What If? a Collection of Short Fiction by J. Paul Cooper Page 4

  The wealthy Vorlexians were confident they were good citizens of the universe, regardless of what others might think of their behaviour. There were so many situations in which business and pleasure crossed a line into the grey area between right and wrong. There were many influential Vorlexian educators who felt there shouldn’t even be a line. Who had the right to decide what types of behaviour were acceptable for all species, under all circumstances? As the Earth became a small dot in the distance, the three wealthy Vorlexians sitting at the counter weren’t concerned with philosophical arguments, they had who they wanted.

  As the Chef regained consciousness, he found himself wrapped in what appeared to be a large inflatable cushion, in a small room with opaque walls. He struggled to free himself, but soon realized it was useless and he decided to focus on controlling his breathing and remaining calm. There was no need to panic, his weekly program had one of the highest ratings of any cooking shows on television. He was a bona fide celebrity and that made him valuable. The network needed the advertising income he generated. They would be willing to pay whatever ransom was required to set him free. It wouldn’t take long.

  Still, the fact that he had allowed himself to be kidnapped was quite annoying. He simply didn’t have time to be kidnapped; it was Tuesday and he had to be in Toronto to tape a Christmas special on Thursday. It was obvious that his kidnappers knew his schedule. Since the Christmas special would have a large audience and be the perfect opportunity to promote his latest book, it would add to the pressure to pay the ransom as soon as possible.

  He dreaded seeing his agent, the first words out of her mouth would be, and “I told you so.” She had warned him that traveling alone to the house in the country could be dangerous for a celebrity, but what could he do? He needed to get away from the demands of his busy schedule in the city and spend some quality time in peaceful surroundings, using his time and talent to create new recipes.

  The last thing he remembered was standing in front of the fireplace just after sunset with a glass of wine in his hand. He heard footsteps on the front porch, opened the door to see who it was, and was blinded by a bright light. The next thing he knew; he was a prisoner. He tried moving his limbs inside the inflatable cushion and was relieved that he didn’t experience any sharp pain. At least he hadn’t suffered any serious injuries.

  Ulmar, the oldest Vorlexian sitting at the counter held up a glass and as he finished praising the ship’s crewmembers, for successfully navigating the shuttle to the Earth’s surface, capturing the Chef and returning without being detected. “So, in closing, I want to thank the Captain and crew for all their efforts in bringing us our latest dinner guest...without bruising.”

  “Without any bruising? How perfect.” Voolak was much younger than Ulmar and the newest member of the Society. Her dark green skin contrasted against the blue nail polish on her six digits. Vorlexian hands had long opposing digits on both sides of each hand, with four shorter digits in the middle. She had earned her fortune in cosmetics, Ulmar had amassed his fortune trading precious metals.

  Kurlax, the third member of the Society sitting at the counter owned an entertainment empire with interests on twenty-four planets. “It’s too bad that I can’t record these events and then broadcast them to some of my outlets.”

  Ulmar took a long sip of his beverage and sighed. “You know we’ve been over this before Kurlax. There are simply too many planets where our unique tastes are considered illegal. You might arrive for a business convention and be arrested.”

  “Well," Kurlax scowled, “it’s only because they have narrow minds. We aren’t doing anything wrong. I could make a lot of profit off of the broadcast rights.”

  Voolak held up her glass and watched the room’s ambient light glow through the slowly swirling liquid. “I’m afraid it won’t matter whether or not you think that the legal authorities are narrow- minded if you’re forced to eat prison food for the rest of your life. Imagine how horrible the meals would be; no fresh produce, reheated frozen dinners, food from cans... You’d be better off dead than eating the trash they’d serve.”

  “When you put it that way,” replied Kurlax, “perhaps I’m already making enough profit.”

  Voolak leaned over to Kurlax and pointed a digit at the buttons on his shirt, each made of precious metals, encrusted with jewels from across the universe. “I’d say you’re making enough profit.”

  A servant walked up to Ulmar, bowed and whispered in his ear. Ulmar smiled. “Our dinner guest is waking up. It’s time to get to know him better.”

  The Chef watched as the wall in front of him lifted and he found himself facing the Vorlexians. He stared silently for a minute and then started laughing. “What a relief! I thought I had been kidnapped! This is some kind of reality television show that pranks celebrities, right? What’s the title of this episode? ‘What would you do if you were abducted by aliens?’ Well, I have to admit your special effects are very convincing, but I don’t have time for this. You might as well let me go, this only works if the celebrity involved believes the scam.”

  Ulmar looked at the other two other wealthy Vorlexians. “He thinks we’re trying to deceive him.”

  Voolak looked at Ulmar. “Why would he think that?”

  “Perhaps,” Kurlax noted, “he’s in shock. I doubt anything like this has ever happened to him before.”

  The Chef slowly shook his head in frustration. “Listen to me. I own a thirty percent share in a special effects company, so I know what’s possible.”

  Voolak slowly twirled the glass with the six digits of her left hand as she turned to face the Chef. “You’re the first human we’ve ever invited to join us. You should consider yourself privileged.”

