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GSP_is_an_Alien t1_j4wb7wi wrote

Thousands of movies and literature throughout human history have depicted the moment they would arrive. Of course each person has their own barmy ideas too. Consider one, Mr Atticus Featherstone. He was a sous chef who lived in a picturesque English cottage off the coast of Norfolk. Mr Featherstone was fairly well-liked. He worked at a quaint restaurant called The Hilltop, making the tastiest soufflé west of the English Channel. However, Mr Featherstone was also known by the locals as being crazy. Perhaps if his soufflés weren’t so delicious they would have institutionalised him many moons ago. He would, on occasion, drunkenly stumble into the Red Lion Inn, regaling tales of his various encounters with the sky people. With a drink in one hand, he would warn the entire village about the incoming invasion. However, no one took Mr Featherstone seriously. This is because he was extremely alcoholic. He had never met an alien in his life. However, Mr Featherstone was not altogether wrong, nor was he altogether crazy.

You see, the human mind is fascinating. The shamans of the Amazon insist that all humanity is connected. They believe in a sort of shared lived experience. For example, there are incidents of small children recalling experiences of another life; describing to the greatest detail places they have never been or seen. Scientists have never quite deciphered what these strange phenomena are. Nonetheless, every time Mr Featherstone imagined these aliens, he was in fact describing to the greatest detail a genuine encounter. However, it was not an encounter Mr Featherstone had directly experienced, it was the memory of another man: Gene Roddenberry.

Of course, when they finally arrived, it was never quite what anyone had ever imagined. Mr Featherstone himself should have been vindicated. He had long fantasied about the day he would walk into the Red Lion Inn, cloaked in the gasps of the other villagers. He would scuttle up to the slightly broken wooden platform that was home to weekly raucous karaoke and inevitably where fights would end up toppling onto, leaving the participants with large splinters embedded into their buttocks. However, Mr Featherstone would evade the splinters, he would raise his head, expand his chest and mutter those three words that are the most irksome to any human since the first caveman admonished his brother for losing a leg after befriending a sabre-toothed tiger.

“I told you”.

It was by sheer unfortunate circumstance (or perhaps something else), that almost fifteen minutes prior to their arrival, Mr Featherstone, inebriated with alcohol, hallucinated a long bridge leading from the nearby cliff of his home. On any other day, in a few hours, the Hilltop’s head chef would call the Norfolk police after Mr Featherstone would fail to turn up to work. The police would have inevitably found Mr Featherstone’s gruesome remains at the foot of the cliff and it would be the village gossip for the next few weeks. That is of course if it was not for the arrival.

…

Hebert Adams had recently become the youngest president of the United States of America. He was the obvious choice. He was handsome, his policies were uncontentious and he came from a long line of politicians. However, most importantly, he possessed the greatest quality that Americans look for in their leaders: being downright predictable.

Many expected his first term to go off without a hitch. That was of course if he could manage to not involve himself in any wars. However, his bumbling Chief of Staff was adamant that he should at least consider launching some rogue drone strikes on a poor faraway Asian country whose name was suffixed with “-stan”. The approval ratings in the Bible Belt demanded it. Especially if he was to consider a second term.

But right now he was not worried about war. He was not even worried about his wife discovering the diamond earring on the floor of the Oval Office belonging to his mistress. That is because he was sat in a bunker located somewhere in the Nevada desert. He was surrounded by his closest aides and advisors, around a long mahogany table emblazoned with the Golden Eagle emblem. He was faced with the one terror that would threaten to destabilise everything. The one terror that would cause widespread fear to everyone in the world (with the exception of the fresh vindicated corpse of a one, Mr Atticus Featherstone).

Aliens. Damn aliens.

[PART 1]

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GSP_is_an_Alien t1_j4wba2z wrote

Replying to GSP_is_an_Alien (#1,398,116)

What had they called themselves? The Galactic Alliance? No. The Consortium? No, definitely not that. Oh yes. The Federation

“So, you are telling me, this Federation is no threat to the safety of the free people of the United States of America?” Herbert asked in his deep Southern accent that had been exacerbated by his years of smoking cigars. However, even his husky voice could not mask the unbridled suspicion.

