Subletters
by Martin Lochman
The landlord stares at the alien city in my living room, and it’s clear as day that he doesn’t know what to make of it. I, in turn, stare at him, racking my brain for an explanation to offer that would be satisfactory, plausible, and wouldn’t leave room for an abundance of additional questions.
You would think that after nearly four months of playing host to nearly two thousand extraterrestrial colonists, I’d have an entire arsenal of such clarifications at ready, but I guess my propensity for procrastination coupled with a hearty dose of “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it” attitude scored once again. Well, the bridge is here, and I really don’t want to get wet, so what now?
“This is...” the landlord starts, eyes tracing the outlines of the one-meter tall buildings.
“Models!” I blurt out when it finally hits me (how did I not think about that straight away?). “I am building a scaled replica of a city... or, to be precise, of a single district. I mean, how could I fit the whole thing in here, right?” I add a chuckle, but even to my ears, it sounds forced.
Fortunately, the landlord doesn’t notice. “The details are exquisite!” he bends down and looks into one of the top floor windows of the nearest building.
I bite my lip, praying that its occupants are managing to stay out of sight.
After a few excruciatingly long seconds, he straightens and turns back to me: “So which city is this supposed to be?”
I feign a cough, buying myself a moment to consider his question. “Prague...” I say hesitantly.
“Hmm,” he seems to ponder this. “Never been there. Does it really look so outlandish? The architecture gives a very futuristic impression.”
“Right... and that’s because this is my artistic vision of what it will look like in a distant future.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Well, you have a very active imagination, let me tell you that.”
“That’s what my parents always told me. ‘Marian, stop daydreaming and do your homework’, ‘Marian, these doodles are a waste of time, you need to pick up a real skill’.”
This is the first bit of truth I’ve told him today and, ironically, I am somewhat unpleasantly surprised at how good it feels in comparison to the fable I’ve been spinning. I guess that means I am not a psychopath, right?
He gives me a sympathetic look. “Anyway,” he says and heads back into the hallway.
I quietly let out a sigh of relief and trail after him. Two steps past the living room door, he suddenly stops in his tracks.
“How do you power all that, by the way?” he asks and scratches his chin. “All those little lights and mechanisms have to consume a heck of a lot of electricity, but your bills are actually so low that it’s as if nobody were even living here.”
Oh, damn!
The truth to the matter is that there is a shoebox-sized power plant in the corner running on some unique element with an atomic number three times that of plutonium that does more than a good job of supplying the miniature city with energy. In fact, it would probably have no problem powering the entire building, and the aliens were nice enough to hook the majority of my household appliances, including the fridge, freezer, microwave, washing machine, and TV, to it shortly after launch, which at the time seemed like a good way to cut down on monthly expenses.
I probably should have thought that through.
“That’s a very good question,” I say, swallowing the sudden lump that’s popped up in my throat. “I’ve been doing a lot of overtime at work, actually, trying to spend longer outdoors and be extra ecological in general, you know. Go green, save the planet, all that stuff.”
I am a little fly caught in my web of lies, and I am getting increasingly more entangled.
He narrows his eyes.
“But as for those,” I point my thumb behind me to indicate the living room. “I use batteries. Rechargeable. Got a whole lot of them for cheap in a clearance sale a while back. It’s an efficient system, believe me.”
The last sentence is suffused with desperation, but contrary to my expectations, the landlord pays it no mind. He nods again, features betraying something akin to admiration, and says: “You’ll definitely have to give me some tips. The electricity prices have been going up like crazy lately!”
“You got it!”
I feel the weight of a small asteroid lift off my shoulders, as he continues to the main door. There he grabs his coat, puts his shoes on, and reaches for the handle.
“One more thing,” he says as he opens the door, and my heart skips a beat, not because I anticipate him going back to the living room and doing more snooping around, but solely because of the tone underscoring his words, a tone that stands in stark contrast to how he spoke before.
“I will be putting the apartment up for sale after your lease is up. I am sorry to spring this on you like this, but I wanted to give you enough time to find something suitable in the area. I can also ask around, and if you need any help moving, you can count on me. You are a model tenant and you’ve taken exceptional care of the property, so it’s the least I could do.”
“Thank... you,” I mumble because it’s the only thing I can bring myself to say in that particular moment.
“Don’t mention it,” he waves his hand, oblivious to the fact that there was no candor behind my words. “If you need anything else in the meantime, let me know. Have a good day, Marian!”
And with that, he’s gone.
I spend the next few moments looking into the empty hallway, my mind mulling over what he has said as well as everything that preceded that. I should have known he didn’t come over only to collect the rent for the month, especially since he would always drop by my work for that purpose. On the other hand, what does it matter now? It’s not like I can somehow change his mind. The conclusion is clear, inevitable, and it spells trouble.
Gritting my teeth, I close the door and slowly make my way back to the living room. It’s as if someone flipped a switch there; the alien city is now a bustling hub of activity, its minuscule inhabitants having resumed their minuscule lives, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster on the horizon.
What the heck am I going to do?
* * *
A shuttle about the size of a book lifts off the roof of the presidential palace — the center of the colony’s government — and elegantly glides through the air toward a shelf next to the door, which represents the room’s only furniture and also the official spot for conducting our interspecies diplomatic talks. I patiently wait until the small ship lands, its crew files out, and takes position around a tetrahedral device that doubles as a translator and a megaphone.
There are seven of them in total: the president, wearing a bright yellow jumpsuit-robe hybrid that distinguishes it from the others, and its fellow ministers and advisors. It’s a sight that’s equally amusing as it is mesmerizing. The aliens are barely three centimeters in height and to a great extent resemble thin, upright walking hippos, but there is grace and pride and a discernible sense of authority in their movements.
