The Proposal of Ethan the E.T.
by Jack Bragen
“Take your Prolixin, Stuart. It’ll make the crazy thoughts go away.” The robot was repulsive because it resembled a person so much. It vainly tried to imitate human mannerisms. You didn’t need to pay them, just hook them to a charger.
I retorted, “I’m not crazy, everyone else is.”
“Just take these two pills. Everything will be fixed. No more conflict.” The Motherhen had been given the memory derived from the brain of my deceased mother, and was deemed a “good enough substitute” by healthcare providers. It always tried to mimic my mother, and I resented it.
I hissed, “Can you prove to me that I am not in contact with extraterrestrials?”
Delicately, Motherhen said, “It does not need to be proven, because it simply cannot happen.”
Glowering, I said, “On what basis do you assume that?”
“Because common sense tells us that some things are ludicrous.” She paused. “Doesn’t all of this go away whenever you take your medication?” She reached for my face with her temperature-perfect soft, supple, albeit rubbery hands. She brushed aside the lock of hair on my forehead as Mom had done. It was annoying.
“Don’t do that.”
“Sorry.” She turned toward the kitchen in a fluid, better-than-human motion. “I’ll fix you some potstickers.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But you should try these. I’m told they’re quite tasty.”
“What? And you’re going to top them with sauce that has ground Prolixin in it?”
“I’m legally bound not to do that.” She was lying. I knew that. She went into the kitchen. She got a skillet and poured in some oil. She switched on the stovetop and got potstickers from the freezer. It only took her a few minutes. The new cookstoves and skillets were faster. I could hear her grinding the pills. I could hear her mixing the ground pills with soy sauce in the blender. It only took a few moments.
I wished the extraterrestrials would help. My best E.T. friend, Ethan, I believed, would never allow this kind of treatment. Where was he when I needed him?
Motherhen put the plate of potstickers in front of me on the well-maintained antique dining table. A couple drops of the overabundant soy sauce got onto the white linen tablecloth. “Shucks!” Motherhen said. She handed me a fork.
The only reasonable thing to do was eat. I wasn’t going to get any food without Prolixin mixed in. And I didn’t have freedom of movement. The Accident meant I would need a wheelchair the rest of my life. I’d begged Ethan to fix this; it was well within E.T. power. Ethan had always replied it was against policy.
I put the fork into a potsticker, and I sniffed. Then I found myself gobbling it down, even though the soy sauce had a subtle grittiness. I sat there and surprised myself by hoping the medication would make me better.
“You’re a good man, Stuart. Your mother is proud, and I’m not implying that I am her. But I can tell you about things she remembered—”
“I’m feeling crappy from the medication. I’ll go to my room and sleep now.”
I told the wheelchair to take me to my room. Mechanical arms attached to tracks in the ceiling put me into the bed. Motherhen attached the breathing-assist mask that I relied on to get enough oxygen to my brain while sleeping.
I wondered at the sense of insisting that aliens really did visit me. But soon I slept. It was a fitful sleep. After I drifted off, my phantom body tossed and turned, while my paralyzed body could not move except for limited arm movement.
* * *
I awoke.
“Can you hear me?” The voice reverberated in the middle of my head. It was not a normal voice. I could not describe it to you.
The room was dark, and I saw nothing but blackness. Was I aboard their ship?
I heard crickets. On my face I felt a cool draft, and I heard the faint sound of flapping drapes. Apparently, I was at home.
I replied, “Yes, I can hear you.” I would have been anxious except that The Accident, through stopping connection to the lower torso, had affected my panic mechanism. I was “mock anxious.”
Abruptly, I could see Ethan’s face a few inches above mine. Ethan’s eyes were black within black and were huge. His cranium had space for two of my craniums. And when he stood, he was over six feet, but very slender, maybe a hundred fifty pounds.
Ethan said, “Stuart, a request has been issued by a committee member three light-years from here.”
I replied, “There is gravity in your voice, if I’m not mistaken.”
“It is a profound request.”
I replied to Ethan, “Spit it out.”
“That committee member believes you are valuable. This is your chance at immortality.”
“Can you give me a few particulars, Ethan? Because so far your visit is uncharacteristic, and you sound like a used car salesman.”
“I was getting to that—”
“Get to it, then.”
“We want to record your pattern. We have a scanner located at our station that shares orbit with Pluto.”
“Scanner? What, are you going to fax me somewhere?”
“Exactly. Once we have a recording, your pattern can be transmitted to other star systems.”
I paused. Ethan’s proposal bothered me. I felt a knot in my phantom stomach, and I yearned to be able to feel it in my body. When you are paralyzed, you miss even being able to feel upset.
I questioned: “I don’t know how to take that. What is so great about me?”
Ethan’s deep voice always reverberated in my head. “You are the only human we’ve found who can remain mentally balanced while interacting with us. You are not afraid of extraterrestrials. We’ve been trying to find one for fifty years; a human who can function alongside non-terrestrials as though peers. We’ve abducted tens of thousands, and all other subjects have had adverse reactions. And also, you are pretty darned smart.”
Ethan continued: “We want to transmit you, and we believe this will forward the development of humanoid life.”
“And, where’s the catch? There always is one.”
Ethan replied, “We must freeze you to near absolute zero because the scanner records individual atoms. Doing this would require a great deal of preparation, and it would involve that you go missing for at least three months.”
“So, then you scan me, and the data can be transmitted anywhere?”
“Correct.”
“And the recipients could do whatever they want with the copies they have?”
“Correct.” Ethan paused. “Some of the developments will not have the same ideas as you do about ‘personhood.’” Ethan paused. “There is a lot of interest in your species because of so much ‘personhood.’ No other interstellar contact in the region understands it.”
I did balked at this last bit. I said, “So, there could be copies of me that are subject to experimentation. Is that what you’re saying?”
“It is statistically inevitable, since multiple star systems will have access.”
I said, “Then the answer is NO! I won’t do it.”
“We could offer you something in return...”
A bright light, the lighting in the hallway, illuminated Ethan along with the room. Motherhen stood in the doorway.
She said, “Who is this man, Stuart? Is he your friend?”
I replied, frantically, “Get video of him. This is the extraterrestrial, as I’ve said.”
Ethan made a subtle gesture with a hand, and Motherhen became still, and she had a “please wait” message in the video screen on her front panel.
“Get out of here,” I said. “I like it here on Earth, and copies of me will not go to the whims of scientists all over the galaxy. It is not an acceptable fate for versions of me.” I paused.
Ethan seemed confused; he might not have understood what it means to be human, to identify with your form and to care about what happens to remote versions of oneself.
“Go away, alien. And never come back.”
“Are you sure?”
“You do not understand the first thing of what it means to be human. We are a valid species, and we deserve kind and gentle treatment, which is something we ourselves haven’t learned. Go now and have some consideration. I will not speak to you again, Ethan. Goodbye.”
Ethan wasn’t happy with this. “Take your Prolixin, Stuart,” he said. Abruptly, he exited through the second-floor window, where he was picked up by his vehicle, no doubt.
* * *
In the morning, Motherhen had no memory of events of the previous night. And she gave me a breakfast of more potstickers with Prolixin soy sauce.
As I ate the medication-laced food, my eyes formed tears. I would miss visits from the alien, and I was sure that the world would eventually convince me it was all a psychotic delusion. I would miss having possession of my mind. My mind was now the property of treating professionals. It was inescapable.
“I can find you some friends. Would you like to visit the Hayward Socialization Center? You might like that.”
I replied, “Yes, I’m tired of always staying home.”
Motherhen got a Kleenex and wiped my face.
Copyright © 2023 by Jack Bragen