One of the figures, clearly the leader of the delegation, adjusted itself slightly towards the light. Hebert winced as he saw the reptilian nature of the alien’s face which revealed itself under its hood for a moment. The large tapering fingers clasped together rhythmically and speaking in perfect English:

“No. Mr President. We are but diplomats.”

“Diplomats, huh? Well I’ll tell you what we do to any illegal aliens who trespass into the beautiful United States of America.”

The threatening and boisterous voice did not belong to the President. It belonged instead to the warmongering advisor to the Secretary of Defence, General Anthony Sheridan. Only a few months prior, General Sheridan had been personally responsible for the massacre of thirteen Mexicans who had attempted to cross the border. Of course, that made him the perfect choice to serve in the Adams administration. The Bible Belt votes demanded it.

“Mr President, our delegation would like to express our confusion at your hostilities,” the leader of the diplomats rasped, “we gave our details, our historical events and even a showcase of our technology to one your people. We thought he would inform you of our arrival.”

“Who did you tell?” Herbert’s mind crossed through his entire cabinet. Could they have told Mark, the Vice President? No, it can’t have been Mark, they had just spent a weekend together filled with debauchery and drinking. How about, the Secretary of State? Lloyd? Yes, maybe it was Lloyd. Lloyd had been refusing to answer Hebert’s calls for the last few days. At first Herbert had assumed it was a political power play, but now maybe it was something far more sinister.

“We informed our arrival to a human male who called himself Gene Roddenberry.”

“Who the fuck is Gene Roddenberry?” General Sheridan screamed at one of his aides, ultimately causing a ruckus of arguing and shouting throughout the room. Roddenberry was sure to be fired.

“Roddenberry, never heard of him sir”.

“I am certain Roddenberry is part of Senator Smith’s team.”

“No you idiot, that is Roddenstein and he was eaten alive by a lion during hunting trip to Botswana two years ago.”

The insults and shouts filled the entire room. The delegation from the Federation were closely observing this behaviour. Savages, they must have thought. Gene was a good man, simple but good. Nothing like these band of fools.

In a dark corner of the room stood an ambitious young long-legged blonde woman. This young woman was no fool. She was perhaps the only human in the room that had a borderline acceptable level of intelligence. It is not to say she was clever. No, she would often forget to blow out the incense candles littered across her personal office in the White House. It was her obsession with incense candles that caused two grand scale governmental evacuations. Of course, some may have thought she was also a bigger fool for crossing the First Lady, the President’s wife. You see, the diamond earring that were left so carelessly in the Oval Office, belonged to her. The hours spent being the President’s aide spilled over into a steamy affair. But, she didn’t mind. She was going places and if that meant being the President’s piece of meat, it was fine. The young woman fixed her horn-rimmed glasses before speaking.

“Gene Roddenberry created Star Trek.”

The room felt silent. Everyone gazed at this woman. But it was as if the substance of her words had no effect on any of them. They were more concerned about the other particulars. Why on Earth was she in the room? Who let her in? Where can I also get a hot aide?

“Not now Camilla,” the President hushed at the woman.

“Mr President, I am a Trekkie and there is only one Gene Roddenberry I have ever heard of, and he created Star Trek.”

Herbert looked at his many advisors. They returned an equally confused look.

Camila addressed the aliens directly.

“Excuse me sir, are you a Klingon?”

The alien nodded in delight. Perhaps Gene Roddenberry had completed the task that they had given him after all.

“And you, are you Romulan?”

There was growing excitement among the delegation.

“Mr President, I have a suggestion,” Camila turned her attention to Hebert, “I think Gene captured all the knowledge imparted to him in his television show.”

Herbert stared at his hands for a moment. What was happening? Had this Gene Roddenberry really stored all galactic knowledge in a stupid television show?

“God damn it! Someone find all the episodes of Star Wars. We have work to do.”

“It is Star Trek, sir.”

​

[PART 2]

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