Ambassador

fiction by michael werneburg

Jane waved her hand in an exaggerated motion. Now that she was off the clock, she'd got a buzz on in a hurry. "I mean, the creature just isn't meant for walking around on hard ground."

Cuong's head bobbed in agreement, but he didn't do anything more sip his beer and morosely watch the screen. It occurred to me then that he was already worrying about something, which would make my news harder to take.

Indeed, as the alien loped along on its four short legs, its low body seemed to roll awkwardly. The alien held its upper two limbs stiffly away from its body, like a toddler steadying her steps.

"Maybe that's just how they walk on his planet," countered the waitress. Her tone sounded like she was standing up for the creature. Seeing the careful way the woman was watching Jane, I wondered if there was going to be trouble. Some people were pretty touchy about this first contact. This media event was being held to give the people what they wanted -- a bit of spectacle and some answers after weeks of shock and official stonewalling.

"Honey," said Jane, "I'm a biologist. I was -- we three were all -- with the team studying the creature. Believe me; it's not designed for walking across flat ground. At the facility, the thing spent most of its time climbing on the furniture and walls."

"You worked with the Ambassador?" the waitress said, incredulous.

I motioned at Jane, and caught her eye with a warning look. The last thing I wanted from the two despondent scientists was a scene. Such things had a habit of finding their way into people's blog posts, and I was already losing enough sleep.

But with my attention on Jane, it was Cuong that blurted out, "Right! We were involved from the beginning."

One or two heads around the bar turned our way. "I thought we agreed we weren't going to do this," I told him. I'd made Jane and Cuong agree to silence before we left the car. "Are we going to have to leave?"

"Calm down," Cuong said, and I saw something hard in his gaze. The disrespectful punk! Cuong was a compact man with a formerly athletic build now starting to age. He had been a ranking kickboxer before his career in science and had nothing to prove to anyone, yet still went about with a chip on his shoulder.

I looked around the place. It was the same as I remembered: a bit awkward in its use of space, too lacking in character for a pub, and too dominated by sterile oak beams for a restaurant. It had the air of a convention center. I'd chosen it because I knew it wouldn't be busy, and because it was just the place to have a conversation about not getting paid.

"Well," I suggested tightly, "let's move to a booth then, shall we?" On the screen, the subject went to riots in what looked like a Chinese city: the central government there was losing its grip. The Ambassador's arrival had touched off a global wave of unpredictable behavior. New religions were popping up: "if god made us in our image, who made the ambassador?" Strikes and shortages were rampant as people walked off the job after reconsidering their lives. The handful of wars on the go had stopped as the futility of slaughtering other humans over resources or grudges or the whim of some billionaire had finally gotten through to people. And no one seemed to be buying luxury goods, supposedly because signaling status through material things suddenly seemed embarrassing. Everything was quiet in this resto-pub, but who knew what baggage the day-drinkers about the place might be carrying.

The waitress asked, "Is it true that the thing eats squirrels?" she asked hesitantly, her nose scrunched as if she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"Live squirrels. Yes," mocked Jane. "Sometimes. But it prefers chickens."

When the waitress made a face, Jane sneered at the woman's discomfort.