The president, whose name the translator/megaphone interpreted as Lackorll, gives me a courteous bow. I have long stopped wondering whether their customs are truly that similar to ours or whether the gesture is something they adapted to convey respect. It says, “Much gratitude, human Marian. Your skills of misdirection are truly extraordinary.”
“Thank you,” I say, returning the bow. “But we have a problem that I won’t be able to talk our way out of, I am afraid.”
Not waiting for a reaction, I lay down the facts. Since I have never touched upon it before and I want to stress the severity of our current predicament, I also add a brief explanation of the nuts and bolts of the rental business. By the time I am done, I feel even worse than I did when I began.
The president acknowledges my passionate yet desperate statement with a barely visible nod and proceeds to consult its entourage. The conversation is not picked up by the translator, so the only thing I can hear is the quiet trill of their native language.
I look away, focusing on the city. It’s not just a sum of the buildings, complex transport infrastructure, and recycling network under the floor, it’s the inhabitants — families and individuals — for whom it represents the sole hope for the future. You can’t simply uproot it and move it elsewhere. Not that that’s what is going to happen to it once I am gone and the landlord sees it for what it really is. No, knowing the curiosity of my own species, I fear that the reality will be considerably worse...
“Human Marian” — the president’s voice interrupts my gloomy contemplation — “having considered the available information, we conclude that the most suitable solution is to obtain sole ownership of the property.”
Against my better judgment, I let out a bitter laugh. “No argument here. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to buy it; there is a reason I am renting. The property market is insane nowadays. You need to have more than a decent income or combine it with the income of another person to get approved for a home loan, and with what I make... I am so sorry, guys.”
It’s not like I haven’t thought about using the aliens’ technology to improve my pitiful financial situation. Selling it would be a piece of cake: who wouldn’t want a battery for their phone, laptop, or other handheld devices that could last a lifetime, or a nanoprocessor capable of instantly increasing their computing power a millionfold? But the problem is that doing so would inevitably draw the kind of attention I have strived to avoid ever since the aliens’ damaged colony ship crashed in my bedroom.
“No apology necessary,” Lackorll says. “We are aware of your economic standing. That is why we would proceed with the purchase ourselves.”
“Wait! What?!” is all I can muster by way of reply, unsure whether what I just heard was a mistake in the translator or in my hearing ability.
“We have been analyzing the unique economic systems of your planet for quite some time now. To better understand their nature, our scientists conducted several practical experiments that resulted in the accumulation of considerable wealth. Based on the current property price index for this locality, it would appear that merely a negligible fraction of it is required to complete the transaction.”
“Wait... What?” I repeat, well aware that it makes me sound particularly dull. “So you have... money?”
“Indeed,” Lackorll assents, and if I didn’t know any better, I could swear there is a hint of delight in the way the translator delivers the word.
“But how did you get it?”
I know that the aliens can access the Internet — in fact, they were kind enough to upgrade my download speed to near-astronomical levels — but it would never in a million years occur to me that they would use it for any other purpose than learning about humans and the planet Earth.
“Generating revenue in a virtual environment is, in actuality, a fairly simple process. Once one understands the underlying patterns and learns to predict them, trading capital assets becomes a matter of—”
Suddenly it clicks. “Stocks!” I breathe out, cutting Lackorll off. “You are talking about a stock trade, aren’t you?”
The president makes nothing of my momentary impoliteness: “Affirmative.”
I stare at the little group on the shelf and feel an odd mix of emotions swirl through my mind, body, and my entire existence. The sensations are not unlike those I felt back on day one, minute one of the encounter, though now there are also strong hints of positive optimism permeating them. It’s as if someone pulled a rug from under me, only to catch me before I could fall.
“Human Marian?”
“Yeah, sorry,” I blink. “I am just really relieved. I guess there was no reason to panic, huh?”
“None at all,” Lackorll says. “We are in agreement then? We will purchase the property, thus securing the colony for future expansion.”
Who would have thought that a small, two-bedroom flat on the third floor of a decades-old building in a city that could hardly be described as cosmopolitan or modern will become the first alien-owned real estate?
“Absolutely,” I say, and just then, a slither of uncertainty creeps in. “But what about me? Will you need me to move out once you get it?”
“You have been a loyal ally to our people from the very beginning. We would be honored if you would remain with us.”
I can’t say “yes” fast enough.
* * *
I guess it could be considered funny, or somewhat ironic even, that in the end, my living situation hasn’t really changed all that much. I am still a tenant, only my landlord is now a shell corporation that the aliens used to buy the apartment instead of a nosy-when-inconvenient and absent-when-needed old man.
The landlord was surprised when I politely rejected his offer, saying that I had already made arrangements with regards to my future accommodation, the details of which I kept purposefully vague; no need to push my luck there. But, even though he wouldn’t mention anything out loud, I could see it written all over his face that he was also quite content with the bid he had received from the property’s future owners. I haven’t met him or seen him since.
Just to clarify, I am still paying rent — gotta keep everything inconspicuous in the eyes of the local housing authority — but the aliens are nice enough to send generous monthly amounts to my bank account as a fee for my “freelance consultation services.” Their colony is growing nicely, in fact, they are slowly expanding into the hallway. I know that one day, the apartment won’t be big enough to accommodate both me and them, but I am not worried.
And as for an official first contact? Well, you’ll just have to wait and see.
Copyright © 2022 by Martin Lochman
