a yapping laugh then continued talking. “Very good, Mr. Balta. A good man. Now, tell me, do we trade or do we not? The tears of our Halat’at tree for your advanced technologies. Our way of extending life in exchange for your knowledge of giving life to dead moons and dying planets. Longevity for expansion.”

I waited, hoping Stine would take over, but she said nothing. “I don’t think I’m in a position to decide, Eternal Ruler. I mean, I’m not a particularly intelligent man. I just do my job, try to keep people happy. I get paid and I buy things I don’t really need. Please, let Stine decide.”

“I wish you no offense, Miss Stine,” said the Eternal Ruler, “but I believe you have your orders.”
Stine turned to me, the light rippling across the water as she moved, her wet shoulders glistening. Her eyes shone, serious and alive. “He’s right, Balta. I was sent here to get this deal done, to push one specific decision. But they don’t own me, no one does. And they don’t own you. Just because they call the shots, it doesn’t mean they know right from wrong. It’s your choice. He’s asking you. So, decide. I’m with you on this, don’t worry.”

“Well, it depends on so much,” I said, wanting to disappear but emboldened by Stine’s presence. “I mean, what’s the deal? How much, how many… How many shots, doses, whatever? I don’t know.”

The Eternal Ruler again held out his palm. The projection appeared and a number hovered in solid green digits: Five million. “Five million drops for five million people, to repeat again every ten of your years.”

“Five million. And on Earth alone there are eight billion, right, Stine?”

“Eight-point-three,” she said.

“Forgive me, Eternal Ruler, but can’t you clone the tree?” I asked. “Or replicate—synthesize—the liquid? So everyone can benefit?”

“We have tried, my friend. For centuries. Abbasi, too, with your own technology. It cannot be done.”

“Then no. No.” I still don’t know, exactly, why I rejected the deal with so little hesitation. Where it came from. I immediately considered changing my mind, feeling like I was depriving millions of people of a better, longer life. But something else, something bigger, tugged at my conscience. I’d known disparity since I was a boy. I still saw it—and tried to ignore it—in the refugees who came to the station to beg for a home, a place of safety, whether somewhere better back on Earth or a colony that hadn’t failed. I saw it in the workers who kept the station running, risking their lives for little reward. In the staff who tried to maintain a smile while the rich mocked them, later to cry in their cramped quarters. Society hadn’t changed in my lifetime; if anything, it had become worse. The rich getting richer and the poor looking for a way out, however distant or dangerous that might be. We hadn’t changed for hundreds of years. We had never changed. Our social constructions, our hierarchies, were, and always had been, unfair. Could I give more to the rich and the powerful, let them spread their roots even deeper and for longer than before? Deep down, I knew they would be the only ones to benefit. So, I said it again, more certain this time: “No. It’s not right.”

“Balta,” said Stine, her voice now soft, gentle.

“I’m, I’m, I’m sorry,” I said, stuttering like I used to when I was a lonely kid.

“No, Balta, it’s okay.” Stine looked at me with compassion in her eyes. “It’s okay. I’m with you.”

---

The three Volon diplomats escorted us back to the shuttle. It was reassuring to be clothed again, but my mind was racing, trying to process a jumble of emotions, most of which I hadn’t felt for years. We docked with the station, tethered over to the carriage and boarded the Axis shuttle to Ring B. Vane and the bearded man were inside waiting for us.

I went to the opposite end of the carriage and strapped in, trying to ignore the rising tension as Stine told them what had happened. Vane was cursing and pointing, red faced and irate, while the bearded man bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. Stine took it all with impressive calm. The two men ignored me, apart from a few searing squints.

We arrived at B Station. I unstrapped and hauled myself out, eager to get away from them. I avoided eye contact with Stine. She didn’t deserve all this.

“Great job, Balta,” sneered Vane as I passed him on my way out of the carriage. I wanted to punch him in the face, but I wasn’t a fighter, especially in micrograv. It would have been a pathetic flail at best. And I didn’t want to lose my job, if I still even had it. So, I left, and they let me go. I picked up a bottle of Glenmorangie—a thirty-two-year single malt—at B Station’s upscale liquor store. Fuck it, I thought, and made my way back to my apartment.

My living room wasn’t the place of solace it had been before. It felt used. I opened the bottle, poured myself a large glass and went to my bathroom. The tub was an oily, grimy mess, the emptied bottle of exfoliating scrub floating on the slick green surface like a sinking ship. The floor was wet. I took a swig of whisky, remembered why I once craved it so much, how it helped me get through the day, and went to my living room window. The Volon flagship hung there, beyond the rings. Would they try to trade again? I doubted it, somehow. I took another sip as the golden hues of the Sahara Desert rolled into view. “Cheers,” I said, lifting my glass to whoever might be trudging across that vast and hot expanse of sand.

