Trang (28 page)

“Me?” Philippe laughed. “Why? I’m
just junior staff.”

Shanti gave him a quizzical look.
“You’re an up-and-comer, everyone knows it. You’ve been in a lot of tough
places. And you were the only one who knew what was going on at Guantánamo.”

“I didn’t
know,
” said
Philippe.

“But you
suspected,
and no
one else did.”

“I suspected, and I wrote a
memo—big deal,” said Philippe. “It didn’t do the least bit of good.”

“You were
right.
You have
good instincts, and the DiploCorps has got to value that.” She nodded. “If they
don’t fuck us over, it’ll be because of you. Only because of you.”

He was walking down the hallway to the door. Behind the
door was something awful.

The hallway itself looked
normal. Cheery and normal, like a regular hallway in a regular home. There was
pleasant chatting coming from the other rooms. But Philippe knew there was horror
here. Behind that silent door, in that room, was the place where it happened.

It was important to stay quiet,
or they would come and get him. If he could make it, if he could find out what
was behind that door and get out alive, then he would have the evidence.
Everyone would know, and he could stop it, stop it all. Stop it in time.

“
Hello, Philippe,” said a voice
behind him.

He whirled around. “Get out!” he
hissed at the Host, who was not only talking loudly but glowing like a neon
sign. “Get out now before—”

The guards ran into the hallway.

“
Hello,” said Philippe, making a
desperate bluff. “I’m Philippe Trang from the DiploCorps, and I have a meeting
with General Jesus. Hello! Hello!”

But they didn’t even look at
him.

They quickly surrounded the
glowing Host. “What the fuck are you?” one snapped.

“
Philippe,” said the Host. “Cut
this out.”

“
What the
fuck
are
you!?
”
the soldier screamed.

“
I’m an alien,” said the Host.

Oh no,
thought Philippe.

“
Do you believe in Jesus?” asked
another guard.

“
Who?” asked the Host.

“
He glows,” said the first
guard. “Like an angel. He thinks he’s an angel.”

“
No, I don’t,” said the Host,
offended.

“Shut up!
”

They were forcing him back into
one of the rooms.

“
Look, Philippe,” said the Host.
“This is ridiculous, OK? This is all in your mind, and you need to get rid of
these guys so that you and I—
eiiiiiiiigh!
”

One of the guard had whipped the
Host with a flail. It had sharp metal pieces attached to a half-dozen leather
thongs. The guard whipped him again.

The Host made that horrible
shrieking noise, the noise that made the hair on Philippe’s arms stand on end
and tied his guts into knots. Red blood dripped from the Host’s wounds onto the
carpeted floor.

“
Philippe, that really hurt! And
what is this red stuff? What are you doing
to me?”

“
I’m sorry,” said Philippe,
tears running down his face. The guards gathered around the Host, whooping with
joy as they brought their flails down again and again against the Host’s back,
his legs, his face. The men, the carpet, the walls became spattered with blood
and small chunks of flesh.

Philippe’s knees gave out from
under him, and he sank to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the carpet.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Philippe felt like crap. He’d had another nightmare, another
bizarre and upsetting combination of everyday life on the station and the
horror of Guantánamo. That Host was there again, making the horrible shrieking
noise the Swimmer drones used for an alarm, insisting that he needed Philippe
and that Philippe was hurting him. And Philippe could only watch, utterly
helpless.

This time they had used electrified
needles to burn out the heresy. The Host had been unable to move—his legs were
mysteriously paralyzed—and he blamed Philippe for that, too, insisting that the
diplomat had the power to intervene.

The alien had been so persistent
that Philippe actually believed him for a moment, but then one of the guards
turned to him and said, “You didn’t stop it,” and just like that, he was
helpless again. At that, the Host had gotten angry, telling Philippe he would
“get to” him some other way.

The whole thing was disturbing on
every level, one of those toxic nightmares that poison a whole morning with
dread.

Philippe went to the mess hall,
picked up a ration bar with extra caffeine, and sat by himself to eat it. As
always, he wasn’t alone long—George and Baby came in, got their bars, and sat
next to him.

“I got some dates,” said Baby. “You
know, when the aliens came here. Did you know that this place is like 700 years
old? I didn’t think it was no 700 years old.”

“As opposed to
station
years,”
Philippe snapped.

