Everything Will Be Explained Tomorrow: 1 / 3

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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This story was inspired by the Abduction of the Sabine Women (753 B.C.)

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“Tomorrow is never what it’s supposed to be.” — Bob Dylan

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“Where are the three men named James?” I demanded.

“Oh, yes — the ‘James Gang,’ as you call them. Isn’t that right?” Evander gave his half-smile of amusement. “They’re in trig.”

“In trig?” I repeated, not understanding.

“No, no,” corrected Rufus. “Not trig — ‘trig’ is short for trigonometry.”

“Ah!” Evander acknowledged. “Of course! Trigonometry is when a man has three wives.”

“I hope you’re joking,” Rufus replied, “because nothing could be further from the truth.”

While they traded jokes and misunderstandings, I tried to work out Evander’s real meaning. In trig? Intrigue? In— Then it hit me.

“The brig? Are they in the brig?”

“If ‘brig’ means confinement, then yes, they are in the brig.”

“Why!?” I was frustrated both by the language barrier and by his offhanded coolness.

“They tried to escape!” Evander exclaimed, as if it were obvious. “They tried to escape — from a spaceship, of all things!”

“Can you blame them?” I demanded. “We’ve been kidnapped — you’ve kidnapped the lot of us! It’s natural to try to strike back, to escape, to take control!”

“Escape?” Evander scoffed. “Where exactly would they go? We’re already near the limit of your solar system—”

“Too far to walk home,” Rufus quipped, “even if you knew the way.”

“And as to ‘taking control’ — In a day or two I’ll give you a tour of the bridge and the engine room — the entire ship, if you like! You and any of the others who care to come. Then you can judge for yourselves whether you’d be able to ‘take control.’ Trust me, our technology is far too far beyond you. You wouldn’t know where to begin.”

I gestured mutely, and managed to mumble, “But we have to try.”

Evander smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Yes, my dear Paul, you have to try. Believe me, we appreciate your trying. It shows your energy, your dedication, your spirit. We certainly appreciate spirit, don’t we Rufus?”

“Yes, sir, as you say.”

I huffed, deflated. “Can you at least tell us why we’ve been abducted? Whatever our fate, I think we deserve to know! Do you mean to put us in a zoo, or use us in experiments of some sort? Will we ever be allowed go home?”

Evander held up his finger, signalling me to wait. Then he conferred with Rufus for a moment. Clearly, he was puzzled by some of the words I used. Once Rufus explained what I’d said, Evander turned to me. In a kind, somewhat condescending, voice he assured me, “No, no. No zoo, no experiments: neither of those things. Nothing like that. Nothing bad. Nothing disagreeable. Don’t worry. It’s something good, something new, something to be proud of. And I — all — will be — will have be — been?.” He frowned, frustrated, having lost his way in the grammar of his last phrase. He turned to Rufus and spoke briefly in their own language. Rufus translated for me: “Everything will be explained tomorrow.” Then he winked. Which irritated the hell out of me.

Evander smiled. “Now, please, Paul, rejoin the others, will you? Your James Gang will be free once they are calm. At the moment, however, we are quite busy. We need to get to—”

“Free space,” Rufus offered, and Evander nodded.

“Until we reach this... free space, our close attention is required, and in the meantime — until tomorrow — I will thank you for your cooperation and patience.”

“Well said,” Rufus complimented.

 

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A guard walked me back to the common room, where the other abductees were waiting. The lock automatically clicked behind me as the door closed. I looked around at the expectant faces of my fellows.

Like all the others, I was dressed in steel-gray cotton drawstring pants and a matching short-sleeved shirt. They resembled hospital scrubs. We were all barefoot, which was mildly distressing. The floor resembled smooth slate. It was actually quite pleasant to walk on. Still, being barefoot was a sign of our captivity.

“Is the James Gang still alive?” Sam demanded.

“According to Evander, they’re in the brig. They tried to escape.”

“And how do we know that’s true? How do we know they’re still alive? Did you see them? No? Maybe they’ve the first guinea pigs.”

“He says the Jameses will be released as soon as they calm down.” There were a few disbelieving grunts from then men, and then — trying to pre-empt the next questions, I said, “He told me that everything will be explained tomorrow.”

“So we’ll know which death we’re going to die?”

“He said it’s nothing like that. His exact words were Nothing bad. Nothing disagreeable. Don’t worry. It’s something good, something new, something to be proud of.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrugged. “That’s all I know. Hopefully ‘tomorrow’ means right after breakfast.”

After I’d repeated my conversation with Evander several times and replied to every question the men could ask, when it was finally and indisputably clear that I had no further information, the others broke off and returned to their previous activities. A handful made their way back to the gym. The bridge foursome took their cards in hand. Another handful wandered to the cafeteria so they could watch the next meal automatically appear. The rest had books to read, people to converse with, or — like me, nothing at all to do but stare into space or wander listlessly.

