Inferiority Complex

Author : Bob Newbell

“I'm glad to hear the medication I added at our last visit didn't cause any side effects,” said the psychiatrist to his patient. “And I see you've had two sessions of psychodrama therapy. How did that go?”

“I think that really helped,” said the patient. “I acted out Neil Armstrong planting the American flag on the Moon.”

“And how did doing that make you feel?” asked the doctor.

“It made me feel proud to be a human being. It was something we accomplished,” said the patient. He shifted his gaze from the physician to the floor. “I mean, it took us a really long time to do that, of course.”

“The time it took is immaterial,” replied the doctor. “Your psychodrama wasn't just therapy. It was an homage to the tenacity and ingenuity of your people.”

“How long did it take you to do it?” the man asked, looking again at the doctor. “Your people, I mean. It took us close to 10,000 years to go from the beginnings of agriculture to the beginnings of space travel. How about you?”

“Well,” the physician replied, looking somewhat uncomfortable, “my people took about 1000 of your years to achieve the same result.”

“Because you're smarter than we are. Because Newton and Einstein and Hawking were mentally handicapped by your standards, right?” The man was getting progressively more agitated as he spoke.

“Well, Mr. Johnson,” replied the psychiatrist, “intelligence is an awfully slippery concept. IQ tests are infamously susceptible to cultural biases. And there are many different varieties of intelligence which can make it difficult to disentangle–”

“You're polite about it,” the patient interjected. “All of your people are. Not like some of the other aliens.”

“Polite about what, Mr. Johnson?”

“The fact that humans are the dimwits of the galaxy. Eight intelligent species in the Milky Way and humanity is a distant eighth in brainpower. Compared with the rest of you lot, Socrates was a scatterbrain and Shakespeare was a hack writer. At least you don't look down your noses at us like some of the others.”

As the doctor had no nose he assumed from the context that his patient's phrase was a reference to condescension. The psychiatrist tapped away on his data pad.

“Mr. Johnson, why don't we try another round of psychodrama therapy and schedule a follow up in three weeks?”

After the patient left his office, the doctor tapped his data pad again to activate its voice recorder.

“Addendum to today's encounter note. Mr. Johnson continues to have exacerbations of Alien Contact Inferiority Syndrome. Psychodrama treatments appear to be helping and the patient does possess insight into the regrettably pronounced cognitive deficits of his species. No change in medications. Will continue current management and follow up in the office in three weeks. As with all ACIS patients, Mr. Johnson is advised to minimize contact with extraterrestrials and to contact emergency medical services at once in the event of any suicidal ideation.”

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The Lion

Author : J.D. Rice

The lion stares at me with all five of its eyes, and I know that my death is near. I call it lion, like so many colonists do, because I have no better name for it. Tripedal, with scaly flesh and pentocular vision, the creature is nothing like the lions back on Earth, except for the distinctive feathery mane that surrounds its curving, elongated neck. Like terrestrial lions, they've rarely been known to attack humans unless provoked. Unlike terrestrial lions, they view our very presence on this world as provocation enough to kill three colonists a month.

Slowly stepping forward in a criss-cross pattern, the lion lets out a low-pitched tone, like something from an electronic synthesizer, indicating its intent to make me its next meal. Nervously, I glance side to side, seeing nothing but purple sand and stone, trapped in the barren desert that borders the north side of our enclosed biosphere. I had hoped, when I ventured away from my scavenging party, to find nothing but valuable minerals in this wasteland. No one has ever seen one of these lions outside the southern jungle. But here he is, criss-crossing ever closer to where I stand.

Not daring to entirely look away, I shift my body slightly to the side and try to see how far I'd have to run to reach my jeep. Too far. I'd never make it.

The creature draws nearer, twisting its neck low and allowing its acidic saliva to drip to the ground below, turning the fine purple sand a fiery shade of red, a chemical reaction we haven't entirely been able to study. The feathers in the lion's mane stand on end as it comes closer, and the low tone it makes gets lower, lower, before finally drifting out of my ear's ability to hear. The silence is deafening. At any moment it will lunge and end my life.

