"The Probe"

The following is a bit of a departure from my usual fare, but, given that I'm the boss around here, I've gone ahead and self-authorized it.

It's a ridiculous little entry for a ridiculous little contest, which, just between us, isn't really much of a "contest," seeing as the grand prize is neither a million dollars nor a pink Cadillac, but, which, also just between us, I'd be tickled beyond belief to even have a chance at.

Please keep in mind that I was probably in the third grade the last time I attempted to write any fiction of any kind, and while I'd like to think I did well enough back then to (almost) offset my rather lacking behavioral evaluations, I want to make as clear as possible that I offer no warranties whatsoever about the quality of this present-day effort.

Also, please keep in mind that (i) the rules of this competition required submissions to relate to a rather prosaic photograph, which I've reproduced at the conclusion of mine below, (ii) the best strategy seemed to me to write something that wasn't immediately obvious, and (iii) I am a total dork.

And now, without further ado, I present to you, "The Probe."

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The commander of the Korakkian ship grinned at the holographic display and vented a stream of purple liquid from his third dorsal nostril, as was customary on his planet when one desired to express great satisfaction.

“This is going to be even easier than I’d imagined,” he hissed at his first lieutenant, who stood rigidly at attention to his right.

“Yes sir, Commander, sir,” the lieutenant agreed, delighted. His superior’s temper was legendary throughout four star systems, and on this mission alone, he’d already dismembered and eaten three members of his senior staff whose efforts he’d deemed unsatisfactory. His pleasure at the probe’s telemetry readings was most welcome.

“Look at this,” the commander continued enthusiastically, returning to the hologram and pointing at several lines of blinking geometrical shapes in its upper right corner. “This species is like a giant herd of gorlaks. It won’t take us three of their days to conquer the entire planet.”

He turned suddenly to his subordinate, his eight compound eyes darkening with suspicion. “You are certain, Ar-Tokk, that you placed the probe where you were instructed? I would hate to discover that you had not, and that all of this wonderful data was nothing more than a klakk-rye-bokk.

The lieutenant shuddered involuntarily. Klakk-rye-bokk is a phrase without a precise English equivalent—without a human anatomical equivalent, really—and is considered by the Korakkians an expression of such particular vileness that even the volcanic commander used it only sparingly. The lieutenant knew he needed to act, and quickly.

“The probe is at the precise coordinates you ordered, sir,” he stammered, stepping towards the display. “May I?”

The commander gurgled his grudging assent.

“Our satellite analysis confirmed that “America” was the dominant human region, sir,” the lieutenant began, a thin layer of what we might call sweat building up on what we might call his forehead. He ignored it. “And this “New York” appeared to be a particularly important sector of America.”

“Go on.”

“Thank you, sir. The location that you so wisely selected for the probe, sir, is one of the most heavily trafficked nodes of what appears to be the species’ most vital nerve center. Over ninety percent of the combat-capable population engages with just such a node on a regular basis.”

“Precisely.” The commander’s gaze softened.

“And that’s exactly where the probe is now, sir, right in the location you ordered. You see?” Ar-Tokk pointed at another blinking sequence on the hologram.

“I do see,” the commander replied, satisfied with the explanation. “Well done, Lieutenant.”

“Sir,” Ar-Tokk saluted sharply, euphorically. There would be no grisly death for him today, at least.

“If our data is indeed a useful sampling of the planet’s population,” the commander declared, his exultant tone fully restored, “its disorganized, uncooperative, drug-addled population—then we shall prepare to launch our assault at once. Alert the tactical officer.”

“Sir,” Ar-Tokk saluted again, and hurried off.

***

“I said a half-caff cappuccino, extra whipped cream,” huffed Bruce Holland, esquire, aged 48, at Addie Halackna, barista, aged 23. “What exactly is so hard about that?”

Ms. Halackna’s response was inaudible.

“Well something obviously is because I can tell by the smell that this is 100% caffeinated and Helen Keller could see that that’s not extra whipped cream,” the illustrious Mr. Holland continued.

“I’ll wait right here for you to do your job properly.”

He liberated the overtaxed buttons of his two-thousand dollar suit and sat down at the empty table.

And picked up the Korakkian probe, streaming his genetic information directly to the warship about to disintegrate him and the rest of his ridiculous species.