CHAPTER 12

Fenchurch found herself living on the streets once again... which was really annoying. Why was that? Why couldn't she just find for herself some kind of occupation? Why wasn't there some sort of group set up to help pathetic aliens get their lives together? There had to be other aliens out there who were in her position! There must have been other planets like Earth that weren't very advanced. And... well... now that she thought about it, those people probably never made it out into the galaxy as she had done. It all served to make her feel more and more isolated.

She didn't know if Rollo Acrock's soldiers were looking for her or not. So she tried to keep a low profile. And living on the streets seemed about as low as she could get.

She tried to make herself comfortable among the trash behind one of Rollo Acrock's new concrete apartment blocks that dominated the skyline like a group of giant, oppressive monoliths. A nearby argument interrupted her black mood. Walking around the corner were two aliens shouting violently at each other. Being small purple beings about a foot high, but with a five foot long neck, so their tiny heads were more or less level with her own, they were typical Dezmundos. Then one began hitting the other. The one being attacked dropped to the sidewalk as the other kept pounding on him until there was a sort of wet splatter sound to every punch. And then the other alien stopped moving. The one who had just done the deed stood up and howled some sort of primal victory cry up into the purple sky. Fenchurch felt like a deer caught in headlights. She couldn't move her feet. The Dezmundo then noticed that she was looking at him. She froze! She would probably be next! She was about to die! But the Dezmundo just frowned at her and said, "What are you looking at!"

She used every ounce of will power she had left to turn and walk quietly away. Her legs were wobbly and felt like they were about to give out at any second. She willed the murderer to stay where he was and ignore her. She reached the far corner, turned, and was now out of his sight. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of sight, out of mind. Once she reached the next corner, she turned to look behind her, and saw that the killer was not following her.

She eventually found another garbage pile in which to sleep that night. And when she finally settled down and stopped shaking, the tears began. And she cried herself to sleep.

#

Over the next few weeks on the planet Gimpel, the Dezmundo art scene became more and more filled with images of dead Replidians. The artistic little Dezmundos suffered from an overwhelming guilt complex about the near genocide committed on their behalf. And now the anguish of the tortured artists clung to the subject and their creative hearts spewed it back out into the universe like an angst-ridden supernova. They now had the deaths of millions of souls hanging over their heads, haunting them in their dreams. And they expressed it in their paintings, sculptures, music, poetry, and literature. The entire planet Gimpel took on a new guilt that was almost tangible. One could feel it like a wet armpit.

There were regular suicides committed in the streets. There were regular murders. And then one day, Fenchurch encountered a group of local artists.

She sat on a pile of trash, trying to stretch out a small bag of nut chips to last her the rest of the day when six of the little purple beings came up to her. "Yes?"

"You're an alien," one of them said to her.

"Well, yes. I suppose I am."

"We are artists. We want you to participate in our latest project."

She was intrigued. Perhaps it was something as simple as modeling. She could stand still easily enough. Perhaps they would even pay her. It might even become a regular gig. She could even sleep in their studio. They could probably work out something along those lines. "Possibly," she said. "What is it?"

"We would like to blow you up."

Or maybe not. She blinked several times before saying, "What can you mean?"

"We're going to put some explosives in your body, detonate them, and watch you explode!" The little creature held up a hand excitedly, "But that's not all! We will then video the event! And when we play it back, it will be in extreme slow motion. We will be able to see your body fragment and fly apart into millions of wet pieces. It will be very graceful, very beautiful."

Another little alien nodded enthusiastically with his long, long neck. "Awesome. It'll be just awesome. Like the Big Bang. Only smaller."

"Er... I think I'll pass, thank you."

The six Dezmundos looked angry about this. "What?"

She was about to try to talk her way out of this, when she suddenly changed her mind and simply ran off as fast as she could.

The blood-thirsty artists ran after her, yelling, "Please do not run away from us! We just want to blow up your body!"

Fenchurch ran past the apartment blocks, past the un-used modern schools, and smack into a law enforcement officer. "Help! You've got to help me!" she cried, trying to duck down behind him... which was difficult since her body was several times the size of his.

