Originally published in Darkness Blooms.
A. On the way home from work, your stomach rumbles from hunger. You haven’t eaten since you ran out of anemone soup yesterday. You live in a time when housing and hygiene products are provided by the government, but human worker bees must barter for food. The extraterrestrials that conquered Earth created a paternalistic society, but there are limits to their beneficence. Humans who volunteer to transform their bodies into alien form are treated as equals.
Since your favorite plasma collection center is closed because of the summer solstice, you catch the complimentary hovercraft shuttle to the Organ Extraction Emporium.
Two Xenomorphs with malodorous slime dripping from their jaws are sitting on either side of the only vacant seat. Their halitosis makes your nausea worse, so you stand by the door and clutch the stabilizer bar.
The hovercraft accelerates past a freighter and a line of taxis. Whenever the vehicle zips around a corner, your stomach lurches.
A giant leech sitting underneath the NO FOOD OR DRINK sign is gnawing on a blood sausage.
Sweat trickles down your spine. Finally, you see the Organ Extraction Emporium in the distance. The flashing sign on the building says GOODS FOR TRADE: KIDNEYS LUNGS MARROW FEET. Whole blood and plasma aren’t on the list.
If you enter the Emporium, proceed to C.
If you leave without making a trade, go to B.
•••
B. The hovercraft latches onto the building, and the vehicle’s door opens directly into a waiting room that is furnished more like a nightclub than a hospital—chrome and glass furniture, a water sculpture, jazzy muzak playing on the intercom.
A recorded voice says, “Exit now, exit now.” Passengers trundle past you in an orderly row. No one shoves or cuts in line, not even the Xenomorphs.
You consider trying to exit through the clinic, but there are more than a dozen nurses milling about. Surely, the hovercraft will head downtown to pick up more passengers? You select the seat furthest from the door. When the shuttle lifts off, hot air that stinks like disinfectant blasts from the climate control vents.
You wake trapped inside a white, rectangular box that’s not much wider than a coffin. There’s a shower nozzle and a single light dangling above your head, no windows or furniture, just a stack of newspapers and magazines from 1950, three packages of Silly Putty, a baseball signed by Joe DiMaggio, a bottle of antihistamine tablets, and three lipsticks.
The significance of 1950 is glaringly obvious. October 7, 1950 was the final day of the World Series. It also was the day that your stepfather’s grandfather landed on Earth, starting the chain of events that led to a strange symbiotic relationship between extraterrestrials and humans—a relationship that your rash actions jeopardized twelve years ago.
You’ve been on the run ever since.
There’s a seam in one wall that looks like a door. You dig at it until two of your fingernails crack and bleed. No one answers when you yell for help.
Your stomach rumbles again. You’ve never felt so ravenous.
The crimson lipstick tastes like wax. The peach lipstick tastes like wax. The mauve lipstick smells like grapes but tastes moldy. You tear out a page from a Life magazine and use it to wipe your lips and tongue.
The wall in front of you lights up with a sign: THIRSTY? PRESS HERE.
You’re afraid that if you touch the sign the showerhead will blast water until you drown, but wouldn’t a quick death be better than dying of thirst?
If you don’t touch the sign, the shower blasts water until you are drowning, proceed to Z.
If you do touch the sign, go to C.
•••
C. You enter the Organ Extraction Emporium. Only ten other patients are waiting to be served. You breathe a sigh of relief and admire displays showing augmentations available for trade.
The Xenomorphs ogle sample lung augmentations. A human mannequin has gills on her sides, like a shark.
A humanoid nurse with silky copper-colored fur taps your shoulder. She says, “Congratulations! I’m glad you’ve chosen to become an extraterrestrial. What would you like to trade?”
“Feet?” you say, with only a bit of uncertainty.
“Excellent choice.” She grins, displaying exceptionally white teeth.
One patient stands in front of you in the FEET line, a human with wings grafted to her back. The augmentations must be fresh, because the incisions are covered in bandages.
The humanoid nurse says, “Take off your socks.” She’s talking to the other patient, not you, but you take off your shoes and socks anyway.
You feel a stab of envy when you see the winged woman’s feet. She has high arches, no calluses or deformities. Your bunions are quite painful.
“Right or left?” the nurse says.
The patient replies, “Can I trade both?” She points at a sample pair displayed on the top shelf.
You wonder why she selects waterfowl feet when eagle feet are a better match for her wings, but you keep your opinion to yourself.
“Excellent selection,” the nurse says.
The winged woman reaches for the duck feet, but the nurse says, “Don’t touch the display. Please take a seat. A doctor will be with you shortly.”