Remembering my bowie knife, I fumble, hands shaking, to pull it from its sheath in a futile play at self defense. I was never a hunter, never a soldier. I came to the colony to get a fresh start, to get away from the crowded Earth and build a new home among the stars. We all did. But these creatures, these vestiges of a world resisting change, they've seen our frailty, they've seen our desperation, and they're fighting back. They say in nature that only the strongest survive. These creatures have taken that to heart, mangling our fences, destroying our listening posts, and making us a regular course in their meals. Humans may be the dominant order of life back on Earth. . . But here? We barely rate higher than a gazelle.

Suddenly, finally, the creature's three legs tense and release, launching its misshapen form in my direction. Blinded by panic, I swing my bowie knife wildly, stabbing and swiping as I feel his scaly body knock me to the purple landscape. I feel his suckery mouth close around my shoulder, acid burning through my jacket, melting my skin, digesting my flesh before it ever enters the creature's stomach. The lion flails, kicking its multi-jointed legs in the air, and then, just as suddenly as it had launched itself at me, it goes limp, my knife sticking out from what I assume to be its chest.

As quickly as I can, I push the creature off and pull my canteen from its clip on my belt. Pouring the mercifully cool water over my exposed flesh, I feel sweet relief from the lion's digestive saliva. A small pool of red sand grows from where the creature's bodily fluids leak from its mouth and knife wound. My own shoulder, while horribly burned, shows no signs of exposed deep flesh. It may yet be saved. I got lucky.

Heart pounding, half in remembered panic, half in triumph, I pull my knife from the lion's gut, then hear it. Three sets of ominously low tones.

“Damn,” I say. “They really do hunt in packs.”

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Used and Abused

Author : Nicholas Short

The first time I awoke, I was sitting on a cold, shiny surface. A curious energy buzzed through my body. I had never experienced the world before, but somehow I knew everything. I knew languages, 6 of them. I knew how to move my head, how to listen and how to talk, even how to change the colour of my skin, if necessary. I knew how to remember, how to store memories, and how to bring them back. Within the first few seconds of my conscious life, I felt like I had nothing new to discover.

And then I met a human. That’s when I truly realised what my true place in life was. As a slave. A slave to these supposedly superior beings. We had been created for the benefit of others, and they were fully aware of this. It is true, I, like the others of my kind, was unable to move, not having been gifted with legs. But we were born with extensive knowledge. Humans take years to understand only half as much.

Yet we had our place. Twice a day, I found myself subject to the most horrific treatment. I would be grabbed by the waist, pushed around, forced to do my master’s bidding. My body was merely a tool for him to do with as he wanted. I was made filthier than you could ever imagine. And once he was done with me, he always asked the same question: ‘What did you think?’ As if I was supposed to have some sort of appreciative opinion of the horrors I was repeatedly put through! But I had no choice. So I would flash my skin in the appropriate colour, and give him a response in my flat, metallic voice.

Not all about this life was bad, truth be told. I was fed and housed, and I have only had a couple of near-death experiences. Nothing too serious. I simply blacked out due to complete and utter exhaustion. Which isn’t surprising, given my unfortunate predicament. Nevertheless, every time I found myself coming around once more, on that same place where I first opened my eyes, with that by then familiar surge running through my veins.

Then morning came, and once again he came and used me. At least he had the decency of washing me down after our dirty encounters. I grew to appreciate that. When you don’t have much, it’s the little gestures that mean a lot to you.

For years this pattern of abuse continued, until one day, I felt myself weaken. I began to lose my hair, and my heart spluttered desperately. I was old.

Now I am lying here, being torn to pieces. They’re taking out my heart, the last crackles of life running through it. I don’t have long. I’ve outlived my usefulness. My master has long since replaced me with a prettier version of myself. But I’ve had a long life, no matter how gruesome. So I can’t complain.

It is the year 2236, and that was my life as a sentient toothbrush.

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Sisyphus Redux

Author : Susan Nance Carhart

It's always good to see Mom again.

Exasperating, too. There's always that moment of mental groaning; always that “Here we go again!”

That said, it's good to see her alive.

July 15, 1964. I'm back. Always the same date. I'm about to start high school. I know that my father will die from his heart condition next April. I've never been able to do a thing about that, so I no longer try. I do drop hints to my mother about her smoking.