The artists came running up a moment later.

"What seems to be the trouble here?" the constable asked.

"They want to blow me up," Fenchurch said. "Like with explosives!"

"Is this true?"

"Yes," the lead artist said. "It is for an art project we're doing," he explained simply.

The law enforcement officers on Gimpel were a combination of patrol cop, law-maker, judge, and executioner all in one. And like most Dezmundos recently, this particular constable had been struggling with some new thoughts about what was right and what was wrong. He had been thinking that violence committed for the sake of passion was probably perfectly acceptable. Killing when angered was okay. Especially if someone were to hurt you or someone you love. Violence in those cases was going with your true nature, the officer had thought to himself. And it is simply in a person's nature to behave violently when enraged.

"So why is that a problem?" he finally asked.

"I said they want to blow me up!"

"For art," he finished. He turned to the artists, "I assume you're going to video it or something?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Sounds cool. I'd like to see it when it's finished."

"But you can't be serious!" Fenchurch shouted.

"Why not?"

"Because killing is wrong!"

"Well, I'm not too sure about that. Tell me why you think it's wrong."

"Well..." Fenchurch wished briefly that she were in charge of some galactic council which handed out awards for the stupidest questions ever asked. This constable would win first prize. "What about the idea that all life is sacred? What about doing unto others as you would have them do unto you!"

The constable nodded in serious thought. "Very spiritual," he had to admit. "But we are not in the spiritual realm now. We are in the physical world. And while in the physical world, we should follow the demands of the physical body. Fornication, alcohol and music!" He patted Fenchurch sympathetically, "When we're dead, we'll have time for matters of the spirit."

Fenchurch felt fury building up in her head, which then came bursting out through her fist. She socked the Dezmundo constable right in the eye.

#

The next day an eight foot long machine walked into the jail house where Fenchurch was locked up. It stopped in front of her cell. The machine was four feet high, but was moving along on four legs. It was white and metallic, with flashing lights and dials and buttons all over its surface. Then a dolphin popped his head up through an opening in the top of the machine. The machine was filled with water, and was a portable tank/environment suit for the aquatic mammal to get around in while on land.

"Hello, there," it said to Fenchurch through the bars of her cell.

Was this a real dolphin! Or was it like the "humans" she used to see all over the galaxy, before she realised that there was such a thing as parallel evolution. "Er, hello," she said slightly nervously. She wasn't sure why she should be so nervous about a talking dolphin. She had seen plenty of strange things in her galactic travels.

But then maybe it seemed so strange precisely because this was a dolphin. She was already familiar with dolphins. She knew what they did and did not do. And one thing they did not do was get around in walking tanks. And another thing they did not do was speak. (She had of course long forgotten that Wonko the Sane had told her back on Earth that not only could dolphins speak, but that they were quite capable of speaking English if they chose to.)

"Are you all right?" the dolphin asked.

She sighed. "Well, not really, no."

"I had a word with the authorities," the dolphin began. "If you are amenable, they have agreed to release you into my custody."

"Oh?" That sounded promising. But then so had the idea of working for a group of artists. "And just what would that mean?"

"I would arrange to transport you back to my planet. You are a human being, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"I thought so. I'm a dolphin. We originally came from the same planet. Earth," he added helpfully.

"That's right," she brightened up. "Yes. I came from Earth. So you're a real dolphin?"

"Oh, yes."

"But if you come from Earth... um... You can't really take me back there. I guess you don't know what happened to it."

"I did not mean I would take you to Earth. We have since colonized a new planet. I would take you there. It is very nice. Plenty of oceans. No sharks."

"Well, that sounds just lovely... for you. But I'm a sort of land dwelling kind of girl."

"You are funny," the dolphin said delightedly. "There are plenty of islands on our new world. And there are no predators on the land either. You will like it. You will see."

Fenchurch sighed again. "Well, it's not like I'm in a better situation here. Lay on, Macduff."