Part the final

Here's the ending of my short story. If you missed part three, click here.

Part two.

The beginning

When I wake a few hours later, I take a quick shower and put my creased clothes back on. Next time I get abducted by aliens, I need to remember to bring a change of underwear.

I open the door to find Alt sitting at one of several small tables in a large room. Sunlight streams in from translucent skylights. A buffet covers a long table near the far wall, and a dozen other people are filling and emptying their plates. “They even have a waffle maker,” Alt says, gesturing with his white coffee mug. “It’s like that time we stayed at the Marriott when we were kids.”

“Looks like every corporate hotel, ever.” I leave Alt at the table as I serve myself some scrambled eggs, a fruit-filled Danish and a cup of coffee with cream. “I don’t suppose you can really call this a Danish, though,” I tell Alt as I sit down. “I wonder what they call it.”

“It’s a Danish,” Rogers says, plopping a mountain of food down on the table and sliding into another chair. “This is all Earth food. It’s one of the things we hope to export. The rest of the universe doesn’t have anything like this.” He starts shoveling in the grub.

In fact, everyone around us is eating as if there’s no tomorrow. “It’s a wonder you folks aren’t all four hundred pounds,” Alt says. “If you eat like this every day, Earth will run out of food in no time.”

“We have very fast metabolisms,” Rogers says. “Gotta keep stoking the machine. I think that’s why the food in the rest of the galaxy is so bland—it’s more about refueling than enjoying.”

“If Earth could import that, you’d make a fortune,” I mutter. “The fast metabolism, I mean.”

Alt raises his coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

When we finish our meal, Rogers takes us back to the conference room. “I think they want your input on something,” he says, his voice wondering. “In all the years I’ve worked for GRC, I’ve never heard of them asking the natives for advice.”

A larger group of suits has gathered at the conference table, but Carol, wearing a pink ensemble today, remains in charge. “Thank you for coming,” she says in a mechanical voice.

Not like we had a choice. I attempt a regal nod, but it probably just looks surly.

“Thanks to, er, Steve,” Carol gestures to Rogers, “we have a bit of a situation. As he’s told you, we are attempting to bring Earth to market. The assessments show that Earth, as a whole, isn’t ready for the larger galaxy yet. Normally, we’d set a few more cultivation programs in place and let the planet grow for another decade. However, our competitors are making a concerted effort to not only undermine our programs, but also to force a premature revelation which would result in our organization being banned from cultivation in the future.”

“GRC,” Rogers says.

“What?” Carol gives Rogers a confused look.

“We’re calling our organization GRC. Galactic Research Corporation. And we’re calling our opposition The Other Guys. TOG.” Rogers smiles.

Carol narrows her eyes. “How very, er, helpful. Thank you, Steve.” She doesn’t sound very appreciative. Rogers pales and bows his head.

“Maybe we want TOG to scare you guys away.” I cross my arms over my chest, repeating the argument that got them all riled up last night.

“Ah, yes, thank you for that lead in,” Carol says, a polite smile pasted on her face. “We’ve prepared a presentation. Bruce, could you get the lights?”

Carol launches into a thirty-minute slide show entitled Project Earth: Cultivation and Curation of Pre-Galactic Planets. When she starts throwing five-star reviews from the indigent populations of other planets onto the screen, I hold up my hands in surrender.

“All right. Fine. Let’s say I agree with you.” As the lights come up, I narrow my eyes at Carol as if to imply I’m not convinced. But actually, I kind of am. “Can’t you just expose TOG’s activities and get them banned or something?”

“We can, if we can get proof of their perfidy.” She uses the melodramatic phrase with a complete lack of self-consciousness.

Alt sits up in his seat. “Maybe Rina and I can help. Like a sting operation.” He rubs his hands together. “We’ll just hang around that building where Steve was, uh, cultivating me,” he throws a weak grin at Steve, “and we’ll let the TOG guy catch us. Then we can record him making inappropriate suggestions. Or something.”

“Hey!” I protest. “I don’t want to get caught by aliens. Again. No offense,” I add when Rogers looks distressed.

“None taken,” he replies, and his sunny smile snaps back in place. “Don’t worry, Tony won’t hurt you. That would get TOG in real trouble.”

“Tony?” Alt asks. “Please tell me his last name is Stark.”

Carol gives him a quelling look, but Rogers smiles.