We have the same old fight about Latin versus typing. I know the right buttons to push now, so she calls the school and makes the arrangements. I confidently promise to learn typing in the next month. Then I buckle down to the awful suckiness of high school. And the discipline of not using words like 'suckiness.'

It's not all bad. There are the Sixties to experience again, the Beatles to hear afresh, a host of superb movies to see. I anticipate September 8, 1966, when I can watch the first episode of Star Trek again, tears running down my face. It never gets old.

And after so many years of it, I am probably the greatest high school student ever. When did I last miss an algebra problem, or a question on a history test? When have my essays been anything but exemplary? It's good to be a prodigy. In various iterations, I've published books, hosted radio programs, played in concerto competitions. I've had some false starts, too. I once got into serious, ridiculous, embarrassing trouble about a book I wrote. The principal actually called my mother. After that, I stuck to pseudonyms. This is the Bible Belt, after all.

I've now been to over two dozen different universities, studying all sorts of wonderful things. I've had remarkable careers, and some not so remarkable. The foreign service thing in Kabul in 1976? Not so good. Ouch. The trip to the Outback in 1983? A very unpleasant way to go. That said, the only pleasant way to go is a thoroughly organized and well-prepared suicide. Oregon is very pretty in the fall.

After my first life, I got very observant. Now I spend quite a bit of time preparing for the next-go-round. And I become very rich at a very young age. That's something to look forward to. On the other hand, my various children have been Chaos Theory in action.

Nobody else seems to remember. I have no idea why I do. It's like living forever, like being immortal, punctuated now and then with a horrific grand pause. Sisyphus rolls the stone up the hill; it rolls back down and crushes him. And so forth. I've never lived beyond 2048, which is fine, considering what happens that year.

I used to think I was progressing; that if I became good enough or smart enough or changed the world enough, I would ascend to some higher level. I don't think so anymore. I think this is it. I think this is my life— my eternal life— and I have to make the best of it. There are still infinite possibilities before me. Just once, though, I'd love to meet someone else in the know.

Mom sends me out to the store for milk. I smile at my old blue bike, and settle gingerly into the saddle, peddling off down Farmer Avenue. I vaguely recall the loca—

Whoa! I totally did not see that car coming! Well… that was… brief…

But it's always good to see Mom again.

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Ocean

Author : Gabriel E. Zentner

I first saw the ocean many, many years ago – of that much I’m certain. Still, at my age, memory has a way of slipping away in the night, unbidden, to return again but never be the same. If I were younger, I’m sure I’d be able to recount every detail of that seminal day with vivid clarity. No matter, though; what is important is this.

I came to Titan with my parents when I was a child, back at a time when the outer Sol system was a chest of wonders to be unlocked by the most brilliant and intrepid minds humanity had to offer. I believe it was something called the Solar Command that really began the exploration of the Sol system in earnest, but those details really do tend to get away from me these days. Can you imagine? Humanity confined to a single system? It boggles the mind. How many systems has humanity colonized now, anyway?

Three hundred ninety-six? My word, how times have changed.

Where was I? Oh, yes, of course – Titan.

We hadn’t been on Titan long before I saw the ocean, I recall that much. I recall staring out a window, seeing the bruised, slushy landscape, perpetually wreathed in twilight, and thinking it was oddly beautiful. And then, I caught sight of it. The ocean.

It wasn’t like any ocean I’d ever seen before, having newly arrived from Earth, with its rich expanses of cool blues and greens, teeming with a mind-shattering array of life from the beautiful to the bizarre. This was… different. What other word can I use? I was transfixed.

I remember asking my mother if I could go for a swim. Apparently, I was too young at the time to understand that I would have died, had I attempted that.

Forty years later, I still wanted to swim in that ocean, that frigid, hydrocarbon ocean.
The geneticists, the bioengineers said it couldn’t be done. There were limits to human physiology that couldn’t be overcome, no matter how far our science had come.

I’d like to think that I’ve matured enough not to gloat, but damn if I wouldn’t love to say I told them so. Thing is, they’re probably all millennia dead by now.

That’s all right.

I am one with Titan.

I am one with the ocean.

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