Author : Tiasha J. Garcia
“Um, Houston, we have a problem,” the woman tittered nervously. Really, she was little more than a girl, radiant in the late spring sunshine as it gleamed off her long brown hair.
“Yes, and what would that be?” the man/boy inquired, relaxing amidst a cloud of pillows and a heap of tangled sheets.
Unseen, the Visitor watched them with a ferocious intensity that was almost like hatred.
“This,” and the woman brandished a little white stick, waving it back and forth.
The man/boy blanched, hid his expression with a sudden urge to cough.
The woman/girl’s eyes filled with tears.
The Visitor clenched his slender, skeletal fingers, all eight on each hand, into a powerful fist.
Every time, every time it ended this way. He had gone back and meddled as much as was possible, altered this moment with little touches like inspiring the man/boy to bring her flowers, or the surprise eating expedition at the park, or a mutual viewing of the flickering motion pictures this culture enjoyed so much.
But never wine, or alcohol of any kind, or anything that could potentially harm that precious fetus.
“Listen, I don’t know if now is the right time…”
“Yeah, me neither. I know, I have all that work at the lnstitute, we’re on the verge of a major breakthrough…”
“Can you just see me with a baby strapped to my chest in the lab? Excuse me, it’s time for a feeding, pass me that beaker please…”
Strained laughter dwindled into an awkward silence that hung like a pall in the bright morning air.
The Visitor’s fingertips were embedded in what passed for palms with his people, so deep into the spongy tissue that thin lines of silver seeped out.
He was going to fail.
Again and again and again, he had seen this moment to its bitter end.
“Well…if that’s really…”
“Maybe if the timing were different, but right now…”
Two of the most brilliant minds on this polluted third world planet casually sealed the fate of billions upon billions with this awkward conversation about career responsibility and personal needs.
There was only one possible salvation, one infinitesimal chance to avoid the galactic Holocaust that would occur in 33.25 solar years.
And once again these blithe idiots threw it away.
The woman/girl picked up the phone, pushing a pre-set number–“Hi, I need to make an appointment with my doctor”–as the man/boy turned away, ashamed, and pulled on his clothes.
They would never meet in this room, or anywhere, ever again.
And so everyone they knew, and trillions of other species, would die.
The Visitor turned away from the window, activating a relay beam to return to the ship.
Research, he thought, more research. We will have to try again. We will have to try harder.
Thus passed a typical Monday, when the destiny of the world was once again decided in favor of a mass extinction event. It was as if the human race didn’t believe it deserved to continue its way of life.
With a rumble of respiratory vents, the Visitor continued to research romance, opening a tome by the esteemed homo sapien author Jackie Collins.
Maybe next time…or maybe not.
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