Posted by Menagerie on September 07, 2004 at 20:22:19:
THE CURE
The President sat glumly, staring at the repast before him.
Across the table, the creature from another planet smiled. "Why so despondent, Mr. President?" it asked, a rumbling, basso voice that sounded as if it had descended from the heavens.
The President didn't answer. The being across from him was many times his size, as broad as it was tall. It looked vaguely human, more of a caricature; small eyes set close together, a cavernous mouth. A mouth that never stopped smiling.
It went on, "After all, I've made you a hero. Think of it--you've delivered the cure to the world!" It paused to carve a slab of meat from the platter before the two of them, and slice off a generous chunk; around a mouthful of food, it continued, "And such a modest price! You know, your people have spent billions of your dollars, every year, trying to cure that terrible disease. And what do I ask to end this scourge? A few meals a week. Is that such an unfair trade-off?"
The spaceship had set down on the Mall six months earlier, sending the world into a panic. Then it sat...and sat...for days and days, and the panic subsided into curiousity. Troops ordered to approach it found they couldn't get within a hundred yards; a force field held them back. Reactionary politicians demanded the ship be fired upon, but cooler heads prevailed.
Finally, one day, the ship sent a communique. An unmistakeable one. It interrupted the programming of every radio and television station in Washington. The message was in calm, faultless English; whatever was within the ship demanded an emissary be sent to it at once. Preferably, it emphasized, female.
The President's wife volunteered; he turned her down. The dangers were still unknown; besides, he'd rather send a trained diplomat. He settled on an Assistant Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs; tall, 40-ish, tousled and bespectacled, wearing a conservative navy suit, she strode determinedly up the ramp to the strange vessel, clutching a laptop and armfuls of documents and communications devices.
And was not heard from again.
The calls for an attack were growing louder; the President was afraid to show any force against an unknown entity from beyond the stars. Especially one that could take over the TV stations. On the other hand, what the hell had happened to his Assistant Secretary? Four days passed. Finally, another citywide broadcast; another demand, for another female emissary.
The President had no idea how to comminicate with this thing, so he just walked up as close to to the ship as the force field would let him get. Backed by a dozen sunglassed Secret Service men and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the President bellowed, "I don't know who you are or where you come from, but I want some answers, and I won't send anyone else to your ship until I get them!"
A short pause...and then, a ramp slowly descended from the body of the ship. "Come on up, Mr. President," boomed what would soon be a familiar voice, resonant and deep. "You alone."
"I wouldn't do it, sir," said one of the generals. Two Secret Service men started forward--and, by some invisible means, were knocked flat on their asses.
"Just you, sir," came the unfailingly polite voice.
The President looked around a little desperately, shrugged, and started up the ramp. "What the hell?" he said nervously. "I'm in charge." As he disappeared into the ship's body, a door slid shut behind him.
He was greeted by the alien, twelve feet high and almost as big around, along with a half-dozen robots. "Good evening, Mr. President!" it intoned, extending a massive, fur-covered paw in greeting. "You can call me G'gath; I imagine you have some questions."
Distracted, the President held out his hand as he gawked around at the incredibly complex interior of the ship. Fantastic machines, glowing crystals, pulsing lights were everywhere. "Well, first," he stammered, still staring at all the gizmos, "I'd like to know where you're from."
"Oh, that one's hard to explain," said G'gath. "My home is so distant, your limited devices can't even detect it. Our people have developed a method of instantaneous travel; we've traveled throughout the universe."
"Then, why come here?" said the President, who had a sudden uneasy feeling. "Do we have something you want?"
"Well, as a matter of fact you do, sir," grinned G'gath. "There's no need for consternation, though, because we have something to offer in exchange." It made a peculiar whistling sound; a slot opened up in one of the robots, and mechanical arm extended out, holding a small vial containing a colorless liquid. The giant took it, and held it out to the President.
"This, sir," said G'gath, "cures the disease your people call 'cancer'."