The doorbell chimed. I ignored it. It chimed again. “Who is it?” I said.

“Balta, it’s me, Stine.”

“Come in,” I said, without turning from the view. Stine came over and stood by my side. “Whisky?” I asked. “I shouldn’t be drinking, but today seems like an exception.”

“Sure,” said Stine.

I poured her a generous shot while she looked at the Earth. “Here,” I said, passing her the crystal glass. “Cheers, Stine.”

“Cheers, Balta.” She took a sip. “You hungry?”

“I could eat, I guess. There’s a new five-star in the lounge, I can—”

“Let’s go to Husani’s on the spoke. It’s not fancy, but they’re the best kebabs on the station. It’s on me.”

Stine looked tired but her eyes were shining, catching the glow of the Sahara. “Sounds good,” I said. “I hope you didn’t take too much shit back there.”

“I didn’t lose my job, so that’s something.”

“Good to hear,” I said, and the doorbell chimed again. “Shit, what now? Who is it?”

A series of grunts and barks rang out through the door speaker. Stine raised an eyebrow.

“Come in,” I said, reluctantly, and in walked one of the Volon ambassadors. It approached us at the window, bowed and reached up its hands to present me with a small package wrapped in a delicate white material. I took it. The ambassador whistled and clacked then turned and walked out, leaving me holding the gift.

“Well, open it,” said Stine.

I put down my glass and pulled away the wrapping. Inside was a waxy white bar. A note, printed on light blue paper, lay on top of it. “You read it, Stine.”

She took the note and read aloud: “Honorable Mr. Balta. Please accept this gift of Volon soap, to be used while you bathe in your warm waters. It is infused with five tears from the Halat’at tree. Use it sparingly. Nothing lasts forever. Your friend, Yolin Yoleen Belolin.” Stine took a sip from her glass and stared at me. “Balta, don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

“Sure. Okay. It’s… the tears. Right? What do we do, Stine?” I took a large swig of whisky, let its warmth calm me. “We can share it, yes? I mean, not, not together, you know. One at a time. Or we can just keep it. We can—”

“Shut up, Balta,” said Stine, smiling. “And call me Gemma. Let’s go eat, I’m starving.”

---

Host Commentary

I write my host spots the same way a magpie builds their nest. Diving in and picking out the things that are shiny, or a right shape, or that tickle my brain in the right way. There is always at least one. This time there were two, one big concept and one three word line that hits like a train.

The concept here is summed up in this perfect, knife-wielding phrase

‘A soft and insidious trap’

Firstly, that’s surely a Strange New Worlds title waiting to happen. Secondly, that phrase, that concept rings with self-awareness, sadness and acceptance. The Volon is painfully aware that their system is desperately unfair, so much so that they’ve actually done their best to make it more equitable and fairer. Stacked on top of that concept is the simple, horrific question that wraps around this entire concept:

If everyone lives forever, is there enough for everyone?

Despite my cultural upbringing, one-part Celtic melancholy and one-part Secondary School Gallifreyan, I’m an optimist. So I choose to believe that the Volon are working the problem not just in their need to build more worlds but through sharing the wealth. There’s also the clear implication that some elements of the Volon are really not that interested in ensuring everyone gets a slice of the pie. After all if Hell is other people then you maybe want to at least build a guest list.

So the Volon are in serious trouble, and know it, and they’re not fully unified on what to do. They are, basically, us. Complicated, contradictory, doing their best.

But their best really is pretty good because what melts my heart here is how kind, and clever, the Volon are. They go to a hospitality specialist. They give someone who’s life is making sure the rich and privileged remain unbothered by consequence the choice of whether or not to gift them immortality too. In the singular, it puts impossible pressure on the lead characters. From a societal point of view it’s a moment of extraordinary kindness and trust. One embodied in this line:

‘Are they kind?’

Far too often they aren’t. We’ve all worked service jobs. We know what it feels like. So do the Volon and, instead of setting fire to our already blazing inferno of class inequality they trust us to make the choice. It’s awful. It’s vital. It saves us. And perhaps one day we’ll be kind enough, and so will they.

What an awful choice. What a brave choice. What a fantastic story.

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We’re back next week the first of a two-part story. Old People’s Folly is by Nora Schinnerl with narration by Tatiana Grey, your host will be the incomparable Tina Connolly, your audio wizard will be the wonderful Adam Pracht and then, as now it will be a production of the Escape Artists Foundation and distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license.

We leave you this week with this quote from Captain Christopher Pike.

Sometimes hope is a choice.