#235

The annual little switch is approaching. 

The Switch starts at a prompt 1200 and it is already 1160 and all I have accomplished is sniffing up the scent of #234 on the many layers of clothes that are supposed to be already packed away for him. I grumble to myself irritably, wadding up one of #234’s onesies and chuck it at the wall in front of me. It hits with a barely audible thud and then hangs suspended for a moment before gravity regains it’s grip and it falls to the floor. 

I glance at the time-keeper again: 1165. I groan, smacking the palms of my hands against my forehead and the suckers which line the length of my fingers catch on the scaled edges of my head. I have to pull hard to get them to release and each one bursts free with a resounding POP.

It’s 1166 now and it’s going to take at least 20 minutes to get across the Milky Way and to the Pavillion of Stars. If I am going to make it–which, really, I don’t have any other choice but to make it–I have to start now. There is no time to fold and pack away #234’s clothes as neatly as I should, so I bend over and start to wad the fabric into tight balls. I shove them, artlessly, into #234’s travel pack. 

One by one, the pile of little clothes dwindles and disappears before my eyes. Until I am left holding the last piece; his precious last onesie is grey as slate and two sizes too big for #234. My mouth tightens; I will never see the day where he is big enough to don this. Oh well, oh well, oh well. I crumple the fabric into my hands, resisting the urge to take a whiff, and zip it up along with a years-worth of memories. 

. . .

We arrive at 1202 on the dot and they’ve already begun closing the gates. I approach one of the green-scaled sentries posted outside, #234 trailing in my wake. “You’re late,” the sentry grunts, taking in our disorderly appearance. “Late fee is 47 star medallions,” he says, stretching out his hand. I rummage in my pockets and deposit the medallions into his hand. He nods and waves to the other sentries. After a millisecond the gates open again and we are ushered in. 

The Pavillion of Stars is large enough to fit the whole of Zigoria. The rust-colored walls stretch up high–so high that they fade up and out of sight. The ceiling is nonexistent so when you look up your eyes meet only the coolness of a star-strewn galaxy, thick with interstellar clouds. Far to the front, I can just barely make out the egg-shaped mass that acts as the Mother of all Zigorians. If I were closer to the front I would be able to see the writhing, blob-like shapes of Zigorian’s yet to be hatched. 

Right now, the building is packed to the brim with Zigorian’s both large and small. All are scaled and green-skinned. Each grown Zigorian is accompanied by their small charge–who are soon to be someone else’s responsibility. In a few moments they will begin separating us into groups, and us grown Zigorian’s will have to stand in line at our appointed age bracket. I swallow and look down at #234. He is small–just barely 5 orbits old. His scales will not have hardened for another 7 orbits, so now they appear only as a myriad of crisscrosses alongst his face. His yellow eyes gaze out at the pavilion, wonderstruck. 

Heart thundering, I glance around before pressing the back of two fingers gently against #234’s head. He looks up at me, eyes round with questioning innocence. He is young enough that he doesn’t understand the immensity of this small action. I think, if anyone were to see this, I would be sent to Mars. The thought conjures up a vision of barren slopes and the dry clay of a waterless land. This is the punishment for actions such as this. If you were lucky, dehydration or starvation would take you before the flesh-eating roaches or the walking-sickness did you in. A fate worse than death. 

I jerk back at the thought, eyes scanning the bodies around me for anyone who may have seen my unseemly display of…of…of what? There is no word in the Zigorian language appropriate enough to describe the offense I had just committed. As my heart begins to calm, I realise with relief that everyone is staring straight ahead to where the ceremony is beginning to start. 

Everyone except one.

She is a tiny thing–much smaller than #234–with the purple eyes we Zigorian’s associate with females of our kind. It seems to please her that I have caught her spying because her mouth tips up into a smile and her hands open and close eagerly at her sides. She stands several hands-lengths from her Guardian, balancing precariously on the balls of her feet. As she teeters back and forth, she bores into me with those eyes–eyes only a shade darker than my own. I look back, assessing. She is very skinny, I think to myself. She looks like one of the weaklings doomed to spend eternity syphoning off gravity from the black holes that border the edges of our planet. 

