The Alien Equivalent
By Harris Tobias
Zarkan, The Destroyer, Overlord of the Drund fleet, peered at the pearly blue planet on his screen— so helpless, so vulnerable, so ripe for the taking. He curled his mouth organ into the alien equivalent of a sneer and turned to Admiral Zvsb, equivalently sneering beside him. “They are ripe for the taking, are they not?”
He struck a gallant pose, or rather the Drund equivalent of a gallant pose and wrapped an appendage around one of Zvsb’s necks. For this was indeed an historic occasion. The taking of his 100th world. Few if any Overlords had attained such glory. The on board cameras were rolling and Zarkan’s words would be heard by Drund masses everywhere. He had ordered his secretary to prepare a few words in praise of the great Drund race, their all conquering military and their inevitable dominance over the galaxy. About to begin his brief address, he raised an appendage in the air and... sneezed, or the alien equivalent of one.
“Gavoort’cha! Gavoort’cha!” was what he said. He was forced to take out the alien equivalent of his handkerchief and wipe his running voort.
“May Glan keep you, Overlord,” mumbled Admiral Zvsb and several other officers on the bridge. It was a humiliating moment for Zarkan. The entire empire was watching. A running voort was a sign of weakness. He composed himself and began again.
“Gavoort’cha!” he couldn’t control himself.
“May Glan keep you, Overlord,” said the Admiral and then he too sneezed violently several times. The lower ranking officers wished him well but Zarkan, as befitting his station, said nothing. One did not wish health to lower ranking officers.
“My pardons, Overlord,” said Admiral Zvsb. “My eye stalks have been itching all day. Perhaps it has something to do with the samples we took from this world.”
“Bah, impossible,” said Zarkan, “Did we not sterilize everything according to procedure?”
“Yes your greatness, but still...”
“Gavoort’cha! Gavoort’cha!” Several officers on the bridge joined the sneezing Admiral. This was bad, very bad. What if the Supreme Overlord was watching? What would he think? Zabnor was not called The Merciless for nothing. A few more sneezes and he might recall the ship and the entire crew might get to experience the alien equivalent of humiliation, torture and death.
“Let us at least complete our mission,” exclaimed the overwrought overlord after another fit of sneezing left him dizzy and panting. One tentacled hand hovered over the button that would render the planet below a smoking cinder. As a result of tear filled eye stalks and yet another bout of sneezing, the wrong button was pushed. Ammounting to the alien equivalent of a colossal fuck up. The exploding ship flashed like a star for an instant then winked out unnoticed by anyone on the ground many of whom slept the drugged sleep of the chronic hay fever sufferer.
- - -
Harris Tobias was raised by robots disguised as New Yorkers. Despite an awkward childhood he learned to read and write. To date Mr. Tobias has published two detective novels, The Greer Agency and A Felony of Birds, to critical acclaim. In addition he has published short stories in Down in the Dirt Magazine, Literal Translations, Electric Flash and Ray Gun Revival. He currently lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia.
By Harris Tobias
Zarkan, The Destroyer, Overlord of the Drund fleet, peered at the pearly blue planet on his screen— so helpless, so vulnerable, so ripe for the taking. He curled his mouth organ into the alien equivalent of a sneer and turned to Admiral Zvsb, equivalently sneering beside him. “They are ripe for the taking, are they not?”
He struck a gallant pose, or rather the Drund equivalent of a gallant pose and wrapped an appendage around one of Zvsb’s necks. For this was indeed an historic occasion. The taking of his 100th world. Few if any Overlords had attained such glory. The on board cameras were rolling and Zarkan’s words would be heard by Drund masses everywhere. He had ordered his secretary to prepare a few words in praise of the great Drund race, their all conquering military and their inevitable dominance over the galaxy. About to begin his brief address, he raised an appendage in the air and... sneezed, or the alien equivalent of one.
“Gavoort’cha! Gavoort’cha!” was what he said. He was forced to take out the alien equivalent of his handkerchief and wipe his running voort.
“May Glan keep you, Overlord,” mumbled Admiral Zvsb and several other officers on the bridge. It was a humiliating moment for Zarkan. The entire empire was watching. A running voort was a sign of weakness. He composed himself and began again.
“Gavoort’cha!” he couldn’t control himself.
“May Glan keep you, Overlord,” said the Admiral and then he too sneezed violently several times. The lower ranking officers wished him well but Zarkan, as befitting his station, said nothing. One did not wish health to lower ranking officers.
“My pardons, Overlord,” said Admiral Zvsb. “My eye stalks have been itching all day. Perhaps it has something to do with the samples we took from this world.”
“Bah, impossible,” said Zarkan, “Did we not sterilize everything according to procedure?”
“Yes your greatness, but still...”
“Gavoort’cha! Gavoort’cha!” Several officers on the bridge joined the sneezing Admiral. This was bad, very bad. What if the Supreme Overlord was watching? What would he think? Zabnor was not called The Merciless for nothing. A few more sneezes and he might recall the ship and the entire crew might get to experience the alien equivalent of humiliation, torture and death.
“Let us at least complete our mission,” exclaimed the overwrought overlord after another fit of sneezing left him dizzy and panting. One tentacled hand hovered over the button that would render the planet below a smoking cinder. As a result of tear filled eye stalks and yet another bout of sneezing, the wrong button was pushed. Ammounting to the alien equivalent of a colossal fuck up. The exploding ship flashed like a star for an instant then winked out unnoticed by anyone on the ground many of whom slept the drugged sleep of the chronic hay fever sufferer.
- - -
Harris Tobias was raised by robots disguised as New Yorkers. Despite an awkward childhood he learned to read and write. To date Mr. Tobias has published two detective novels, The Greer Agency and A Felony of Birds, to critical acclaim. In addition he has published short stories in Down in the Dirt Magazine, Literal Translations, Electric Flash and Ray Gun Revival. He currently lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia.
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