Generation A (21 page)

Fortunately, on the online broadcast of a late-night AM talk radio show, he heard that the forestry industry was looking for people to man their lookout towers. Bingo! Jacques was on the phone immediately. The forestry people sent him an online form, he filled it out, and within a half-hour he was packing his bags to head out to a tower deep inside the national forest. Once there, he’d only have to see human beings once a month, during his grocery drop, and this suited him just fine. There were no mechanical noises of any kind—no engines or lawn mowers or barking animals—just peace, glorious peace, solitude, glorious solitude, and his books.

The first week was heaven. The only noises that occasionally irked him were the rare jets flying eight kilometres above, midday crickets, nighttime mosquitoes and, for one night only, a storm.

However, Jacques miscalculated his reading speed and finished all of the books he’d brought with him ahead of schedule. He became bored and was grateful when a supply truck showed up. He asked for a ride into town to get more books, but was informed that he wasn’t allowed to leave his tower. Panicking, he faked illness and claimed he had to go to the doctor’s office in town (next to the bookstore) and so into town he went.

His driver was anxious to get back, but Jacques dawdled as he selected many more books, and when they returned to the forest, it was in flames—a fire had laid waste to thousands of square miles of trees.

The forestry people contemplated pressing charges against Jacques, and he decided to hightail it out of the country. So he consulted the job postings on craigslist again and saw that
NASA
was looking for a one-way pioneer colonist to go to Mars. The pioneer would never be coming back to Earth and would have to wait for years, possibly decades, for further colonists to join him. Could a more perfect job exist? To sweeten the deal, the job came with free faster-than-light wireless, free satellite channels and every book ever written, stored in a hard drive. Woohoo!

NASA
, to their credit, did extensive psychological profiling of all applicants, and Jacques turned out to be a perfect candidate. He was hired, and got to the launch pad just minutes before a letter from the forestry service’s lawyers arrived in his mailbox.
Phew
.

The six-month flight to Mars was enjoyable.
NASA
put him into hibernation during the trip through the asteroid belt. Zero gravity was a novelty, but when it came time to land, Jacques couldn’t wait. He got down to the business of enjoying being alone and reading and watching movies, the Internet and TV. He was very happy. He had no real tasks except to wait for future colonists—life was hunky-dory.

This could have gone on indefinitely were it not for the fact that Mars was populated by Martians. At first, when Jacques saw things moving outside his capsule’s window, he thought he was imagining things, but he wasn’t. Not being an easily spooked type, Jacques put on his spacesuit and walked out into the chilly Martian landscape, where he came upon three Martians who looked an awful lot like Oompa Loompas—except that they were almost spherical with protective blubber and had orange fur.

“Greetings, Earthling,” the lead Martian said.

Jacques was startled but not frightened, though he didn’t know what to say.

The Martian went on, “Sorry to utter such a cliché. We thought it would be funny, but then sometimes you don’t get the laughs you’d hoped for and you move on. So, how do you like it here on Mars?”

Jacques understood the importance of making first contact with an intelligent alien species, and he tried to be super-serious: “On behalf of the people of Earth, I come in peace.” The aliens looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” asked Jacques.

“What’s
funny
,” said a Martian, “is a) that you think you represent all Earthlings and b) that they wish us peace. Oh, brother.”

“So why are you here?” asked another Martian.

“I’ve been sent to colonize the planet.”

“Why on earth would you
want
to come here? There’s fuck-all to do. We extracted all the worthwhile minerals ages ago. The only reason we don’t go crazy is that we’re all good talkers and are able to keep ourselves amused.”

“It’s a good thing we found you,” said another Martian. “You’ll never, ever, ever, ever be bored with us around to keep you company.”

Jacques was stunned. First, there was the frustration of having rocketed all this way only to find neighbours who were way too talkative and way too intimate way too quickly. Second, these neighbours spoke ironically and had a sense of humour, traits that Jacques, like many hard-core book lovers, did not possess.

“I’m going to go back inside and have a nap,” he said. “Maybe I can come hang with you guys later on.”

“By all means. We never sleep and we love visits. The more the better.”

Jacques awoke from a shallow sleep to the sound of furry orange fists tapping on his door. He got up groggily, went to the depressurization chamber and looked out: it was one of the Martians he’d met earlier.

“Can I borrow a cup of sugar?” the Martian asked.