“Earth years, yeah, I did the
math,” said Baby. “Ptuk-Ptik was saying that it took about 50 years to build,
so I guess it’s actually 650 years old. And the Swimmers came about 70 years
after they finished building it, so 520 years there. The Cyclopes are the most
recent except for us, and they’ve been here 30 years. And the Pincushions got
here less than 120 years before they did, so that’s 150 years for them. The
parts in between I don’t know nothing about yet.”

“When did it arrive?” Philippe
asked, irritated. The two shrugged. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? People should
tell me things like that. There’s a motion detector and a camera right there on
the ceiling next to it, and someone must have disarmed the no man’s zone, so it
obviously didn’t sneak in without anyone noticing.”

“Maybe the night shift let it in,”
said Baby.

A slightly hurt edge had crept into
her voice, and Philippe suddenly realized how rude he was being.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Baby. “I’m
a bit of a barbarian this morning. Thank you for finding all that out about
when everyone came to the station. You did a really good job, as always. I
always appreciate it, even when I’m being horrid.”

“Well, hey, you’re a science guy,”
said Baby, giving George a nudge with her shoulder. “Maybe you can do
something. Like, examine the aliens. It’d be a little science, right? It’s
better than not doing nothing.”

“We tried to get the Magic Man to
agree to an examination, and he didn’t even seem to understand what we were
asking him to do,” said Philippe.

“Well, that’s the Magic Man for
you,” said Baby. “I bet I could get Ptuk-Ptik to do it, though.”

Baby and George both looked at
Philippe—she raising her left eyebrow, he raising his right. Philippe thought
for a moment.

“We should try to do it through
official channels, I think,” he replied. “I just have no idea how asking to
perform something like a medical examination might be received.”

“It’d be totally non-invasive, I
promise,” said George.

“I know,” Philippe said. “I just
don’t want to step on any toes. Maybe I could offer myself up as a trade—you
examine an alien volunteer, and their doctors can examine me. Anyway, I’ll
float it past the Hosts first. Baby’s right: If anyone will agree to do it,
they will.”

So later that day, Philippe (with
Bubba and Doug in tow) headed for the Hosts’ living area. Philippe got off the
elevator platform and was walking through the cafés when he saw a light out of
the corner of his eye.

He turned. And there, walking and
talking to two other Hosts, was the glowing, golden Host of his dreams.

Chapter 12

The Host was now not glowing at
all, although he still looked a little more golden than the others. He stopped
at one of the hand sanitizers, and he and his two companions were cleaning
their hands when Philippe caught up to them.

“Hello!” he said. “I’m the human
diplomat.”

They seemed to ignore him, so he
greeted them again. One of them noticed him and pointed him out to the others
with a chirrup. Philippe realized with a start that, in all likelihood, none of
them had translation devices.

He smiled anyway and waved, which
sparked a brief but animated discussion among them. He followed them to their
table, where a serving Host brought their food. They all seemed rather baffled
about what to do next—one of them spoke to the serving Host, but another appeared
to interrupt him. The third began thrumming, and the other two quickly joined
in. The serving Host left, and they all stood there, the Hosts not touching
their food. They had another conversation, this one even more animated than the
last.

“Greetings, human diplomat,” said a
translated voice.

Philippe turned. It was Ptuk-Ptik.

“Oh, thank goodness,” said
Philippe. “I want to speak to these Hosts, but it seems that they don’t have
translation devices. Do you think you could translate?”

“Of course,” said Ptuk-Ptik. He
walked up to the Hosts. “This is the human diplomat, and he would like to make
your acquaintance.”

The no-longer-glowing,
now-dark-orange Host spoke. “He says he is honored to greet you and wishes you
all good things,” Ptuk-Ptik said. “He would be happy to answer your questions
and to share a meal—he does not eat our food, it is most likely toxic to him.”

The last phrase was apparently for
the benefit of the other Hosts.

“Who are these people? I take it
they are not priests,” said Philippe.

“No, they are not—he thought you
might be priests. No, this Host—” Ptuk-Ptik indicated the Host who had been
glowing “—is a merchant who provides the food from our planet that the Snake
Boys eat. He is not a priest, but his job furthers our divine mission as much
as any priesthood. This Host—” he indicated the Host to the left, who was
redder “—is his son, for he has the enviable fortune to have a wife. This
Host—” indicating the one to the right “—is his nephew, for he has the enviable
fortune to have a sister.”

As Ptuk-Ptik made the
introductions, Philippe looked the merchant over. No trace of a glow
remained—in fact, the merchant really didn’t look at all like the Host in his
dreams now. He was thinner and longer, he wasn’t gold anymore, and he had spots
in the wrong places.