The Promotion

 President Richard Nixon sat at his desk with his hands over his eyes. First his secretary brings him burnt coffee, and now this.

         “So, you mean to tell me”, he said slowly, “that you three have come all this way to give us a promotion?”

The little green man squatting across the desk nodded and fitted a pair of pince-nez to the larger of his two noses. Nixon thought he looked like a hag that has suddenly decided to become a librarian.

         “Quite right”, said the alien, waving its tentacles, “frankly, I’m surprised you hadn’t organised a welcome party. This meeting has been scheduled for some time.”

Nixon put his hands on the papers littered over his desk and looked around in disbelief. His eyes roamed over the Oval Office, hesitating on his dumbfounded secretary in the corner and coming to a halt on the two fellows with whom the alien seated before him had arrived. Both looked extremely nervous, so much so that the clipboards they held between their tentacles shook. Following Nixon’s gaze, the alien at the desk started.

         “Pay them no mind, Mr. President”, he said, “They’re interns.” He shot a nasty look at the interns, and they stiffened. “I’m sure their anxiety can be explained by the novelty of the gravity here. Anyway, shall we get back to business? Even if you weren’t expecting us today, I don’t doubt you know why we’re here.”

The alien leant back in his chair, frowned, and leant forward again.

         “Incidentally, since you weren’t expecting us, my name is Grubbin Roxen, and my associate’s names are Knifle and Wampan. Our race is known as the Aodes.”

The interns raised their tentacles to Nixon, blushing madly.

         “Right, shall we carry on?” said Grubbin, privately wondering why Nixon was looking so confused. He was about to get started on the terms and conditions of the promotion when the president held up a hand. 

         “Wait a moment”, he said. 

Grubbin looked up and Nixon steeled himself. He wondered vaguely whether he was going to have a heart attack.

         “The fact is that I don’t know why you’re here. Nor does anybody else.”

Grubbin’s mouth dropped open and Wampan began fidgeting with his clipboard.

         “But that’s not possible, we told you all about us forty years ago! Where are my notes? Wampan!” he thundered.

Wampan scurried to the desk and held out his clipboard. Grubbin seized it and began rifling through the pages, his spare tentacles flying in agitation.

         “Yes, here you are”, he said, breathing thinly, “we first arrived thirty-six years ago in a place named ‘Jormany’ and told two men about our committee and the promotion Earth could expect to be receiving.”

Grubbin thrust the clipboard into Wampan’s chest and began fiddling with his pencil.

         “Look, we told them to be prepared, to expect us to return, how could it be that you weren’t expecting us?” Grubbin moaned. This development was extremely unwelcome, as galactic law stated that only a prepared planet can agree to join the empire, and the emperor had vaporised lifeforms for lesser mistakes in her past.

         “Who were these men, exactly?” Nixon asked.

Grubbin shook his head and ran a tentacle over his brow, searching through his memory.

         “Oh, I don’t know. Some fossil named Hindenberg and his second-in-command. Chap named Adolf, I think. I forget his surname.”

This was a nasty surprise. 

         “Ah, so you know this Adolf?” Grubbin said, misreading Nixon’s expression. “Terrific painter.”

Nixon closed his eyes.

         “I can only assume”, he said, “that both of these men died before they could share what they had learned.”

Grubbin rubbed his eyes with the air of an insurance banker having just been told ‘no’.

         “This is bad. Knifle!”

The intern shambled up to the desk, looking woebegone. He wished that he had chosen a different career path. Why in God’s name did he decide to take this internship? Everybody on the Committee for Intergalactic Relations was a bastard. He wanted to go home and complain about it to a big, influential news corporation.

         “Yes, Mr. Rexon?”

         “Phone my wives and tell them not to wait up.”

         “Yes, Sir.”

         “And remind me to dock your pay later”, Grubbin added as an afterthought.

         “Yes, Sir.”

Knifle scurried from the office, desperately holding back tears, which was lucky for the occupants of the office because Aodian tears have been known to occasionally explode with great force after coming into contact with oxygen.