* * *

I sit on a counter, swinging my legs, bored out of my mind. “It’s Saturday,” I whine. “We’ve been here all morning and no aliens have shown up. I want to go home.”

Across the room, Alt types furiously on his laptop, refining his data sifting program. Apparently, coding is really Zen—or so he told me. I suppose I could log in to the Simmons and Blake VPN, but I don’t feel like working. Acting as bait for evil aliens isn’t conducive to creative endeavor, if you ask me. Besides, it’s Saturday.

The real janitorial crew cleaned up the spilled popcorn and emptied the recycling bin, but Alt has managed to spread chip bags and empty soda cans all over the room in the few hours we’ve been here. I sip my coffee and wrap a blanket more tightly around my shoulders. The room is frigid. I’m wearing three of Alt’s sweatshirts over my jeans and sweater, and I’m still freezing.

When the doorknob rattles, Alt looks up. He must have been pretending to work—I’ve never seen him respond that quickly when he’s in the zone. The door opens, and short woman with a pale blond bob walks in. She’s wearing yoga pants and a long, red sweatshirt with a ripped neckline that slips down off one shoulder. Very eighties.

“Can we help you?” I ask.

“I’m Toni Stark,” she says, closing the door behind her.

Alt and I blink at each other.

“I’d like to talk to you about Steve Rogers,” she says, not commenting on our stunned expressions. Maybe she just doesn’t notice. “I understand you have been in contact with him?”

“The suit from Multi-Tech?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “What about him?”

“He’s not who he claims to be.” She’s standing just inside the door, watching us.

“Okay, I’ll bite.” I start swinging my feet again. “Who is he?”

“He’s the representative of an evil organization intent on taking over the world.” She delivers the words in a flat tone.

Alt’s eyes widen. “Really? An evil organization?”

I bitie my lip, trying not to snicker.

She moves a few more steps into the room and sits down. “Can I have some of those chips?” She reaches toward Alt’s desk.

“Sorry, they’re all gone.” He swipes the bag off the desk and into a trash can. A few chips fall out, but he picks them up and throws them into the bin. “Tell me about this evil organization.”

“They’re evil. Why is it so cold in here?” She hikes the sweater up on her shoulders and wraps her arms around her torso.

“What are they doing?” Alt asks. “I mean, how are they taking over the world?”

The woman blinks at Alt. She opens and closes her mouth then licks her blue tinged lips. “I—do you have any coffee? Or anything sweet?”

“Look, lady,” I say, throwing off my blanket as I leap to my feet and looming over her. “You barged in here making accusations. We didn’t invite you for a coffee klatch. Say what you came to say or get out. Where does this evil organization come from?”

“Outer space,” she whispers, her teeth chattering so loudly we almost can’t hear her. “They come from outer space.”

“Okay, we got her!” The door flies open, and Rogers bursts in wearing a knit hat, a thick parka, and ski gloves. He snags my blanket off the counter and throws it over Stark, who wraps it tightly around her shoulders. “Turn up the heat, would you?”

Alt gives him a thumbs up and taps on his phone. The cold air blowing in through the vents changes to warm.

Stark stares up at Rogers. “You! You tricked me!”

Rogers smiles and hands her a huge coffee cup. “And we got it on tape. TOG is screwed.”

“TOG?” She wrinkles her nose. She snakes a hand out of the blanket, snatches the cup and chugs her triple caramel mocha supreme.

* * *

“Weird how stupid they get when they’re cold, isn’t it?” Alt says as we amble out into the sunlight.

“I dunno.” I squint up at him. “You aren’t too bright when you’re hungry. The cold just multiplies the effect for them.”

Carol waits for us in the parking lot. “We’ll fly you back to Portland, and you’ll talk to your colleague?”

I nod. “I already texted her. She’s stoked.” With Toni’s blunder, TOG is out of the picture, and GRC has all the time in the world. Carol and I came up with a plan last night. GRC will send their employees to Sonia’s client, the culinary school. GRC will export trained chefs, without exposing Earth to the rest of the galaxy. They’ll be able to make a little credit, and the galaxy will get delicious food without depleting Earth’s resources. Meanwhile, GRC will continue their program of planetary development. After twenty or thirty more years of careful indoctrination, Earth will be ready.

I hope.

I hope you enjoyed this story. Check out the anthology for more amazing tales. Beyond the Stars: Rocking Space