Intentions Do Not Matter (a damn short SF story)

^{This is a dream I had this morning. I recognised it, on awakening, for it is the telling of a previous life of mine. Looking back on it, as I had to for writing about it, I find there is a hint of nightmare about it, even if not of gothic proportions, for carelessness and refusal to belong demands its own price.}

Istan angrily emptied his drawers into the purple bag HR had supplied him with and walked out of the base, determined not to use the vehicle waiting to take him home. The vehicle followed, until he relented and let them take him - home, his place of imprisonment until the next spaceship from Earth arrives.

The house is standard, one bedsit with a bathroom and kitchenette. Also standard was the basement. He had meant to clear the short hose-pipes some previous tenant had abandoned out of the basement, but now he would, in turn, leave them for the next tenant to take care of.

It was early morning when he felt a tremor. It repeated and then he heard running water. He rushed to the kitchen basin and saw water flowing from underneath over the floor. As he rushed back to the bedside to phone for a maintenance bot, he saw water seeping out from under the bathroom door. He went to check and saw that the pipes there too had been torn apart.

He guessed it must be from the tremors, which still continued, but he did not want to be blamed and phoned the office to make his report.

The voice sounded amused. “Is your house sinking?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Go check, I’ll wait.”

He nearly panicked when he saw the land in front of his door had risen by a third of a metre and that it is still rising. He wanted to get out, but first he had to return to the phone to ask for help and more information.

“What the hell is going on? How far will the house sink?”

The secretary chuckled. “You did not read the safety book, did you? It should sink about a metre and an hour later it will begin to rise again. You did not notice the pipe extensions in your basement?” She laughed. “Don’t tell me you threw them away?”

“No, I did not, they are still there. I’m not a damn plumber, send a maintenance bot to take care of it and instruct it to clear the water.”

“You better get out. Switch off the water from the main board and take a long walk.”

Istan decided to take a walk towards the sea. He had never done so before and hoped he would find a shop to purchase whatever food he’ll require until he leaves the planet. The first shop he saw was not well stocked for Earthmen, but he bought what he could use and continued walking towards the seafront.

He walked past the last paved road and there were no more buildings ahead, just grass, bush and trees, with the gray of murky water ahead. It reminded him of old black and white photos and he wondered whether the light of a yellow sun would show the vegetation to be green. As he walked past the last side road and stepped onto grass, he stopped, nervous about wandering into the bush on his own.

In a sense, the walk had relaxed him and because he was not walking anymore, the thoughts he had tried to hide from re-surfaced. He viewed them through curtains of pain and bitterness, but though he’d heard explanations, he still could not make sense of his memories. Softly he asked no one, “How am I to measure right and wrong, for I do not understand.”

Mankind had arrived upon the planet Vennati to a warm and tumultuous welcome. The spaceship had established contact while still two years distant, languages had been exchanged and Earth had convinced the Venaai that they come in peace and in search of partners for the great adventure of exploring the cosmos. The Venaai are not as advanced as Man in their technology, but some argue that in philosophy and social issues, they are more advanced, for they have not waged war among themselves for more than eleven generations.

Then tragedy struck a cutting blow between the two species, sundering their growing friendship. Within days of the first disfigurement and death, nearly ninety percent of all males died. A wave of death flowed around the planet and men worked alongside the grieving and desperate Venaai females, their own grief at what they saw reluctantly convincing the locals that Man did not plan it.

Apart from the very elderly males, about eight percent of all males survived, from infant onwards, but, then a new tragedy struck. Of those who made up the eight percent, more than half were altered, losing the qualities of maleness, becoming female. With bodies and instincts distorted by the change, they pleaded for death, claiming life as they are is pure torture. Luckily a scientist of Earth convinced them that their bodies still produce viable sperm, so there is a purpose to them clinging to the razor sharp net of life, even if they feel as if their fingers are bloodied and torn.

A meeting of all officers was called for in the spaceship. Istan had attended, though his rank was of the lowest included. He quietly sat at the back of the hall, not offering an opinion, only listening to their arguments and then, finally, to their decisions.

