Twitter's stock split (again), the web lit up 24/7, and news people never seemed to go to bed. Maybe, as some suggested, the aliens had taught them how to clone themselves, complete with perfect hairdos. The aliens (or rather, the androids they had sent in their places) appeared to be teaching important people a lot of things: new products appeared on the market, at reasonable introductory prices, there were rumours of medical advances, including a cure for the common cold, and the airwaves were full of startling images of the aliens' homeworld, which looked like a realtor's paradise.
Of course, only world leaders got to talk to the androids, who explained patiently (as androids are built for patience) that yes, they (or rather, their flesh-and-blood creators) had been monitoring Earth for a very long time, were big fans, in fact, and knew as much as the next rabid fan about the place's history, habits, and general quirks. Just ask them. In fact, they modestly supposed they might even know more about the running of the planet than the average local inhabitant. Though they didn't like to brag. The androids proved this, right off, by asking for the world leaders and media darlings by name. They even knew all the trivia from the comic books and scifi blockbusters.
Anybody who wasn't a world leader or media star (the androids appeared interested in construction tycoons with bad hairpieces and political ambitions, as well as over-muscled and/or scantily-clad movie folk) just had to be satisfied with the day-and-night coverage of everything from the latest glimpse of the interior of the ship (mauve, surprising choice) to endless discussions of Lady Dada's wardrobe malfunction at the android-attended Oscars. (The androids appeared only mildly interested, leading to speculation that the androids' bosses were similarly equipped.) As usual, hoi polloi sat and gossiped while the major players did whatever major players did.
Finally, after the usual high-level talks, the following facts emerged:
The aliens' homeworld had plenty of room for new settlement, and was issuing invitations.
Only the best, brightest, most gifted – meaning the well-heeled and famous – need apply.
In other words, business as usual. People expressed opinions on Facebook ('Like! Like! Like!') and collected collectibles commemorating the hotly-anticipated day of departure. Ratings had never been higher.
***
When Jim Garrity presented his media pass (www.homeopapenews.com, a modest start- up whose bricks-and-mortar assets consisted of a desktop and an outdated 4-in-1 printer in the corner of his living room), the guard at the gate grunted rudely and pointed vaguely in the direction of the holding area for insignificant press types. Jim clutched his second-hand notebook computer as he shouldered his way into his bleacher seat, but could not suppress a moue of distaste at the shabby treatment.
'The problem with you,' remarked a voice at his elbow, 'is that you still think you count as a person.'
Jim swivelled in annoyance to the speaker, who turned out to be a short man with wiry red hair, who grinned up at him, showing crooked teeth. 'I do count as a person,' Jim protested. 'So do you. So does everybody.'
The little man shook his head vehemently. 'Nope,' he said emphatically. 'That's where you're wrong, my friend. We don't count. We've never counted – not to them.' He pointed in the direction of the tarmac outside the bleacher area, where the gleaming spaceship stood, doors wide open to receive the well-escorted line of beautifully-dressed prominence proceeding up the red carpet – hands empty, of course, as their luggage had been sent ahead. That's what they had People for. Jim snorted as he watched Lady Dada wave to the many fans who'd come to see her off. To their disappointment, her wardrobe failed to malfunction, but she was still gorgeous.
'I don't suppose they could take everybody,' he remarked. 'Of course they'd take the movers and shakers. The people who...' he stopped.
