Member-only story
In the Shadow of Aliens
Call me Ismael. No, that’s not my name. That’s code. When you go looking for the white whale, it is sometimes necessary to bait your nemesis into showing their hand. There are only two things to be afraid of in this simulated game of life, and those things are Agents, and 1979 US, mint pennies.
Encounters usually start with a tapping. Not while napping. I don’t want anyone to suggest sleep paralysis explains how the tapping became a rapping, which demanded I open my chamber door. These were not my usual visitors. The were not the Raven clan, who have been barred forever more. They were conspicuously stoic, visibly demanding, as if their eyes were illuminated by narrow bands of light. Kind of like Morticia Addams thing. I suspect that’s why they wear shades, even at night.
It is natural to be afraid, but if you accept this tall tale as only a model for how to interact with these strange and wearying, mysterious beings dressed sharper than a ZZ-Top song advertisement, you will fair well. Mind you, they’re clever. Smarter than Einstein, but as socially awkward as Sheldon, maybe because of autism, or lack of socialization, or evidence of an AI learning algorithm that has been ‘blocked’ from saying and doing things inappropriately to avoid offending the natives.