  “Don’t waste your time with this ‘alien’ routine, if you were from another planet, I wouldn’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  Ulmar pointed at a small device attached to his tunic. “Consider what you’re saying. If we are advanced enough to travel across the universe, then we’re also advanced enough to produce translators.”

  “Not a bad answer,” replied the Chef, “but the concept of a universal translator is nothing new. However, I must admit that your skin and eyes are very realistic. Are you computer generated images with voice-overs, or are you guys wearing rubber suits?”

  Kurlax glanced at the two other Vorlexians seated with him at the counter. “Do you think it’s possible he suffered some type of brain injury during the capture? He doesn’t seem to understand his predicament.”

  “Let me go this instant or I’ll call the police and have you arrested for kidnapping.” The Chef smiled. “You won’t be able to spend the royalties for your program behind bars.”

  “Are you planning to call human police?” asked Kurlax.

  The Chef was breathing deeply, fighting to remain calm. Perhaps the only way to make the show end faster was to simply go along with the game. “Yes, human police.”

  Ulmar sighed. “Very well, release the force field and give him the communication device that was in his jacket.”

  The Chef laughed, “Release the force field? You’ve got to be kidding. You need a writer who doesn’t spend all his spare time watching crappy science fiction movies.”

  A Vorlexian servant handed the Chef his cell phone as the force field was released. The Chef stared in disbelief; nothing was left of the inflatable cushion. It seemed to have evaporated. “That was a very impressive special effect. I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t excuse kidnapping. My time is valuable.”

  “So is ours,” replied Voolak, “but we don’t allow ourselves to be rushed when it comes to fine dining.”

  “Fine dining...” The Chef shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I should be flattered; no one has ever gone to this much trouble to get me to cook for them. If that’s what I have to do to end this nonsense, let’s get it over with. All I need is a kitchen.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” replied Ulmar, “we have some of the finest culinary
experts in the universe.”

  Staring at Ulmar, the Chef flipped open his cell phone. “Then what do you need me for? You’re not making any sense at all.”

  Ulmar waited while the Chef tried in vain to call 911 and everyone on his speed-dial, then pointed at a holographic image that suddenly filled the room where the Chef was standing.

  “Perhaps this will help you understand.”

  “The stationary light,” explained Ulmar, “is your Earth, the moving light is this vessel. As you can see, your communication device is out of range.”

  The Chef stared at the blinking lights for a moment, and then stepped up to the counter where the Vorlexians sat. “I have had enough this!” Grabbing the glass from Voolak’s hand, he threw the liquid in Ulmar’s face. “Don’t worry; you’ll stay dry in that rubber suit.”

  Ulmar held up his hand to show he was remaining calm, but the servant who carried the cell phone to Chef lashed out at the human, knocking him against a wall.

  Staggering as he fought to maintain his balance, the Chef felt blood flowing from slashes on the right-hand side of his face.

  The servant looked up at Ulmar. “I’m sorry Master Ulmar, I shouldn’t have bruised his flesh...but the way he spoke to you.”

  Ulmar smiled. “Not to worry, we never use the face. Besides, how can one complain about loyalty?”

  “The servant bowed to Ulmar. If it pleases you Master Ulmar, I could have the kitchen staff slow-cook the human. He should suffer for his insolence.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Ulmar, “but we can think about that later.”

  The Chef stared at the servant who had attacked him. He was no computer generated image and the hand that slapped his face wasn’t made of rubber. “Who are you?”

  Kurlax smiled. “Finally, an intelligent question. This may yet be an interesting conversation.”

  “We are members of the Vorlexian Society of Culinary Adventurers,” began Voolak, “and you are our guest.” Voolak leaned back in her chair. “Here’s something to think about; if you were on a television show, would the producers allow anyone to hit you?”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” replied the Chef, “I’d get the best lawyers money can buy and sue them for millions.”

  “Well then,” continued Voolak, “you’re not on a television show, are you?”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” replied the Chef. “Why would you travel across the universe just to kidnap me?”

  Voolak leaned forward on the counter. “We didn’t travel across the universe just to find you. We’ve made many stops along the way, with a variety of interesting dinner guests.”

  Kurlax smiled. “You don’t seem to catch on very quickly, considering that you’re a well- educated human. Perhaps this will make your situation a little clearer. Species throughout the universe like dinner conversation, that’s not unusual. What makes us unique, is we like to have conversation with our dinner.”

  The Chef took a step backwards. “You’re cannibals.”

  Voolak waited while a servant handed her another drink. “It all depends on your perspective. We would never eat other Vorlexians.”

  Kurlax took an appetizer from a bowl placed in front of him by a servant. “You eat the flesh of cows, and they are Earth creatures. Does that make you a cannibal?”

  “Cows are Earth creatures,” replied the Chef, “but they aren’t intelligent creatures. We would never eat intelligent creatures.”

  “And,” asked Kurlax, “how do you know that they aren’t intelligent creatures?”

  The Chef shrugged his shoulders. “They can’t talk.”