“With a higher than normal dose of the zinc mineral, it has been found that our sperm can fertilise the egg of a Venaai female. The female has greater control and scientists claim that genetically such children will be mostly of the Venaai, perhaps in some cases up to ninety four percent.

It is our duty to undo the evil we unwittingly caused, so should your attentions be welcomed, try to impregnate them.” Drily he added, “They are attractive enough for it not to be a chore.”

Istan realised the meeting was almost ended and yet, not one explanation had been provided as to how or why their presence had caused the death of so many males. He’d never been a team player, so he ignored the obvious wishes of his seniors and, gathering his courage, asked his question.

The officer sighed. “I had hoped nobody would ask…for the answer will cause to some an unbearable guilt and pain. As is the law, nine percent of our numbers are LGBT. Many of them still take medication and hormones. The Vennai are extremely sensitive to these chemicals and their bodies have few defences.”

No further words were required, they all understood and many gave Istan an angry look, for many of the sensitive LGBT are bound to commit suicide, now that they know they are to blame.

And thus it was that when Milici glanced at Istan with a look of shy interest, he spoke to her. Over the next three days and evenings, he came to know her well enough to feel she is someone special. By the fourth day she led him to her home and they made love.

Although the Vennai are very similar to Terrans, there are minor differences in appearance. Because Istan was enamoured of his slender Vennai girl, he found those differences enchanting.

A few weeks later he realised she is no longer keen for sex, finding excuses to avoid it. She sensed he is hurt, so she told him, “I bear a child, we must stop.”

He was ecstatic and started dreaming of making Vennati his home. After all, he had no family back home he cared about. Milici did not understand where his dreams were taking him and his kindness and solicitous behaviour pleased her. With the pregnancy being welcomed by her people, she had no fears or financial worries, but it was nice to have a caring presence by her side.

She gave birth and then, months later, informed Istan she is moving hundreds of miles to her home town, so that the child does not grow up in the city. When he asked, she told him she does not want him to follow - that he must not, for he does not belong. He insisted, he pleaded, speaking of their child, that he has a right to be in their lives.

Finally she exploded and with a shout, leaving her child by his side, she rushed into her bedroom, slamming and locking the door. As he sat, bewildered, he heard her scream in pain and rushing at the door he tore it apart.

As she saw him she stretched out a bloody hand, holding something small in it, she told him, “There, I have taken out the second child and the third I will remove when it grows large enough for me to find it. Now you have no more rights. Leave!”

He ran.


When he reported what had happened, he was castigated, for many meetings had been organised for teaching the men what the biological and social customs are, but he had not bothered to attend any. Sickened by his experiences and the unfriendly reactions of all, he resigned and asked to be returned to Earth.

Insta moodily turned back, staring at gray-green vegetation was only depressing him further. On his return to his house, he walked on the other side of the street and he noticed another small shop with foodstuff. It did not have much food suitable for Terrans, but he noticed they have two bricks of butter. Pleased, he reached in and took them to the counter. As the owner, an elderly male, stood staring at him angrily, an assistant came from behind and took the butters.

“Hey!”

“You leave, not want a steal here…”

“You mean thief? I have not stolen anything. He turned and saw his bag of shopping had disappeared. The owner came around the counter, shouting, ‘not a steal’ and shooing him out. He knew he could not afford any further trouble, as his record would follow him home to Earth, so he departed, though he shouted again that he did not steal.

Before he arrived by his house, he heard a voice shouting from behind him. He glanced and saw it is the owner of the last shop again and his temper flared. However, the owner arrived with a box across his arms.

“Not steal. Not from my shop, so not steal. Apology. Look, I put butter for free. Take.”

“No! You keep the fucking lot! You steal from me and giving me the butters does not make you a not steal!”

“But you must take.”

“Fuck you! You live with your guilt, keep your fucking butter and all my other shopping.” He quickly walked off, leaving the owner troubled and muttering as he stood watching Istan walk away.

Αλέξανδρος Ζήνον Ευσταθίου

(Alexander Zenon Eustace)

^{Written: 25th August, 2018}

• posted on Steemit: 25th August, 2018
  

* posted on Palnet 6th August, 2019

Images from Pixabay