I was exhausted from the tension, from the conversation with Evander and Rufus, with the grilling from my fellow captives, so I retreated to my cell. Each cell was small, containing only a bunk and a flat area we could use as a chair or bedside table. I sat on my bunk and stared at the floor. It wasn’t easy, this situation. The fact that Evander chose me as a spokesperson, as a go-between, helped somewhat. It gave me something to do. It gave me an outlet for my questions, even if Evander usually wasn’t forthcoming. At the same time, it made me the target of the other prisoners’ stress and uncertainty.

For all of us, though, tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. We needed answers. No matter how calm some of us seemed, we were climbing the walls, internally. If we didn’t get answers soon, someone was going to snap.

Already Allen, whose cell was two left of mine, spent most of his time curled in a ball on his bunk. He still got up for meals, but it seemed a tenuous connection to life.

Three men, who all happened to have the first name “James” had banded together to actively resist. We noticed they were gone this morning, and if Evander was to be believed, they’d somehow gotten out of our prison. Now they were in the brig. Out of one prison into another. Out of prison, into jail.

All of us as a group had already compared notes. In the first three hours after waking onboard the ship we talked, asked questions, looked for answers, hunted for commonalities. We knew everything we could possibly find out on our own. We were thirty men with nothing in common save being young, healthy, and single. The last thing each of us remembered was going to bed the previous night. None of us were known to each other. None of us lived in the same city. We were each from a different state in the United States. We had various political and religious affiliations. We had a variety of skin colors and ethnic backgrounds. None of us had performed any military service. None of us had a police record. None of us had any enemies to speak of. As far as we knew, none of us had any previous alien contact.

Another thing the thirty of us had in common is that we didn’t have anyone to miss us — not really. I mean, the majority of us had jobs, so there was someone who’d at least be angry when we didn’t show up. None of us had living parents or siblings.

None of us had girlfriends, wives, or children — for various reasons. Most of us gave terse explanations for our meager social lives. Everyone had difficulty discussing their intimate life. It made all of us uncomfortable, so we left it.

I don’t know why, but something about the way we abandoned the topic gave me the impression that all thirty of us were virgins, like me.

It seemed like it might be a significant fact, if it were true. And yet, what would it explain? I didn’t have a reason to pursue it.

In the end, there were only two big questions: the first was What do they want with us? Why did they take us? but the more intriguing question — at least for me — was How did they choose us? What criteria did they have? Was it hard for them to find us?

It made some sense that we came from all over — if the aliens were trying to avoid attention. If they’d abducted thirty men from one place, even a big city like New York or Los Angeles, it would make a splash; people would notice. But one man from Wichita, another from New Orleans, a third from Little Rock... no one would have any reason to connect our disappearances.

Somebody might miss us, but only a small, local level. There might be an investigation, but absent any evidence of foul play, in the end they’d figure that each of us just wandered off without saying goodbye.

“Lunch is here!” Came the call from the cafeteria. We trooped in, some faster than others. The menus so far were focused on comfort food, so no one was surprised to find hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, and fries. There was, like every noon and evening so far, wine, beer, coffee, and tea to drink.

Interestingly, I noticed that none of us tended to overdo: although there was no apparent limit on the wine and beer, no one drank more than one or two glasses. And nobody loaded their plates with carbs. We were all slim, trim men — with what you might call a runner’s body. Maybe that meant something, too, to the aliens, although how or why they’d select on that basis was beyond me.

Among the normal fast-food selections, today there was an odd addition: next to the salad (which most of us avoided) there was another vegetable. It was leafy, like lettuce, satiny to the touch, green like limes, and came in the form of balls, a little larger than golf balls. Imagine if someone took a head of soft Boston lettuce, shrank it to golf-ball size, and colored it kelly green for St. Patrick’s Day. A few of us touched it, surprised by the velvety feel, but generally it was greeted with What the hell is that?

None of us ate it, not even a taste. Nobody even put it on their plate.

The hamburgers, though, got rave reviews:

“Best I ever tasted!”

“Juicy as hell!”

“You gotta hand it to these spacemen: they know their way around a grill!”

The hot dogs and veggie burgers got similar raves.

 

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The afternoon went pretty quickly. Everyone’s mood was visibly improved. Even Allen — who usually curled up in a ball on his bunk — remained in the common room with the rest of us. He was quiet, sure, but at least he was standing up, walking, talking, and even smiling a little.

Harvey pulled me aside and in a confidential tone asked, “Do you think they dosed us with something? Maybe… maybe put something in the hamburgers?”

“It’s possible,” I said, “but if they did, I gotta say, I like it. I feel better than I have in a long time.”