The President was momentarily stunned; then, years of negotiating skills took over. "You mentioned an exchange," he said. "First off, how do I know that stuff does what you say it does? And what do you want in return? Come to think of it," it suddenly dawned on him, "what happened to my Assistant Secretary, Ms. Pollard?"
G'gath laughed. "I knew you'd have some questions. First, this sample is yours for experimentation; I'm sure you'll be back, asking for more. Second, I produce it from my own body, and need sustenance to secrete it. And that brings me to what I want in return...and, to Ms. Pollard. Follow me." Still holding the tiny vial, the alien waved one long arm in the air; a door opened out of nowhere. It ambled through the opening; the President followed.
What appeared to be a large, opulent dining room came into view. In the middle of the room was a table set for two, with one large, covered platter; the cover was covered with condensation from heat, and the aroma of cooked meat wafted from it. Robots stood at the room's four corners; with the creature's gesture, they bustled into action, pouring beverages, folding napkins, laying silverware. G'gath settled his bulk onto a gigantic chair, and motioned to the President. "Please, join me."
It was certainly the strangest state dinner he had ever attended, the President thought as he sat. "So," he said, forcing a laugh, "what's on the menu?"
The alien laughed, too, and as a robot extended a sinuous arm and lifted the cover off the platter, it answered, "Ms. Pollard."
And she was. She was naked; her skin was charred a deep brown. Her hair, head and pubic, had been shorn; she lay on her back, her limbs trussed like a roasted chicken's and her ankles bound to her lean thighs. She had been split open and eviscerated; her smallish breasts lay flat, the nipples singed black. Her sharp, angular face held a last look of surprise. G'gath sounded apologetic. "I'm afraid you arrived just as I was preparing to dine; I've not eaten since arriving on your planet. With your leave, we can continue our chat at the table."
The President couldn't answer; he was busy getting sick. One of the robots had handily extended a steel container from its midsection. G'gath clucked in sympathy. "Well, anyway, here you have it, Mr. President," it said. "I can produce enough cancer serum to cure thousands; I need to eat the flesh of human females to do it. Again, you wouldn't understand; it's the way we"--it uttered an incomprehensible word, the word for beings of its race--"process the hormones in the meat." It picked up a gargantuan carving knife and fork, and began cutting up Ms. Pollard. Plopping a slender thigh onto a plate as big around as a manhole cover, it cut a two pound portion from her quadricep and popped the flesh into its mouth. Quickly chewing and swallowing, the woman-eater from another world looked up at the ashen-faced American leader. "Well," and the smile returned, "do we have a deal?"
The President found himself sitting on the lawn of the Mall, surrounded by anxious bodyguards and the Joint Chiefs. He had finally caught his breath and had launched into a spirited denunciation of the creature that dared to invade his country and eat his Assistant Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. G'gath sat placidly, and suddenly the President was back outside the ship. Next to him was the little vial.
"Did you see Ms. Pollard?" asked one of the military men. The President started to answer, then gingerly picked up the vial and handed it to him. "Send this down to the CDC and have it analyzed," he said. "Tell them it's supposed to be a cancer treatment."
Days passed; the spaceship remained out on the green. The President had decided to lie; he told his staff and the press he'd talked to a machine, gotten no answers, and had seen no sign of the Assistant Secretary. He got a call from his Secretary for Health and Human Services. "CDC tells us that stuff has no effect on cancer in rats," he was informed.
The President remembered what the strange being had said. "Tell them to use it on human patients. Only cases that are terminal."
The Secretary said slowly, "I don't know if they'll authorize that."
"They will," the Commander in Chief responded heavily, "or you're fired." He hung up.
The vegetarian protest group gathered at the Mall, just outside the warning signs the Secret Service had erected near the spaceship. Meat is murder, read one sign; A rat is a pig is a dog is a boy, proclaimed another. The group's chief lobbyist, a dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties, held a bullhorn; a few dozen vegetarians eagerly applauded as she shouted, "We must end government subsidies to animal killers!"
