So if the first person to contact another world is automatically ambassador, what happens if an accident involves first contact being between the alien civilisation and Bigot McAssface, who would fit right in on that Greater Deregulation. Specifically, the rest of BMA’s civilisation, especially the ones interested in galactic alliance, would usually say the complete opposite of anything he does, but now he’s their galactic spokesperson.
[AN: This story will contain slurs because my main character is an arsehole]
“Keeping
the channel open and waiting for a rescue that will never come. Goddamn
slopes and reee-tards running everything take all the good jobs away
from a hardworking man. None of ‘em can do a decent job for the right
price. Like hell was I paying two weeks’ wages for a substandard repair
job that I could do for myself for less than a meal! I did just as good a
job as any of them stoopid fucks. Probably better. It did last three
days longer than the usual patch.”
What Andrew Kysely did not
reveal was how fifteen separate techs told him to stop his bad habit of
over-gunning his engines or doing fast-reverse braking. That sort of
thing was bound to burn out an engine ahead of its time.
“Gonna
put on some music. If you idjits out there hate what I play, then how
about you boost a little faster and get here sooner. The longer you
take, the longer I’ve got, on the record, putting my opinions into the
comms.”
He put on one of his favourites, They Took My Job So They’re Gonna Die. An underground Country classic.
When
he got back from the toilets, he would wax lyrical about the censorship
inherent in Purgatory politics. His people were so oppressed. The
darkies in power kept going on about equality and leveling the playing
field, and then never giving the hard-working white people any kind of
help they would appreciate.
Something about skill levels and willingness to work.
Idiots.
He
was still in the can when something went strange with physics. He could
never afford a grav drive - those damn slopes overcharged for the
things and refused to give him one because he would ‘kill’ it - so the
first thing he noticed was how random droplets of piss tended to slow
and stop in the air unless he vacuumed them up. They were supposed to
spiral towards the walls and join the general patina that the idiots at
locks and docks refused to clean.
The next thing he noticed was,
after he flushed and cleaned up, how the regular kick-off didn’t work,
and how he had to swim to his cockpit.
The view out of the window was purple smoke and… some kind of eye-dazzling haze.
And
coasting through the mess was some… weird thing. Like a giant brain
with whiskers and… peacock feathers? Undulating along like a
jellyfish.
They gently shoved his ship along with feather-tendrils the size of an arterial highway. And then they were gone.
Normalicy resumed like waking from a dream.
It took him a full minute to realise that he was broadcasting dead air.
Andrew
took up the mike. “Don’t mind me, guys. Take your time. I’m only
hallucinating from some kind of deprivation. Or the chemicals you keep
sticking in my ration packs have finally caused a reaction. I told you. I
keep telling you. A man. Needs. Meat. Maybe a few vegetables, but
mostly meat. Chemicals ain’t food. I’m reacting to something in there
that you idiots use to substitute for REAL FOOD.”
And then the
aliens came. It was a bulky, blocky ship. Andrew kept on the air,
describing the vessel and tripping over his words. All the way until
they dragged his ship inside.
Koop’xand’l had the bad luck
to be assigned the new ambassador. The human communicated by yelling,
yelling louder, and baffling attempts at mime. It was not a clean
creature, and seemed to expect others to look after its messes.
Therefore, it was either some variety of elite… or a candidate for Diminished Responsibility.
The jaunt through the new wormhole was quick A short hop with no internal nexus points. The Mark-Maker
hovered in a position clear of the wormhole and mined data from the
inhabited planets’ broadcasts. Some of which filtered into Koop’xand’l’s
dataplat.
Most useful were words that the human could understand. “Many calm. Ambassador staying many calm.”
The human gaped. Then slowly enunciated. “How. Did. You. Learn. To. Talk?”
Evidently, the new ambassador believed the Coelophita to be less than intelligent. Reducing things down to that level was almost insulting. “We are scan planet transmissions. We are hunt information. We bring. We use.”
“Are you telling me that you’re learning from the media broadcasts?”
Ah. So he wasn’t that slow, after all. “Correct.”
“Those’ll give you the wrong picture. Let me tell you what’s really going on…”
Koop’xand’l
recorded it, of course. For later translation. And she was able to
confirm some things as true. The planet was called purgatory. He was
from a group of people called Cawkids, a thin slice of the population
that, according to the media, felt entitled to a larger slice of the
metaphorical pie. And, according to Ambassador An’dru… deserved it for
existing.
Later examination would prove that there were no
Cogniscent Rights violations in the Purgatory System. The Cawkids were
isolationists who believed in their past victories (on another planet)
and refused to admit that their absent privilege was cheating.
And,
a matter of some minor interest, all the Cawkids resided on one
smallish continent called Nutexus. It bristled with prejudice, bullets
and beer.
Purgatory proved to be mostly full of decent humans who
honoured and respected the List of Cogniscent Rights without ever seeing
it beforehand. They had developed it independently. A notation of some
merit for the humans therein.
Unfortunately…
The Purgatory delegate had at least tried to pick up both GalStand and Coelophita and mixed them both in her confusion.
“Citizen Kysely is number outlier. Should not being counted. He is number anomaly. Worst example of planet.”
“We
are aware,” said Koop’xand’l in the little Ingliss he knew. “Law
remains. First encounter being most experience. Experience gaining
position.”
Secretary Esoghene winced. “He is not representing planet. He is representing minority only. Is much bad.”
“There may being solution,” offered Koop’xand’l. “I am hear words ‘killing with kindness?”
“…so
I got me a fancy gold jumpsuit,“ Andrew rubbed his greasy hands down
its front. He doubted that any of the weirdos in the arena could
understand him, so it didn’t matter what he said. Just that it went on
for a good long while. “And this matchin’ bracelet and anklet set. And
all the meat I could ever want. Eggs, bacon, gravy. Y’all know how to
feed a man. ‘Course I put on a li’l muscle,” he patted his now-ample
belly. “But that’s a sign of prosperity, ain’t it? I’m doing good. I am
doing good.“
Pretending to be his assistant, Rong looked up
from her tablet monitors to see if Andrew was done preening.
Considering how his core food group was Deep Fried, and his addiction to
foodstuffs that were bad for him… she estimated he had about a week
left.
A month, if he discontinued his habit of ignoring the medtechs.
She,
and three other ‘assistants’ were all poised and ready to take his
duties over on the instant of the inevitable heart attack.
[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