“Yeah,” Harvey agreed. “Me too. And will you get a load of Allen — he’s come out of his shell.” He glanced around the room, his jaw working as if he were chewing tobacco. “I’ll admit: I feel pretty fucking fantastic. Not high — just healthy. But I don’t like people fucking with me.”

I promised to ask Evander if I got a chance to talk with him before the big explanation tomorrow. Harvey nodded, gave me a comradely punch in the arm, and walked away, nodding to himself.

That evening at dinner there was no sign of the strange green vegetable. The meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans all tasted pretty standard. They weren’t as remarkable as the burgers from lunch. If we’d been dosed at lunch, they didn’t repeat it at dinner.

 

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Breakfast was pretty standard as well. It resembled the spread you’d find in most hotels: fruit juices, coffee, tea, various types of toasts and rolls, fruit salad, scrambled eggs, omelets, bacon, and sausage (both link and patty).

“No cereal and milk, though,” Allen observed. “I guess they draw the line there.”

“I don’t miss it,” Harvey said. “As long as there’s bacon, I can’t complain.”

The little conversation exchange between the two men gave me pause. It was uncharacteristic of both: introverted, curled-in-a-ball Allen and suspicious, I-don’t-like-people-fucking-wth-me Harvey. They were the last people I’d expect to relax, to act and talk as if everything was normal.

I was calm, too, maybe a little calmer than yesterday, but I tend to be calm. Evander told me that’s why I was chosen as the go-between: my tension and stress levels were consistently lowest of our group. It was metabolic, or genetic, or the way I was raised — who knows? So I was calm, but that was nothing new.

I expected the others to be agitated, grumbling, even growling. Today was the day we’d (hopefully!) get some answers. Rather than placid, even tempers, I figured we’d be riled up with anticipation. Generally speaking.

Once everyone finished eating, Evander and Rufus walked into the cafeteria.

“Greetings, everyone,” Evander began. He rubbed his hands and looked around the room. “Today, I’ll deliver the explanation you’ve been waiting for. As I say, first I will explain, and then try to answer any and all questions you might have.

“If you’d like to get some more food or drink, please help yourselves.” He gestured to the buffet. “I apologize for not having spoken with you sooner, but one of the vagaries of interstellar flight is that — for all its vast emptiness, some areas of space are quite difficult to negotiate. Sometimes the problem is political; other times astrophysical. In any case, until now, all of our attention was required. At last we are in free space and have quite a bit more latitude.”

He paused and squeezed his hands, one in the other.

“This topic is difficult for me to speak of, because it deals with personal loss, and not only my loss, but that of every member of the crew. Even so, I will do my best to put things plainly and directly. My planet — our planet — my people — we are in danger of extinction. Within a single generation. If nothing is done, the last of us will die within what you call our lifetimes. My lifetime, Rufus’ lifetime, and then no more.

“Our planet, our people, were attacked — overwhelmed — by a nonhuman race called the Dumbols — I realize how silly and foolish that name sounds to you, but believe me, they are nothing to laugh at. They are pitiless. They are literally cold-blooded, and there is no limit to their capacity for subterfuge, for cruelty, for sadistic…” (He waited for a word, but it didn’t come.) “The Dumbols are evil. Pure evil. They are unkind without reason, and violent without provocation. We did nothing to provoke or incite their assault on us. In fact, we knew nothing of their existence until they began killing our —” here he spoke an alien word to Rufus, who nodded, cleared his throat and explained, “Their first victims were our people who were offworld. The Dumbols attacked our ships. Their clear intent was to eliminate our capability for space flight.”

“Yes, exactly,” Evander said, picking up the thread again. “Once they believed they’d succeeded in eliminating our ability to traverse space, they released a toxin in our atmosphere that rendered us incapable of producing children.

“And for that reason, we have abducted you. We abducted you because we need your help. We want you to save our race, our world. We want to bring you home to breed.”

“To breed?” Harvey repeated. “For how long?”

“For the rest of your lives, hopefully. We want you to produce as many children as you can.”

Harvey and I spoke in the same moment. With a mixture of disbelief and pleasure, he smilingly said, “You took us so we can fuck all day long?” While I asked, “And you think thirty of us is enough?”

“To answer both questions in turn,” Evander said, “Yes, we want you to engage in sex all day long, if you’re physically able to do so. And yes, there are only thirty of you. This ship is only capable of carrying sixty people: thirty crew, thirty of you. We are working on rebuilding our fleet, but we must do so in secret.

“Thirty is a beginning. Thirty means we have hope. Just think: there is a legend on your own world that you all were born from a single, primal pair. In terms of actual fact, the population of Earth was once as low as three thousand people, yet now you are more than seven billion.

“Rebuilding takes time.”

I was overflowing with questions. “Will you be abducting more people from earth?”

“Yes,” Evander replied. “We believe we could take as many as half a million men without being noticed.”