The nurse examines your feet and probes the toes. You try to hold still, but her talons poke all the sensitive spots.
“Bunions,” she says. “I’ll have to get approval for the trade.” She presses a button on the side of the display case and says, “Bunions on MTP, 3.225 centimeters right, 3.310 centimeters left.”
You hold your breath while the gruff voice on the other end of the intercom jabbers in a language you don’t understand. Tears seep from your eyes as you realize that your life will be even more miserable if you don’t get to trade for feline extraterrestrial paws.
If you change your mind and decide not to barter, go back to B and drown in the shower.
If the trade is approved and you opt for feline feet, proceed to D.
•••
D. The aliens are remarkably efficient. A transporter beams you to an operating theater painted in pastel shades, except for the ceiling, covered in white acoustical tiles. The robotic physician is quite handsome, his wide-set eyes with their vertical pupil slits alluring, yet promising dangerous consequences for noncompliance. Of course, you get the jitters when his arm unfolds, becoming a saw, but the intravenous anesthetic works so fast, you’re in slumberland before the nurse finishes pulling down your pants.
When the grafting is complete, proceed to E.
•••
E. Everything in the recovery suite glimmers—the burgundy carpet, the crimson walls, and the scarlet sheet that covers your legs and feet. Your fingers tingle, but when you try to pull back the sheet, you discover that you’re paralyzed.
The sparkly ceiling begins to swirl. The texture changes, as if it’s liquefying. Droplets that look like blood fall and splash you, but you can’t feel them.
Your lips part in a hysterical giggle.
Click, click, click, click, footsteps approach from the hallway. Through the opaque glass brick wall, you see a tall, very thin silhouette. The panel slides open, and a Venusian mantis wearing lavender surgical scrubs steps into the room. His mandibles clack in the universal greeting that means “Peace and prosperity, your paws are fabulous.”
“Really?” you say.
With a grand flourish, he flings back the sheet. The fur on your ankles and paws is spotted like a cheetah’s coat and is indeed fabulous.
Proceed to F.
•••
F. Unfortunately, the dosage of anti-rejection meds was inadequate. The incisions swell, itch, and ooze yellowish fluid that reeks like rotten mushrooms.
Proceed to G.
•••
G. A very large face peers through the window in the operating theater. It must be a Moongubian, because his rotund, bald head is three times the size of a large Jack-o’-lantern’s face, and Jack-o’-lantern extraterrestrials are heftier than African savannah elephants.
“Hello,” you say, but he keeps peering and doesn’t answer.
Despite the festering infection that itches like hell and the straps on your arms and legs that shackle you to the surgical cot, you’re feeling remarkably calm. Damn, their drugs are strong.
You say, “Can I have my feet back?”
If you persist in demanding your old human feet, go to Z.
If you stop complaining and agree to keep the feline paws, go to H.
•••
H. The sexy robotic surgeon returns and jabs your hip with a very large needle. Alien antibiotics are super-potent, stronger than their narcotics.
Proceed to I.
•••
I. The new recovery suite’s apricot décor is more soothing than convalescing in a room decorated in red furnishings that remind you of gore. The TV mounted above your bed is retro, an old black-and-white model. You watch a loop of news broadcasts about the 1969 Apollo 11 moon landing. As you listen to Neil Armstrong say, “The eagle has landed,” a tear trickles down your cheek. How naïve the humans were, thinking they were the first to walk on the moon.
A nurse enters your room. Her white sneakers squeak as she walks across the linoleum. She’s as old-fashioned as the TV—her hair is bleached and teased, and she has no visible body modifications, not even tattoos or facial piercings. The nurse’s uniform dress and matching hat look like they are from the 1960s, too.
“How are we feeling?” she says.
If you complain about being exhausted, go to Z.
If you tell her that you’re feeling better, proceed to J.
•••
J. The cheetah paws are indeed fabulous. There is no sign of infection, not even swelling where furry skin is grafted to human epidermis. Of course, physical therapy is unnecessary because extraterrestrial medicine is very advanced.
In the hospital courtyard, you take daily runs around the exercise track. The other joggers look ordinary, as retro as the nurse, but none of them stare at your magnificent extraterrestrial appendages, except for one little girl. Maybe she’s a Saturnian in disguise?
Sprinting is a breeze. The sensation of your clawed paws flexing with each graceful leap is so sensational, a delicious shiver travels from your soles to your groin. The wonderful tingling makes you think sexy thoughts about the nurse.