Nixon glanced at Grubbin. Recognising the volcanic expression on the alien’s face from dealings he had had with insurance bankers, he called to the secretary in the corner and ordered a pot of coffee.

         “And don’t burn it!” Nixon shouted, not wanting to be out-bastard-ed by Grubbin.

         “Why in God’s name did I take this job?” Charlie wondered as he walked away, “everybody in this building is a bastard. I should tell a newspaper about it, that’ll show them.”

Back in the office, anxiety radiated in the air like a morning fog that’s late for its daughter’s wedding. Grubbin had his head in his tentacles and Nixon was looking out the window, twiddling his thumbs.

         “In short”, Grubbin said after a pause, “you don’t know why we’re here?”

         “Correct. Enlighten me.”

         “Alright, Earthman”, Grubbin said, biting his lip, “your planet was created for a television show about just how badly evolution can go wrong.”

Now, the normal reaction to hearing this sort of thing is either inconsolable sadness or inconsolable rage. Indeed, there have been documented cases of entire native populations experiencing liver failure all at once when presented with such news. The reasons behind this have baffled scientists and medical professionals for millennia, to such an extent that an extremely long rulebook describing how and how not to go about telling people that their lives were created simply for entertainment purposes was written and published widely. Grubbin had not read this book, and, although he had heard of the staggeringly negative consequences of breaking the news badly, had decided to take the risk, given there was little time for the appropriate psychological training. Rather than die of liver failure, however, Nixon simply blinked.

         “I can understand that”, he said, “we did invent Monopoly, after all.”

         “I… God Almighty, you took that very well”, said Grubbin, “when I told that to Retta Gerton last week, his appendix burst. Well, carrying on. As I’ve just said, you guys are basically actors performing for a screen. However, since you’ve been doing such a good job at being thoroughly brainless and thus providing a significant amount of entertainment, the emperor of the galaxy has seen fit to give you a promotion. She wants to bestow upon your planet the rank of ‘sub-level one galactic citizenship. That’s why we’re here.”

         “A promotion”, Nixon said. Despite his previous coolness, his head was beginning to swim. He had eaten cornflakes this morning. That was about the only normal thing that had happened all day.

         “That’s right. The only catch is galactic law says that unprepared planets can’t be promoted. So, either I break the law or get vaporised for failing to promote you.”

         “We could always pretend to have been prepared. I’m a good liar”, Nixon suggested.

Grubbin rubbed his chin and thought about this. The sentence for breaking the law was a good four hundred years in mega-prison. But any idiot knows that prison is better than death.

         “Okay, let’s do it”, Grubbin said, “You’ll just have to pretend to have been well-briefed about all of this when the emperor turns up.”

Nixon raised his eyebrows.

         “Fine. What do I need to do now?”

Grubbin shouted at Wampan to bring him his clipboard, which the intern did. Grubbin pulled a sheet of paper from the board and laid it on Nixon’s desk. Peering down at it, Nixon recognised the sheet to be a list of terms and conditions. Many of the conditions were written in an unintelligible alien language, and he simply signed the document without reading them.

         “Great”, said Grubbin, “congratulations, you’re a citizen now.”

         “Thank you very much. What’s next?”

         “Well, we just need to wait around for the emperor to arrive and complete the ceremony”, Grubbin said. “Shouldn’t take long.”

         “Want some coffee?” Nixon asked as Charlie the secretary stomped into the office, deposited a pot on Nixon’s desk and stomped out again.

         “No thank you”, said Grubbin, “it’ll kill me.”

It is a well-known fact that coffee is perhaps the single most dangerous substance ever created. To almost every species in the known universe, the word ‘coffee’ means ‘instant death’, or, in some cases, ‘untold misery, followed swiftly by instant death.’ There are only three planets in all of creation upon which coffee can be found in an amount worth bothering with, and for this reason it is not widely feared despite its lethality. On Tekyth IV, the fifteenth moon of Musk Prime, coffee is mined from the planet’s core and used in chemical power plants. On Barkley Minor, it is siphoned from the great bean trees of Ennom and employed by the native military as an extremely effective bioweapon. On Earth, it is brewed with water and consumed over leuisurely breakfasts, or perhaps sipped at from small mugs – usually with the addition of a newspaper and pipe – after a nice dinner.