I hang suspended in that moment until a voice booms out across the pavilion, “And so ends another orbit!” Our Lady Speaker pauses, soaking in the crowd’s reverent silence and then, “Yet a new one begins!” Cheers erupt all around me. My people’s chants echo from wall to wall, the strength of their voices causing the ground itself to rumble with Zigorian pride. Even #234 joins in the crowd's merriment–though I doubt he knows exactly what he’s cheering for.

Zigorian officials begin to spill out into the crowd, collecting up the Littles and lining them up by their amount of orbits. Before I know it, #234 is gone and I am jostled into step with the rest of the grown Zigorian’s. Once everyone is arranged in their proper places Our Lady Speaker announces, “Guardians of the First Orbit may approach.” The crowd shifts as officials scan the Guardians and help match them to their Little. 

My eyes glaze over the next few rounds of matchings until finally I hear, “Guardians of the Fourth Orbit may approach.” I find myself moving forward with the assurance of habit. An official meets me halfway and I stand still as he scans me from head to toe. He then leads me to my new charge–my new charge who is all too familiar to me. She smiles as purple eyes meet purple eyes, her mouth full of happy little clicking noises. The official takes one moment to look at her harshly and then leaves to assist the next Guardian. 

I turn to my new Little, “I will call you #235.”

. . .

I bring her home as I did all the others, but she does not act as the others did. She sits aside me in my spaceship click clacking and happily swinging her little legs back and forth. She turns to me, click clacks some more. I try to shush her but find that I really don’t mind the noise. 

#234 did not make nearly as much noise as this new one, I think. Even when his clicking started developing into words, he was soft-spoken and had very little to say. Most Zigorians are this way; our race is not one for mindless chatter or unnecessary speech. Sometimes I would try to coax words out of him; What shade of grey do you like best? What were your other Guardians like? Do you like it here?--here, with me? I’m not even sure of what plagued me to ask these questions; I am certain my Guardians never asked them of me. When I would ask my questions, #234 would typically wrinkle his nose and stare me down in his mute way and eventually, I would give up. 

I think, perhaps I have grown tired of all the silence. 

Click clack. 

. . .

Back at my pod, I sit #235 at the table. Usually, a Guardian would start by unpacking their new Littles’ bag and seeing what they have come with, but there will be time for that later. I, on the other hand, like to start by filling their bellies. 

I grab a bag of plasma from one of the many locker trays lining the clay walls. I pierce a hole through the bag with one sharp nail and deposit it in front of my charge. #235 looks at the bag and then me and then the bag again. Click clack click clack, she says and smacks the table. 

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask. 

Click clack!

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” 

Click CLACK! she says again and shoves the plasma off the table. 

The swirling green contents of the bag go flying, splattering all over the walls and the floors and myself. I stare at the mess, incredulous. “Never in my 367 orbits have I ever…” I trail off, tongue catching on a bit of plasma at the edge of my mouth; bitter-sweet with a hint of spice. 

Click clack. I swing around to stare at #235. She’s smiling, seemingly pleased with her mess. I cough, searching for any words that may help me in this alien scenario. #235 simply stares and smiles and lifts her hands out to me, grasping at the open space between us. Click clack click clack. 

Something within me softens at the small hands reaching out–reaching out for what? reaching out for me? 

I sigh, “Yes, click clack click clack.”  

. . .

I learn that #235 does not like plasma (which is strange because all my other Littles were basically space vacuums for the stuff.) No–#235 does not like plasma but she does love dark matter. She sits before me now, scooping heaving handfuls of the stuff up and smashing it into her mouth like a wild thing. “Slow down or you’ll get a bellyache,” I always say but she ignores me, choosing to pile more of the invisible slop deep into her maw. That’s another thing I’ve learned about #235–she never listens. 

I say it again, more out of habit than anything, “#235 slow down or you’ll get a bellyache.” 

Click–a piece of dark matter flings it’s way onto my cheek with a soft squelch–clack. 

The soft moistness of the dark matter against my cheek fills my senses until it is all I can focus on. I lift my hand to flick it off but only end up catching it’s moistness under a nail bed.  All the while #235 merrily smacks her lips, little feet banging endlessly up against her perch. 

Squelch. Smack. Bang, bang, bang. 

Repeat. 

Squelch. Smack. Bang, bang, bang. 