After six days, you have not slept a single minute, you’ve eaten nothing but lime Jell-O and creamed corn, but you’ve never had so much energy, or been so carefree. Every time you see the nurse, you imagine what she might look like naked.
The drugs that are pumped into your body through a port that was inserted into your neck are so potent, that you almost don’t mind the sexual frustration. But your overblown libido is a warning. In the past, you tried to smother grief with sex.
If you attempt to seduce the nurse, proceed to Z.
If you experience a sudden pang of homesickness and ask to return to 2093, proceed to O. (There is no K, L, M, or N. Teleportation to those deadly voids would lead to a fate worse than Z).
•••
O. The Organ Extraction Emporium looks exactly the same as before—except all of the patients are gone, there are bloodstains on the waiting room floor, and the friendly humanoid nurse has a nasty gash on her forehead. The robotic doctor who sawed off your feet is stitching the humanoid nurse’s wound closed.
Despite the sapphire fluid dripping from the nurse’s forehead to her eyes, she sees you and says, “Congratulations! I’m glad you’ve chosen to become an extraterrestrial. Would you like to make another trade?”
If you say, “I want the cases of soup and vegetable paste you owe me for my feet,” go to Z.
If you say, “Do you do hand transplants?” go to P.
•••
P. The Emporium is out of extraterrestrial hands and paws. They offer you a tail if you’re willing to let medical students watch the grafting procedure. Of course, you agree.
Go to Q.
•••
Q. The fuzzy poodle-style pom pom would look absurd with your cheetah paws, and why get a tail if it’s not prehensile?
Go to R.
•••
R. A human man with thick spectacles walks into the examination room. You expect that his clipboard has your discharge papers, but he’s a psychiatrist who wants to talk about your feelings. When he asks about your family, your heart rate accelerates so fast, you collapse. Proceed to S.
•••
S. Only a dream could be this bizarre, but you are really and truly awake. After a super-duper dose of beta-blockers and a mood lifter, you prance through the waiting room, padding daintily on your extraterrestrial feline paws. The hovercraft shuttle is waiting.
Board it, and proceed to T.
•••
T. The trauma of talking about your family has wiped your memory. You believe you’re back where the whole debacle started, on the quest for soup and veggie paste. You grip the hovercraft’s stabilizer bar and try not to stare at the pair of Xenomorphs, but it’s impossible to ignore them ogling you.
“Nice gams,” the taller Xenomorph says.
You glance down at your legs, expecting to see your usual, semi-flabby human thighs. What a shock! Holy hell! Who stole your legs and feet? And your trousers are missing, too! Instead of being horrified, you feel a surge of sensual energy. “Meow,” you say, pivoting to display your sleek feline thighs and calves. Flexing your left paw, you extend the claws.
“Meow,” the shorter Xenomorph flirts back.
An elderly Saturnian thunks his cane against the floor and grumbles, “Get a room.”
Both Xenomorphs open their jaws wider and hiss.
If you encourage the Xenomorphs to slaughter the Saturnian, go to U.
If you apologize and negotiate peace between the Xenomorphs and the Saturnian, proceed to V.
•••
U. The Saturnian spits venom in the Xenomorphs’ eyes. Lashing out blindly, the parasitoid extraterrestrials slaughter nine other passengers before their own internal organs melt, dissolving in puddles of acid.
Amidst the chaos, the Saturnian escapes, unharmed. His species resembles human toddlers, but their venom is eighty times more lethal than spitting cobra venom.
Since you incited the deadly attack, you are arrested and charged with mass murder. The Alien Armistice Treaty of 2071 abolished the U.S. Constitution, so no attorney represents you at your trial. Of course, the sentence is death.
Proceed to Z.
•••
V. You are teleported back to the Organ Extraction Emporium. The humanoid nurse points at a stack of boxes and says, “I’m glad you came back. Shall I have your food delivered, or would you like to make another trade?”
She shows you two surgical consent forms with your signature. You have a vague memory of trading your feet for feline extraterrestrial paws, but how the feline legs became attached to your buttocks is a mystery. Of course, the forms cannot be forgeries. Extraterrestrials are more ethical than humans. They never lie or renege on a promise.
You say, “I’m feeling sick to my stomach. Can I have some water?”
“Of course,” the nurse says.
The water tastes like blueberries and forgiveness. No, not forgiveness—regret. With each sip, you reflect on your mistakes.
Dizzy and forlorn, you must proceed to W.
•••
W. A nurse with a Nevon’s pallid complexion and three very muscular arms, like a Flemon, unwraps a thick needle and stabs your chest. When she inserts the central venous catheter, it hurts like hell.
