We're Not from Here: Chapters 1–7

The trip to Novo would take fifteen Earth years, and the only way for a whole ship full of people to survive the trip without running out of food and water was to go into bio- suspension. Supposedly, that was just like going to sleep, except it lasted much longer, and you barfed a lot when you woke up.

He must’ve been on one of the last ships to arrive, because his face was pockmarked with dark red sores from radiation exposure.

He ambled off toward the library.

On Mars, he was part of a group in the Nutrition Department that was trying to create a food substitute. It was important work, because everybody knew that sooner or later we’d run out of the rations we’d brought from Earth.

By then, life on the Mars station was grim. The air processors were wearing down, which made the oxygen levels drop so much that everybody felt tired all the time. Water rationing got so strict that people could only shower every ten days, so the whole station smelled like an armpit.

Mom started by telling us all how kind and selfless the people of Choom were, what a precious gift the invitation was, and what a great job the Diplomacy Department had done negotiating with Choom’s government.

It must’ve had legs, but its body was so thick and blobby I couldn’t see them. As it lumbered toward the camera with the others, its flesh quivered like an enormous bowl of gelatin.

All four of our species, at earlier stages in our development, suffered from varying degrees of self- inflicted violence. But just as we evolved beyond violence, we are confident the human species can do so too.

But I didn’t have time to dwell on it, because the Nug was already slithering forward with its own greeting.

The Zhuri leader loped forward again on its springy legs.

But the Novo faction didn’t want anything to do with Choom.

The communal screens on each wall of the room flickered to life with the image of a single Zhuri in close-up, its compound eyes fixed on the camera.

Are you telling me we spent twenty years burning fuel, crossing half a galaxy, just to turn around again ’cause these folks got cold feet?

These folks have weapons technology that makes us look like cavemen throwing rocks. We call their bluff, we’re going to get our heads handed to us.

“My name is Amora Persaud. I am a member of the Governing Council of the human race. We humbly ask that you reconsider your decision.”

I tried to straddle the dividing ridge between two seats, but it was too high and sharp.

We were on the tarmac of some kind of spaceport.

The cloud was a living swarm of thousands of giant-mosquito Zhuri, flitting in midair and whining in their yeeeeeeheee language.

On either side of the small audience, standing in two lines that ran from the stage all the way to our shuttle, were a couple dozen Zhuri holding yard-long metal sticks with two prongs on one end.

Now that we were outside, the yells were distinct enough that my translator started to pick up a few stray words: “HUMANS...” “HOME...”

The whole seething cloud of thousands of Zhuri was halfway across the tarmac, shrieking as they zoomed through the air straight at me.

Worry didn’t even come close to describing it. I was petrified.

The prongs seemed to work like cattle prods—when they touched one of the attackers, there was a BZZZT! and a little blue arc of electricity, and the attacker would get zapped back about half a foot before dropping onto the tarmac.

It taxied across the tarmac and into an open hangar, which closed behind us.

A funky sour-milk stink was filling my nose, making it even harder to smile.

“Other humans did that. Not us. We have learned from the terrible mistakes of others. All the humans who wish to take refuge on Choom are peaceful. We renounce violence and will not harm anyone on your planet.”

“What do you think that sour-milk smell was?” I asked. “Bureaucracy,” Dad answered. I knew that was a joke, but I didn’t get it. “What do you mean?” “He means,” Mom said with a sigh, “that those two didn’t have the authority to make a decision about us. So they went to find someone who does.”

She cut it into four pieces with a knife, and they all kept flopping around just as frantically as before.

It was our first inkling that there was TV on the planet.

Only our regents are female. The regents lay all the eggs for the hive.