'The people who count?' The little man chuckled. 'See what I mean? You've been indoctrinated since birth, only you don't know it. Somebody told you that you didn't count. And you believed him.' Jim waved the pest away (while involuntarily thinking, 'my father, my mother, my teachers'), and after paying an exorbitant $15 for a Coke (it was a warm day, and the concessionaires knew how much the traffic would bear), he settled in to follow the ceremonies, take pictures, and blog like all the others. Jim could type and watch at the same time, and did so. The boarding took hours – it was meant to, to allow each and every celebrity his or her red-carpet moment – and there were intervals of entertainment, mostly musical, from B-Listers who obviously felt that, although they hadn't been issued a ticket, they could comfort themselves in the knowledge that, the A-Listers away, they might get a few more gigs than usual. Jim listened, watched, noted in the usual style. (The British Royal Family is well-represented today, having flown to the Launch Site here in Baja California early this morning...the Queen is wearing a tasteful ensemble in, need we say, royal blue, as she leans on the arm of her granddaughter-in-law, who lives up to her reputation as one of the world's best-dressed women in a stunning outfit of...)
Jim stopped to stretch while a boy band sang the new charity song, God Bless the Earth, copies of which were on sale at the gate. As he did so, he noticed that the little man beside him had neither laptop nor camera, and appeared to be taking in all the action without paying particular attention to it. He hadn't even bought a programme. This made Jim curious.
'Hey, buddy,' he ventured. 'What outfit are you with? You don't seem to be taking any notes. Don't you blog?'
The little man winked and tapped his forehead, an oddly endearing gesture. 'It's all up here,' he explained. 'The people who sent me just want my impressions, you know. They can get the rest from the web.'
Jim shrugged. 'Nice job,' was all he had to say to that.
The man stuck out his hand. 'I'm Gabe, by the way,' he said, and of course Jim replied with his name. It turned out that Gabe, while unencumbered by the tools of the paparazzo's, reporter's, or indeed any other trade, had brought something better – namely, sandwiches, which he proposed to share with Jim. As the two munched away at surprisingly tasty hoagies (Gabe explained that he'd flown in from Philadelphia), the two chatted about this and that, as the floor show below continued with a 'farewell clip show' of popular scenes from the award-winning stars who were about to be going...well, out into the stars themselves.
Gabe mused. 'Nice thing about these bleachers,' he commented. 'I don't see many wasps or ants.'
Jim thought. 'Probably because the whole set-up was just put here for the launch.' Gabe nodded.
'I imagine you're right,' he said. 'You know, where I come from, we used to have a lot of trouble with wasps at picnics.' He chuckled. 'Doesn't it just get your nanny when you're trying to eat, and those biting insects get between you and your potato salad?'
Jim had to agree. 'I know what you mean. Not much you can do about it, though. If you spray 'em, the poison will get into your own food.'
Gabe laughed. 'That's true. But we knew a better trick than that.' Seeing that Jim looked interested, Gabe went on. 'We just set a saucer of jam about 100 yards or so away. The wasps would always go after the jam, and leave our picnic alone. They drown in the sticky stuff, too.' Jim decided that Gabe was a pretty practical fellow, as well as generous with his hoagies, and they got along well for the rest of the afternoon, all through the launching ceremony, in which the national anthems of 26 nations were performed by mass choirs. Finally, when it was all over, and the ship itself was only a distant point on the twilight horizon, the two new friends adjourned to the least fashionable (and therefore least crowded) bar they could find, and drank to friendship before heading back to their hotels.
***
Somehow, it was Gabe Jim thought of when he saw the news a few weeks later – images from orbital telescopes which had captured the moment when the spaceship from Earth was supposed to be launched into the aliens' captive wormhole.
The moment, not to put too fine a point on it, when the spaceship full of Earth's most important and newsworthy citizens blew up. Brightly and soundlessly and finally, somewhere on the edge of the solar system. Jim stopped to reflect, along with all the other citizens of Earth, on the loss of so many of the planet's political, military, economic, and society elite.
***
The next time Jim thought about Gabe was when he saw him on television the day after the explosion.
Gabe was getting out of the other spaceship, you see, the one that had people in it rather than androids.
Somebody was calling Gabe 'Commander Gabriel', and the little redhead was explaining what the new offer was. They'd brought a lot of nice things, you see, and were looking forward to getting to know folk...
Somehow, Jim was sure the new offer involved good food.
And that in this scheme, everyone counted.
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