  “That,” injected Voolak, “is why our behaviour is illegal on many planets, we eat the flesh of creatures that can talk. Some think the fact we eat the flesh of other sentient beings makes us ‘cannibals.’”

  “But doesn’t it make sense,” asked the Chef, “to refrain from eating species that can clearly communicate the fact they don’t want to be eaten?”

  Ulmar leaned back in his chair and considered the Chef. “I don’t think that a cow has to be able to speak, to communicate the fact it doesn’t want to be eaten. If a large Earth predator like a lion attacked you, wouldn’t you cry out and try to escape its grip?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would a cow cry out and try to escape its grip?”

  “Well, a cow couldn’t call for help.”

  “My guess,” replied Ulmar, “is that any other cows who heard the sound made by the dying animal would understand that it was in distress. Whether or not it used words, the cow would clearly be communicating the fact that it didn’t want to be eaten.”

  The Chef felt a bead of sweat flow slowly down his back. “We always kill the cow before we eat its flesh.”

  “Well then, you won’t find us eating you to be morally reprehensible, if we kill you, before we eat your flesh.”

  Breathing heavily, the Chef struggled to remain calm. “We don’t allow any creatures to suffer. We kill the cows quickly.”

  Voolak spoke to the servant who had struck the Chef. “Can you ask the kitchen staff to kill our guest quickly, so he won’t suffer?”

  The servant bowed. “If I must.”

  Kurlax was enjoying himself. “Tell me Chef, would you like us to treat you with the same degree of kindness you treat lobsters?”

  The Chef opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  “We intercepted Earth signals as we approached your planet, we’ve watched your show and we’ve seen what you do to lobsters. You boil them alive. The fact is, you humans are willing to inflict an agonizing death on innocent creatures, purely for your own pleasure. So don’t waste your time lecturing us on morality.”

  As the Chef stood silently, unable to think of a reply, the wall behind him parted. He turned and stared. Although he wasn’t familiar with some of the equipment, there was no question that what he was looking at was a kitchen. He noticed that there were ovens and pots large enough to fit him in. The Chef choked as he tried to speak.

  Ulmar held up a hand. “Take your time Chef. There’s no need to hurry.”

  The Chef cleared his throat. “There has to be someone else. If you kill me I won’t be able to cook for you. Why waste my talent?”

  “It must be you,” replied Voolak, “because, like all other species, you are what you eat. We know that you dine at fine restaurants and only cook with fresh ingredients.”

  “That’s right,” added Kurlax, “if we were to eat the flesh of humans who consume what you refer to on your show as ‘drive-through trash,’ well who knows what they might taste like!”

  Ulmar leaned toward the two other Vorlexians. “And yet he’s right, if we kill him, we waste his talent. I for one would enjoy eating a meal prepared by the Chef.”

  The Chef’s legs were shaking so violently, he was barely able to remain standing. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath. “I would like to suggest a compromise.”

  The Chef leaned his crutches against the bar, eased himself onto a stool and ordered his favourite poison. After the abduction, he decided to take a break from his hectic schedule, and accepted a position as a guest lecturer at a culinary institute. It was a Friday evening and he was relaxing with some students in the campus lounge. After a few drinks one of the female students asked him the question that was on everyone’s mind, but no one else had the nerve to ask. “Chef, do you think you’ll ever remember how you lost your left leg?”

  The other students fell silent, staring at the young woman. They knew the Chef was going to return to his television show at the end of term. This might be their last chance to hang-out with one of the world’s top chefs, and she was going to ruin it with her stupid, awkward question.

  To their relief, the Chef laughed. “Well, it appears that surgery was performed on me, because the bone could not have been severed so cleanly unless precise instruments were used. Perhaps I was in an accident. There is no evidence of any head injury, so my amnesia was probably caused by the negligent use
of medication during the surgery.”

  “Well,” added one of the male students, “that explains why no one has taken credit for the surgery. Medical malpractice lawsuits can be very expensive.”

  “That is certainly possible,” replied the Chef, “but there is another explanation and it is much more exciting. I’m sure you’ve read about it in the tabloids.”

  “The alien abduction theory,” answered a female student.

  The Chef slipped off his stool. Leaning against the bar, he held up his glass. “I have some advice for all the future chefs here today. If you are ever abducted by aliens and forced to cook your own leg...use lots of oregano, and go easy on the salt!”

  The Chef finished his drink and returned to his stool as students roared with laughter. The bartender took his empty glass and filled it again. “I’ve been tending this bar for over twenty years, and that was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  The Chef took the glass and looked up at the bartender. “It wasn’t so funny at the time.”

  Erlok’s Problem

  Erlok stood in front of Professor Furlaq’s desk. Professor Furlaq read the report on Erlok’s latest experiment with her left and right eyes, while her center eye remained focused on Erlok. “Do you mean to say that you actually managed to transport an object’s particles from one location to another, and reassemble them in their original form, without any type of interference? You actually produced an energy transport?”

  “Yes, Professor,” replied Erlok. Erlok knew he was supposed to keep his mind on the subject they were discussing, but it was difficult when he couldn’t decide which of her three eyes was the most beautiful.