A very animated discussion followed. I half-listened, but didn’t take part. Other questions were more important to me. Once the discussion flagged, I asked, “What makes you think we won’t succumb to the same sterilizing agent?”

Evander’s eyes lit up. “A very good question! An excellent question!

“To the naked eye, there is no physical difference between us. We are surprisingly close, very close, in terms of biological type. To use your own taxonomy — is that the correct word, Rufus — taxonomy it is not the study of taxes, I hope?”

Rufus laughed. “It is NOT the study of taxes. You have the correct word. ‘Taxonomy’ is the science of classification.”

“Classification!” Evander repeated. “Exactly! Now, in your own terms, in the terms of an Earth biologist, we are all — everyone on this ship — in the same genus. We are all of the genus homo, which means ‘man’. However, we are a different species. You Earthmen are homo sapiens, the ‘wise man’ or maybe the man who understands. We, on the other hand — I don’t know what you would call us. We don’t have this hierarchy of biological types in our language. I suppose you might call us homo aliens or some such thing.

“The point is, our scientists have determined that your species is immune to the sterilizing toxin. They have also determined that the toxin — having done its fatal work — is no longer present in our environment. Although it’s very potent, it has a quite abbreviated half-life.”

Allen raised his hand. “What if the dumbbells return?”

“The Dumbols,” Evander gently corrected. “At present, they have no reason to return. Their stratagem is generational. It’s likely they could return in thirty years or so. Perhaps even twenty years — who knows? — but it’s doubtful they’ll return earlier than that. They believe us to be trapped and unable to reproduce. Perhaps they will forget about us entirely. Perhaps they’ll pass by, decades from now, just to see if any of us remain.

“Whenever they return, we will be ready. At present, we are playing possum. Our population is not growing, and — even with your help — our population will shrink. No matter how quickly you produce offspring — you and potentially half a million others — it will be a long time before we return to normal population levels. For these reasons, If the Dumbols return, they will only see what they expect to see.

“Our ships are being constructed off-world. Also, we had the luck to discover a Dumbol scrapyard and managed to salvage three of their minimally damaged vessels. Our scientists and engineers are hard at work, reverse-engineering their technology, their weapons and defenses. Our techno-military-industrial complex is already at a high degree of fruitful activity.

“The first phase of our long-term plan is to appear harmless. The second phase is to prepare an effective defense, and only then, the third phase: to launch a devastating, irresistible, decisive attack.”

This was followed by a moment of silence. We were all impressed with the weight of his words.

Then Evander spoke again. “I hope you will understand the gravity of what we are trying to do, and the essential part that each of you will play. You thirty are critical to our future. You will take your place among our legendary heroes. You will rescue us from extinction, from a reproductive dead end. We, as a people, will be immensely grateful.”

The awed, respectful mood was broken by Anselm, a kind of bookish geek, who asked, “How did you choose us? Did you somehow analyze our DNA to determine our suitability?”

Evander conferred for a few moments with Rufus, as he always did in times of linguistic uncertainty. He repeated “DNA” to Rufus, who replied with one of their terms and a bit of explanation. The light of understanding broke on Evander’s face. He exclaimed, “Oh!” and gave a short laugh.

“Yes, your DNA. Your precious DNA. No, we did not analyze your DNA. You may keep your DNA for yourselves. It was not part of any consideration whatsoever. You were chosen for what we can call superficial characteristics: your physical build, your medical history, the fact that you have all your teeth and hair and inner organs. Such things as that.”

“But all of those things are determined by DNA, aren’t they?” Anselm demanded, unwilling to concede the point.

“I don’t know,” Evander replied. “Are they? In any case, you people, with this DNA, you are at the hammer phase. You know? When your only tool is a hammer, everything else is a nail. Is that it?”

“Close enough,” Rufus said.

“One of the clear lessons of history is that when you attempt to engineer your offspring, you end up cultivating cruelty and creating monsters.”

Anselm, sulking, demanded, “Your history or ours?”

“Both,” Evander replied. Then, after a glance at the clock, he observed. “In a half hour it will be lunch time. I would like to stop here, since I have other duties that require my attention. If you like, we can resume tomorrow after breakfast. I’m sure other questions will occur to you.”

We all began to get up — mostly animated by the need to use the restroom — when Harvey was struck by a thought. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “One more question: did you put something into our lunch yesterday? Some kind of mood-altering drug?”

“Oh,” Evander said, as if he’d forgotten. He seemed torn. “That is an important question, one that needs answering, but I—” he turned to Rufus, who nodded and said, “I can answer it.”

Visibly relieved, Evander left the area.

“First, why don’t we take a little break,” Rufus proposed. “Just ten minutes, and then we’ll really get into it. This topic goes well beyond a simple yes or no.”