Because of this, as Knifle walked into the neat, orderly White House kitchenette and saw Charlie the secretary leaning against a table holding a large cup of coffee, he screamed rather loudly. Charlie jumped and spun around wildly.

         “Oh God”, he thought, “here I am, trying to feel sorry for myself and who walks through the door but an alien.”

         “Are you going to eat me?” Charlie said to Knifle.

         “Goodness, no”, the alien responded, “I just came in here because I heard someone feeling very depressed and thought I’d come and join in. Only I can’t now, as you’ve made coffee.”

         “What do you mean you heard someone feeling depressed? And what’s wrong with coffee?”

         “Telepathy”, Knifle said, tapping his brow with the end of a tentacle, “and coffee is the most dangerous substance every discovered, didn’t you know that?”

         “The most dangerous substance ever discovered?” Charlie said, looking down into his mug, “it seems alright to me.”

Knifle skirted the wall opposite Charlie and took a seat on nearby crate.

         “Humans appear to be immune”, he said, “but you’re the only race who is. Anyway, what are you feeling so depressed about?”

         “I hate my job, and everybody in this building is a bastard. I should have gone to art school.”

At these words, Knifle brightened and turned a rather fetching shade of orange in his excitement. Here it seemed, was a man to whom he could relate to. Knifle inched closer.

         “But I feel the same”, he breathed, “I wanted to go to Astro-spray-painting school but ended up with this internship.”

         “This is brilliant!” said Charlie, “Who knew that the first person I felt able to complain to about oppressive workplace culture would be an alien! I feel better already.”

         “This is brilliant!” said Knifle, “You know, I feel so absolutely terrific that I almost want to do something unbelievably rash!”

         “That’s a great idea!”, cried Charlie, “something to show our bosses just who’s boss! Something so utterly, mindbogglingly silly that they’ll never be nasty to their inferiors ever again!”

         “I agree!” said Knifle, “are you going to finish your coffee?”

Back in the Oval Office, Grubbin was smoking a cigar and Nixon was nursing a tumbler of whiskey.

         “So”, he said, “when can we expect the emperor to arrive?”

         “Fifteen minutes, maybe?” puffed Grubbin.

         “And what exactly does being a ‘sub-level one’ planet mean for us? Just in case she quizzes me.”

Grubbin pulled at his cigar and put it down in an ashtray on Nixon’s desk, where it continued to smoke gently.

         “Well”, he said, “I expect you’ll get secretarial work to begin with. Nothing you won’t be able to handle. I’ll pop back in a week and brief you on everything I was supposed to have briefed you forty years ago.”

         “Oh no”, said Nixon, “I can’t stand secretaries.”

         “While we’re on the subject”, Grubbin said, “Wampan, you’re fired.”

Wampan, who had been standing dutifully in the corner for quite some time, sniffled and shuffled from the room to catch a hyper-taxi back home.

         “You’ll have to let the population of Earth know about this development, by the way”, Grubbin admonished, brandishing his cigar.

         “Shouldn’t be too hard. We’ve done worse”, said Nixon.

Fourteen minutes later, Nixon and Grubbin were standing out on the sweeping White House lawns when the emperor’s ship materialised in the lower atmosphere and sped down towards them. It resembled a gargantuan fountain pen: long, sleek, and full of ink, ink being the emperor’s favourite substance in which to bathe. As it landed, the twin turbo-thrust engines at the rear puffed carbonised smoke and switched off; the landing gear engaged and grasped the damp alien soil of Earth for the first time, and a long, tongue-like ramp extended from the tip of the craft. Steam billowed from the ship’s doorway and three humanoid figures descended the ramp with incredible style. The foremost figure was clearly the emperor: she was dressed in splendid robes of lilac and gold, and upon her white face were painted broad red stripes. The emperor strode down the gangplank and came to a halt before Nixon. She towered over him, and as he looked into her strong, pale face, he felt the crushing reality of infinity fall upon him. The two men flanking the emperor were clearly bodyguards, judging by their black plate armour and long, chunky guns.

