Writing: another ‘Sand’ story

(Originally shared as an FB Post on 7th February, 2013.)

So I found a couple more sto­ries from the ‘Sand’ comic sci-fi novel I never did write…

In the middle of the 34th Century, Earth was hon­oured by a visit from the President of the Universe. It was really a tremen­dous ges­ture, con­sid­er­ing the intractable posi­tions taken by Earth regard­ing the energy, defence and social prin­ci­ples of the United Charter. Picture North Korea, but smaller. It’s a mir­a­cle we didn’t get Zapped.

Anyway, on a fine, crisp July morn­ing, a very large space­ship docked on a spe­cially-con­structed pad on what used to be the White House lawn before grass went extinct. The plasma door faded away, and a tall, noble Opik stepped out to wave to the Presidential family wait­ing below. He strode for­ward with the bear­ing of a god. Before him came a little blue Yorkie.

“Hello, sir. Pleasure to have you.”

“The plea­sure is ours, Mr President-General.”

“The rest of the UN High Council is wait­ing inside.”

While this little exchange took place, the pres­i­den­t’s lov­able teenage daugh­ter bent down to the little wiry canine-type.

“And let’s get you some Magic, you silly little dog you!”

“What?”

“Ma’am?” The Opik spun around.

“Mr President?” The President half-turned, his right hand waving toward the recon­structed Chrome Wing of the White House. “If you will.”

“I’m not – Mr President-General, this is the President!”

“The Presid – Charlie, drop the do -”

“Unhand me, young lady!”

“Daddy?”

“Of all the -”

Suddenly there was a lot of plat­inum flash­ing out from under the suits of the Universal entourage. Most of it was point­ing at thir­teen-year old Charlie. Instinctively, her hands shot up to the sky. Jerk Lljrar, of the proud race of the Snhouts, leader of the free uni­verse, dropped to the ground with a little yelp.

The pres­i­dent, with his hands up as well, glitched the Opik’s trans­la­tor with a long string of colour descrip­tive words. Lord Jerk, third-high­est of the Matriarchs of the Snhouts, looked at him with­out expression.

“Is there any expla­na­tion for this, Mr President-General?”

Hector Jenkins splut­tered, run­ning his hands through his rev­erend gray haircut.

“Well?”

“I thought – I mean”, he paused, and looked long­ingly toward the safety of the build­ing behind him. “We – we had no idea -”

“Why would your off­spring refer to me as a dog, Mr President-General?”

“It’s a – it’s a lower specie of mammal – a family, really… You -”

“I’ve been made aware of the origin of that par­tic­u­lar dis­cour­tesy, sir.”

“No…”, the poor man began, but it trailed off into a sort of wail. The silver wid­ow’s peak came off into his hands when he tugged at it as he sank to his knees. The Opik edged away, his hand on his own hip holster.

“We did not – nobody knew you were – I mean, we had no warning!”

“Excuse me?”

“We were expect­ing Milke, then we were told that he’d stepped down. Then the new brief you sent last month knocked out the Belgium array -”

“What?”

“We only got the pro­file! The image could­n’t resolve!”

“MISTER President -”

“There was no bloody pic­ture! How were we sup­posed to know? You can’t Google the bloody Snhout -”

“Sir?” There was warn­ing in the Opik’s tone.

“- and you won’t give us the mother-lovin’ Node pro­to­col till we’re fully inducted! How the hell’s we sup­posed to know you’re an alien dog Matriarch?”

“Shut up!”

There was a small crowd gath­er­ing in the door­way of the Chrome Assembly Hall. Their con­cerned human faces had never seemed so com­fort­ing. Even the minor­ity leader seemed a friend.

“Mr President-General, the race which you rep­re­sent found a poor figure in you. Your specie’s his­tory of intol­er­ance, both within and with­out, is well-doc­u­mented. As young as you are in the affairs of the Universe, you have proven most unre­cep­tive to our ideals of tol­er­ance, and sin­gu­lar­ity, and peace. Your rebel­lion against dis­ar­ma­ment turned most of your sup­port­ers against you.”

The President whim­pered. His wife’s knuck­les were bone-white with her dig­ni­fied attempts to get him to his senses and up on his feet.

“Your igno­rance is fright­en­ing, human. The way in which you acknowl­edge every­thing only in rela­tion to your meagre under­stand of it seems at once self­ish and brutish, and piti­ful and small.” At a twitch of the small anten­nae half-buried in her blue fore­lock, the Matriarch’s escorts low­ered their weapons. The Opik grace­fully stepped forth to shield her from the unsta­ble human leader as the Earth’s hope of recog­ni­tion by the wider world turned to walk away. “There will be no talks today, Mr President-General. Goodbye.”

Even as he sobbed, President Jenkins nodded, putting his bespoke toupee back on his head. With a sad look in his eyes, the Opik gen­eral turned to follow.

“My per­sonal craft will stay in orbit. I shall per­son­ally deliver any cor­re­spon­dence hence­forth, while I peti­tion for a Basic Communications permit for your use.”

The pres­i­dent nodded, wiping his eyes with his wife’s handkerchief.

“Goodbye, Mr President-General.”

And they were gone.

Two weeks later, the White House received good news via the mast in Moscow. The Universe was send­ing Ll Kll Jey and his per­sonal team of sea­soned Nphele diplomats.

This is a pretty accu­rate pic­ture of an Nphele.