Then, she disappeared; the bullhorn dropped to the ground. In the utter silence, the ragtag collection of vegetarians looked at each other; then, as one, their eyes fixed on the huge, shiny silver ship across the way.
Inside, Miss Sarah Epstein was being prepared. "I was hoping your President would have explained all of this to you by now," the giant alien told her as robots stripped away her clothes. "Your people will benefit from this. Trust me."
Stark naked, the chubby brunette struggled helplessly as metal straps descended from the ceiling, wound under her arms and around her plump breasts, hoisted her off her feet, and carried her into the kitchen. While she was suspended in mid-air, a smooth metal implement homed in on her scalp and pubes; when it separated from her, her hair was gone. The dangling rabble-rouser, kicking her chunky legs and using language she usually reserved for packing company executives, was then hustled through a series of doors into the galley. As the final door slid open, Sarah saw a set of flashing knives attached to mechanical arms emerge from the walls. So this, she thought wildly as the conveyor dragged her forward, is how a pig feels at the slaughterhouse.
This time, the HHS Secretary came to his office in person, along with the head of the Centers for Disease Control. "Mr. President," the doc said breathlessly, "it's unbelievable! We've tried it on a score of patients, all of them facing death within days or hours. Every one of them is now cancer free! One hundred percent!"
"If word gets out to the media," said the Secretary, "the public will welcome whatever's on that spaceship with open arms! Can we get more of this serum?"
To say the least, the President's reaction surprised them. The Old Man looked as if he'd lost his best friend. Finally, sadly, very softly, he said, "Yes, we can."
"Okay," he said grimly, "here are the ground rules." He was back on the ship, in the dining hall; G'gath smiled benignly, patiently, as it pared Sarah Epstein's brisket from her ample middle and began to slice her belly into servings. "I don't want to know where you get your...food. But I want it done on the quiet. No more of these protest leaders disappearing in broad daylight."
"Agreed," said the alien. "You know, I believe this relationship will benefit us both." With a gesture, a robot dispensed another vial. "This sample will rid another hundred humans of that pesky disease of yours; more will be coming shortly." Its smile widened. "Would you care to join me for dinner?"
Without another word, he snatched the flask from the robot and stalked out of the hall.
For a while, the President sat on his dreadful secret. The spaceship remained, a curiousity for tourists. The cancer cure, which he vaguely credited to research initiated by his Administration, made him a national hero. And people disappear all the time; the papers didn't get too excited at first about the growing number of women vanishing from metro Washington.
Then, G'gath discovered television...and started doing its shopping on the tube. A prominent local politician dropped out of sight; then, a female basketball player from American U. Finally, when one of the local TV news anchors didn't show up for the Nine O'Clock News, the President had had enough. With his Secret Service men chasing behind, he charged across the green to the warning signs, stopped abruptly, and shouted, "G'gath!"
In a blink, he was back in the dining hall. Cynthia Vornay, Channel 8 News, was on the platter. G'gath glanced up from his meal. "Mr. President!" it said, and offered a chunk of meat. "Loin chop?"
The President was furious. "You promised, goddamn it! When Congress puts two and two together, they're going to want to bomb you back to wherever the hell you come from!"
The alien ignored the diatribe. "I have splendid news, Mr. President," it said. "You'll soon have all the anti-cancer serum you can possibly use."
"How's that?" the politician said sharply. The creature's smile broadened.
"Well, you see, sir," it boomed, neatly cutting a rack of ribs from Cynthia, "I've gotten word to my fellow"--that indecipherable word again--"about the pleasures offered by your planet. Soon, we'll establish a colony here."
The President stared, and sat. Slowly. "And you'll need--"
"To eat," it finished. "Well, of course, sir. In fact, we're thinking of having an open house when we get settled in. Would you care to join us for dinner? And, of course," as it paused to swallow one of Cynthia's breasts, "your lovely wife."