         “Alright, Earthman”, grunted one of the guards, “no funny business, or we’ll shoot you. Come to think of it, I might shoot you just for the hell of it. In fact”, he said, glowering, “why don’t you make my day and do something stupid.”

         “Erm”, said Nixon.

         “Shut up, Alan”, said the second bodyguard, “there’s no need to threaten the ape. Nothing in creation can hurt the emperor other than coffee, you know that. No need to be so bloody militant about it.”

The second bodyguard looked down at Nixon kindly.

         “My name is Bill, and this is Alan”, he gestured to his angry companion, “we’re the emperor’s bodyguards. Congratulations on becoming an officially recognised planet!”

         “Thank you”, said Nixon. One of his eyelids was twitching.

At this, the emperor spoke, and her voice billowed about the trees and the grass like wind.

         “You are the ruler of Earth?” she said.

Nixon wiped his brow.

         “Erm, in a manner of speaking.”

         “Good. I have watched Earth’s career with considerable amusement. You apes are often very comical. Where is the ceremonial ribbon?”

From behind Nixon, Grubbin emerged carrying a belt of thick red cloth in his tentacles.

         “Here, your greatness”, he stammered.

         “Thank you. And my laser scissors?”

Alan the bodyguard grunted and pulled an extremely long pair of silver scissors from a scabbard at his hip. He handed them to the emperor, who bade Nixon hold the cloth out before him. He did so, and the cloth was severed in a flash of blue light.

         “Well”, boomed the emperor, “the ceremony is complete. You, Earthman”, she said, turning to Nixon, “along with the rest of your kind, are citizens of the galactic empire.”

The emperor stared about the lawns and smiled.

         “I will take my leave of you”, she, “I expect your people to report for your duties at your earliest convenience. Farewell.”

         “Goodbye”, said Nixon shakily. He looked at Grubbin, who gave him the thumbs up. That is to say, Grubbin poked his tentacles out and made a weird quivering gesture with them that Nixon interpreted as a thumbs up.

The emperor turned to re-enter her ship in a flash of fabric, but before she had gone ten steps, a cry broke the amazed silence and echoed around the grounds.

         “Wait!”

The emperor looked over her shoulder, and Nixon and Grubbin spun on their heels to discover the origin of the call. Far across the lawn, Knifle and Charlie could be seen sprinting across the grass towards the group by the ship, each holding a large mug of steaming black liquid.

         “Knifle, what in creation?” shouted Grubbin, “what are you doing? Is that… COFFEE?!”

Both Nixon and Grubbin tried to dive in front of the emperor but missed. Knifle and Charlie tore past their prostrate employers and bounded up the ship’s ramp, yelling madly.

         “You’re the epitome of workplace oppression, aren’t you?” screamed Knifle at the emperor.

         “Oh, yes you are!” shrieked Charlie, “Well, this is what we think of you! Take that!”

And with a huge swing, Knifle and Charlie flung their mugs of hot coffee at the emperor. As soon as the liquid touched her skin, the emperor wailed like a banshee and collapsed to the floor, writhing and straining. Steam burst from her body and her assailants threw themselves from the ramp to avoid the flying liquid. As the steam cleared, it became clear that the emperor and her bodyguards had been vaporised.

By the time Nixon and Grubbin had sat up and looked around, they found not trace of their employees, who, as it transpired, had made a sensational escape.

In the years following their departure, Knifle the intern and Charlie the secretary founded the Committee for the Protection of Workplace Equinimity on Indoc V, Knifle’s home world. They then went on to raise an army and reorganised the empire into a wildly successful Galactic Communist Republic. After five years had passed, Charlie returned to the United States, found his old employer, and related to him the smash hit that was intergalactic communism.

Nixon was furious.