My mind explodes with all the noise. 

“#235, you will be obedient! Put that dark matter down and clean yourself up right this instant!” My voice breaks on the last syllable, unused to such high volumes.

There is complete silence as #235 stares at me and stares at me, her little hands working in and out. And then her eyes are filling with tears–-and fuck I have only witnessed tears a handful of times–and she’s screaming and hiccuping and click clacking click clacking and now I feel terrible. 

“Shh shh,” I say, looking around for a bucket for all these tears, “shh shh.” Her face is tiny and pinched, the mark of utter devastation curling her mouth into continuous wails. I’m panicking–this has never happened with any of my other Littles. I stand up, eyes darting every which way, searching for something–anything to make this little thing stop. Finally, because I feel I have no other choice, I cross the remaining distance between us and crouch by her side. My nearness seems to distract her for a moment–but only for a moment because then she sucks in a deep breath and lets loose another yowl, louder than the ones before, and her tears come with such a violence that they beat against my face.

Instinct seems to take over my hands then. I reach out to her, allowing the back of my hand to brush softly against her temple. “Shh #235 shh,” I say, stroking tenderly. My touch does not seem to surprise her as it did #235. Instead she leans her head into it, her wailing softening underneath my touch. And then–to my surprise–her little hands are up again reaching, reaching. 

She is reaching for me! I think. After a beat, I awkwardly wrap an arm around her shoulders and the crying stops altogether. I find myself patting her back though I don’t know what this motion is supposed to accomplish. 

She smiles up into my face, click clack. 

I cannot help but smile back. 

. . .

I am sitting at the table trying to read the new “Space Jam’s New Orbit” article titled “MASS HYSTERIA: HUMANS LANDED ON THE MOON”, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get past the date staring at me from the top corner: 555.555.10767. We are halfway through this orbit already and, for some reason, this knowledge conjures moisture in my eyes. They unfocus and all I can think is, half an orbit half an orbit half an orbit, until I feel a sharp tug at my elbow.

I look down. 

Click clack. 

“Yes, I know you’re hungry,” I say, turning my gaze back to the article. “Give me a few milliseconds.” I force my eyes to hone back in on the words in front of me: “Man by the name of Armstrong. Neil has invaded the Mo–” another series of tugging. 

“#235, stop that!” I snap without taking my eyes off the paper. 

“Meeh-TAH meeh-TAH!” 

It takes only a moment for my brain to catch up to what #235 just said and then I’m on my knees, staring into her face, laughing. 

She looks appalled at my laughter. “MEH-TAH! MEH-TAH!” she yells, stomping her foot and pointing at a locker tray. 

“You want some matter?” I choke out the question between hiccuping laughs. 

She nods, looking satisfied.

. . .

The Switch will be starting soon. I glance at the time-keeper: 1166. If we don’t leave soon–which, really, I don’t have any other choice but to leave–we won’t have enough time to put between us and the officials.  

My heart is hammering but my hands are steady as I finish folding up the last of #235’s onesies. I pick up the final piece: it’s her favorite–a dove-grey onesie that’s a little too snug on her. This onesie came with her when she arrived at my pod. I’ve been trying to get her to let go of it for almost the whole orbit now but, as always, #235 is stubborn in her decision to keep it. 

I think, maybe some of her willfulness has rubbed off on me. 

The time-keeper now reads: 1172. I wad the the onesie up and throw it into #235’s travel pack. It’s going to take at least 20 minutes to get across the Milky Way and another 25 to catch the next Asteroid to Earth. If we can make it onto the Asteroid, there won’t be any catching us, I think, smiling. 

“#235, are you ready?” 

She appears at my side, smiling mischievously. The onesie she has decided to wear is two sizes too big for her–not very practical for running from intergalactic officials. I groan and look at the time-keeper again: 1177. There is no time for changing. I zip up the last of our things and stand, slinging the #235’s travel pack across my shoulders. 

I look down at my purple-eyed girl. She has grown much taller since the first day I brought her here. It seems I have grown too but not quite in the same way. #235 reaches one hand out to me, eagerly opening and closing her tiny fist. Click clack, she says. I reach back, linking my hand with hers. 

“Click clack,” I say and we exit my pod for the last time.