Human's Burden. Damien Broderick

mortal can the process of cultural orientation begin.”

      “So you’re telling me,” Jack said slowly, stepping cautiously away from the hull toward the stirring aliens, “you’re saying that— That they probably do think I’m a god, but I should tell them I’m not, right?”

      “Exactly.” Was there just a trace of impatient scorn in the machine’s voice? “Then we can start carrying out the Primary Heuristic and begin helping these aliens on their rise to near-equality with humankind.”

      All the aliens were on their feet by now, milling about. One of them raised a spear in what looked like a menacing gesture.

      “Well, all right.” Jack raised his suited head bravely and stepped forward. “Tell them my name is Jack Wong and that I’m very happy to be here on their beautiful planet.”

      The sound system in his helmet rang across the clearing in the Mac’s voice, speaking some kind of alien gibberish. The eyes bugged in their buggy heads, and they stared for a brief moment at Jack with open snouts.

      This time, it wasn’t so unnerving when they cast themselves on the ground again.

      Jack’s scalp was itching, and he wondered if he should take off his helmet and have a good scratch. It seemed the wrong moment for that. “Er, now, look here, fellows,” he said, and the Mac barked and squawked out an instant translation of his words in alien. “Don’t keep doing that, please. It can’t be healthy, slithering around like that in the wet grass.”

      The aliens bounded back a few more meters, bowing and scraping and muttering incoherently. So far the Mac had not provided Jack with a translation of anything they were saying. “I am sorry,” it told him, “we shall have to wait until they calm down, I cannot make any sense of that hubbub.”

      Jack Wong gazed unhappily at the writhing bodies before him, and wished with all his might that he were back in the Academy, or better still home on Earth. He felt as if he’d burst out bawling any second. Instead, he squared his shoulders and prepared to utter the Traditional Greeting.

      “Take me to your leader,” he said, and the Mac coughed out the alien words. “I wish to speak to someone in authority. One of your, uh, Wise Men, Women or Things.” Nervously, he rubbed his gloved hands together.

      The aliens conferred. Finally a shrunken oldster wobbled hesitantly toward Jack. Its features were more pitted than the rest, its drool greener, gelatinous. When it spoke, its voice was cracked and wheezy.

      The Mac said, “That probably meant something like: ‘O King, live forever!’ But more like a god than a king, if you see what I mean.”

      “Oh shit,” Jack moaned, wishing he could rub his nose.

      ∞

      Their village was no more impressive from the ground than it had been through the sensors from orbit. Less than a hundred small grass huts, cunningly built to keep the heavy rain out but hardly beautiful. Still, he told himself, that was only to be expected of a species that had to keep on the move in search of game. Probably they needed to keep cutting back the encroaching jungle, make new clearings that would be swallowed a few months later when they shifted to fresh territory.

      Grawnkar, the old alien, apparently their leader, hobbled along half a step behind Jack, and rest trailed after. As they entered the village, other large adult aliens (the mothers? but he didn’t even know how many sexes the aliens had, or if they had any at all) and small squealing alien children emerged from huts and gardens to gape in open-mouthed amazement. In the middle of the scattered huts two structures rose above the rest. Jack was herded toward one, perhaps the chieftain’s home or headquarters. The other was a tall palisade, sturdier than the rest, its round wall made of solid timber stakes with nasty thorns jutting out, its entrance flanked by carved poles showing a certain artistic skill. A temple of some sort?

      Jack eyed it with distaste. The very thought of these people’s gods reminded him of how hard it would be to convince them he was not unlike them in his mortality and limitations, despite the difference in their appearance. Human or alien, he’d been taught by Earth Culture instructors, it was all one, really, once they were cleaned up and properly indoctrinated. Yes, he might seem to the poor benighted creatures to have godlike powers. He’d come down out of the sky, after all. But when all was said and done, he was exactly as mortal as they, and he needed to get this idea across to them as quickly as possible. Jack Wong squared his shoulders deliberately, and marched into Grawnkar’s hut.

      ∞

      “You don’t understand,” he told the puzzled aliens for the tenth time. “I’m just like you. Cut me, do I not bleed? Not,” he added hurriedly, “that I want you to cut me. Heck forbid.”

      His voice was hoarse, and he was getting hungry. The suit had a store of rations, but they weren’t very tasty. In fact, they tasted like sawdust. You weren’t meant to enjoy lazing around on strange planets in a comfortable survival suit; the idea was to get in, get the job of Contact done, and get out again, all as expeditiously as possible. It was a big galaxy out there, and Contact was a never-ending job. Unfortunately, the aliens seemed to have taken a fancy to Jack. They seemed to regard him as something of a prize. A sort of trophy. Their own little tin god. How embarrassing.

      “The sky god mocks us,” said old Grawnkar. “You look nothing like a mortal.”

      “But—but—” It was no good. Jack threw up his hands in despair. He’d tried again and again to explain through his translator that small difference in color and size—well, even really big differences, in this case—didn’t amount to the difference between a mortal and god. This just got such a puzzled reception that Jack lapsed into angry silence and chewed his lip for a quarter of an hour.

      “I am going to have to turn the cooling system off,” the Mac murmured in his ear. “We are running low on power.”

      “You can’t do that!” Jack cried in alarm. “I’ll roast! I’ll boil in my own juices.”

      “You can always take your helmet off.”

      “Yeah, right, and catch some horrible disease.”

      “The chances are very low that an alien disease or fungus could thrive on a human body,” the translator told him smugly, “or in one.”

      ∞

      When night finally fell, a haze of stars in no known constellations twinkling above the clearing, it was hardly any cooler. The cooking fire the alien monsters built made it worse. Insect things he’d emulated for his spy probes swarmed out of the humming forest and annoyed him by biting his unprotected neck and face. The fallen stick fragment jabbed his spine in a different place every time he moved. He glanced at his glove’s fingerwatch, wondering how soon he’d be able to make his apologies and slip away for a comfortable night’s rest in the air-conditioned pod. Grawnkar sidled up in the dark

      “O Jack Wong,” the translated voice said respectfully, “the feast begins. If you would grace it by your illustrious presence, we would be blessed beyond repayment.”

      What could he do? Jack shrugged, stuck his helmet under his arm and made his way to the place of honor. The closer he got to the fire, the worse it stank. He gagged, tried hard not to throw up. That could cause a diplomatic incident. It certainly would not look good on his academic record, or his official report for that matter.

      If he ever got home. If the Earth Culture rescue team ever tracked him through the wormhole and found him here before he grew old and frail and white haired, and died of old age. A tear of self-pity crept from his eye, and an insect buzzed down with sharp feet to sip at it.

      Everyone was guzzling with gusto, chatting away in their awful voices, except for two ceremonial guards behind him. His stomach growled hungrily. Oh, why not? If the bugs couldn’t hurt him, maybe the food wouldn’t either? It smelled disgusting, but you could get used to anything. And he might be here for a long time. He eyed a particularly choice piece of blue vegetation, or maybe it was meat or fish, from the huge pile before him and reached out one gloved hand.