An anesthetic would’ve made the procedure painless, but you opt to be lucid. You take a deep breath, and exhale. The extraterrestrial marrow transplant won’t absolve you of your mistakes, but if you’re lucky, you might gain the strength and wisdom to make amends.
The intercom plays a discordant, jazzy tune that reminds you of the last time you saw your stepsister. Your eyes fill with tears. By the time the song is over, the nurse has finished the infusion. Unfortunately, the needle leaves a gaping crater, wider than your pinkie finger.
A beetle with a shiny, blue exoskeleton skitters across the room and leaps onto the surgery cot.
The blueberry flavored water that you drank earlier was laced with a mild paralytic agent, so you don’t flinch when the insect climbs onto your body, which is fortunate since the barbs on the creature’s legs look light and feathery and certainly would tickle. It nuzzles your furry feline hip with its feelers and crawls up your belly to your chest.
The extraterrestrial insect regurgitates and spits into your wound, sealing the hole with healing mucous.
Proceed to X.
•••
X. Two thousand and thirty-seven steps—an arduous climb, despite your extraterrestrial feline augmentations. You could take a hover taxi to the Supreme Chancellor’s residence, but ascending the steps is an essential segment in the journey towards reconciliation.
Your rucksack contains an electronic tablet and a photograph. Physically, the burden is light. Mentally, it nearly breaks you.
Out of breath, you ascend the final step and stare at the stately mansion that was once your home. Sunlight gleams on the white stone columns. The front door is open.
Proceed to Y.
•••
Y. Three robotic sentries are standing in the hexagon-shaped foyer. One of the robots points a rifle at your face.
You say, “Can I see the Supreme Chancellor?”
The robot lowers the weapon and says, “Proceed.”
As you walk towards the throne room, you begin to tremble. Bile crawls up your throat. You swallow the bitter fluid.
Supreme Chancellor Tatig is sitting on his throne, flanked by two sentries. He does not smile when you enter the room.
There is a large painting on the wall. The image of your stepsister looks like the photograph in your rucksack, except a tiara rests on Claralune’s furry head.
Shaking in trepidation, you kneel in front of the throne. You are determined not to cry because Tatig loathes emotional displays.
Supreme Chancellor Tatig is the only family you have left which is ironic because he is the leader of the extraterrestrials and you are human, linked to him by your mother’s marriage. Your biological father was an anonymous sperm donor who sired you before Tatig and your mother met.
Tatig bares his teeth. The canines look longer than you remember.
You say, “I’m sorry. Please give me the chance to earn your forgiveness. I didn’t mean to hurt her.” You are speaking of your stepsister, not your mother. Mom died of cancer nine years after she married Tatig. She wouldn’t accept the extraterrestrial augmentations that could have saved her.
Tatig places his furry paw on your forehead. One of the talons nicks your temple, but you try not to flinch.
You close your eyes and open your consciousness to cognitive mingling.
Like a movie, your memories unspool. Claralune has your electronic tablet and is snooping, learning secrets that seemed so important when you were a teen. When she sees you, she drops the tablet and runs, heading for the ravine behind your home. You hear a shriek and a thunk. When you find Claralune, she’s fallen to the bottom of the ravine. Her neck is broken and she’s not breathing.
Tatig’s grief is overwhelming, a hot metal jab to your temple, worse than the catheters that speared your chest and neck. You cry out in pain.
He enfolds you in his embrace.
“Will you take the final step?” he says.
“Yes.” You hug him tighter.
“Complete augmentation?”
“Complete,” you say, sealing your fate.
Tatig presses an intercom button.
His robotic security team escorts you to the Organ Extraction Emporium.
After the surgical procedures are finished and you regain consciousness, Tatig visits you in the recovery suite. “I forgive you,” he says.
Living the life of a feline extraterrestrial is hardly perfect, even though you can vote and have the same constitutional rights as the aliens.
The surgeons did not extract a portion of your human brain, so you recollect enough of your memories to dwell on your mistakes. Your dreams are plagued with nightmares, but you will not die destitute, or shamed.
If you prefer to start your new extraterrestrial life with a blank slate, swallow three Navocon spiders. The arachnid enzymes will purge your painful memories and erase all regrets, leaving you with the blissful outlook of a newborn kitten.
•••
Z. Go back to C and trade your feet and legs for feline extraterrestrial augmentations. You really don’t want to end your life at Z. Slow evisceration by extraterrestrial leeches is a miserable, grisly way to die, worse than mating with Xenomorphs.