“What the . . . ?”

“Just kidding. Let me in. We can swap house visits. I’m doing a reno right now, so it’s a mess, but I know you can get past that.”

Jacques felt he had no choice and let the Martian in.

“Nice place. High-tech without being sterile and—
ooooh
—free wireless! Don’t you just hate it when hotels charge you for wireless? It’s like they don’t want you there in the first place.”

Jacques said, “I’m going to make some dinner. Are you hungry?”

“Me? No. This is our blubber-metabolizing season.” The Martian pointed to his Shar-Pei forehead. “It all goes straight to this thing,” he said, indicating a protuberance that resembled a latex prosthesis one might have seen on an episode of
Star Trek: The Next Generation
.

Jacques poured a glass of water and got a jar of Tang—revolting sugar-loaded orange-flavoured breakfast crystals—from the pantry. He opened its lid and scooped out a spoonful. “Want some?”

The Martian screamed. “Good grief ! Are you trying to murder me? Let me out of here! Let me out of here!”

“Jesus, what’s your problem?”

“The
problem
, gringo, is that your citrus molecules are pure poison to us Martians. You could have warned me before you went and got your spoon.”

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Whatever. Just let me out of here.” The Martian entered the airlock. “BTW, there’s a potlatch tonight to welcome you to the neighbourhood. Try to put a good face on it—do it for the kids.”

When the Martian was gone, Jacques sat on his cot, wondering what to do now that his hard-won peace and solitude were gone again.
If only somebody had told me there were neighbours on Mars!

But then he had an idea.
Aha!
From his bed, he removed a blanket that was part wool, part synthetic, like the ones airlines used to have in first class. He spread the blanket out on the capsule floor and then grabbed his canister of Tang from the kitchen counter and shook it all over the blanket. He took the blanket with him that night to the potlatch and gave it to the Martians. Mayhem ensued. The Martians never troubled Jacques again.

But a little while later, he received news from
NASA
that three fellow colonizers were on their way. Jacques heard this news in horror.
NASA
had betrayed him. When he protested, the woman from
NASA
HR said, “You haven’t been very good at keeping us up to date, Jacques. Maybe if you’d been a bit more communicative we wouldn’t have had to send more people.”

Shit
. He sent back a message, “Atmosphere is poison and filled with a virus that is making me bleed out. Do not come, I repeat, do not come.” But he was sure that
NASA
would see through this ruse.

And so Jacques lay back on his cot. It wasn’t just one colonizer that was coming, but
three
.

Jacques wondered what to do. If he played dead,
NASA
would cut off his wireless connection and maybe sabotage his digitized books.
No!

Well
, he thought,
at least in the meantime I have several months to figure out how I’ll murder my fellow colonizers as soon as they get here. And let’s face it—
NASA
is going to want to kill me, too. Better be damn quick about it. Man, what a situation: kill or be killed. Life always boils down to that in the end, doesn’t it?

The Preacher and His Mistress Slut

by Ms. Diana Beaton

They met on an Internet sex connection site. They arranged for SWNS—sex with no strings—and the ground rules were that neither had a clue who the other was, or what their powers were.

“I have to say,” said Brenda, as she searched the motel room for her pantyhose, “for SWNS, this was pretty darn hot.”

“You do this a lot?”

Brenda stared at him. “Part of the deal with SWNSing is that you don’t ask questions like that.” She leaned to look for her shoes, which were under the bed.

“But I want to know about
you
.”

Brenda froze. “Stop right there.”

“My name is Barry.”

“Fuck.” He’d snagged her for the moment. “Okay, Barry, why do you want to know more about me?”

“Because I think you’re special.”

“Really now.”

“Yes.”

“What makes me so special?”

“The look in your eyes near the end there. Something special was going on.”

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t believe me, then.” Barry reached for his cigarettes.

“You smoke? Nobody smokes any more.”

“I’m not nobody.”

“Very witty.”

“Want one?”

Brenda paused. “Sure. Why not.”

She lit up, knowing that she shouldn’t, that she should grab her clothes and get dressed in the parking lot if she had to. Instead, she asked, “So then, what is it you want to know about me?”

“Your name, for starters.”

“Brenda.”

“Okay, Brenda, tell me what you believe in.”

“Like God and everything?”

“Sure. If that’s where your head takes you.”

“I think God made a mistake with human beings. Nothing original there.”