Page 18 of I Think I’m in Love with an Alien

For some reason, that compliment settles into my chest with a warm glow. It’s better, somehow, than hearing I’m pretty or well dressed. Those are cosmetic, superficial observations, but for him to read my body language, my expression? It means that he’s interested in me as a person. And he’s correct. Actually, I’m beyond happy, orbiting somewhere among the constellations, all starshine and jubilation.

“Thanks for noticing,” I answer in a warm tone. “You don’t like dressing up?”

“Perhaps I’m already in costume.”

“Yeah? Who are you dressed as then?” I intend it as a gentle tease, because if I’m pretty sure I’d recognize it if he was dressed up as anyone other than himself. I’ve consumed a lot of media and entertainment about aliens over the years.

He surprises me by glancing away, angling his face toward the window without responding. Even over chat, Seeker gave me a melancholy impression, and it’s reinforced by meeting him in person. To me, he vibes like someone carrying an immense burden, one so profound that it bows his shoulders, but he can’t—or won’t—share the weight with anyone.

Maybe I’m reaching, inventing reasons why he sometimes seems so sad. Sometimes people have mental health issues that impact their mood. I’ve talked to him in chat for months, but sometimes it feels like I don’t know him at all. At least not the way I want to.

I skip over the pause, changing the subject. “Are you excited for all the cool stuff?”

“I am. What do you want to do first?”

“You’ll let me choose our itinerary?” That’s so nice. I should mention finding the others, but I’m basking too much in the one-on-one right now, and I don’t want to ruin the moment.

“I’m utterly in your hands.”

See, just when I think I’m imagining the chemistry between us, he drops a comment like that. My face flushes; I can feel the heat in my throat and cheeks beneath my makeup. Hopefully, he won’t notice.

“Awesome! Then let’s find a place to park and see if we can make it to the roundtable at the top of the hour. There are supposed to be some unreleased recordings. Never-been-heard-before audio files! We have to check that out.”

“Recordings?” A flicker of something sparks in his voice.

I steal a glance from the corner of my eye and realize that Seeker’s expression never changes. He doesn’t smile. But his tone conveys emotion. Something about that puzzles me, but before I can get a handle on it, I make the turn into the county fairgrounds. The lot is already chock full of cars, early birds eager to get started.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to hear what they’ve got.” I won’t let myself get too hyped, however. I add, “It’ll probably be asteroseismology or something.”

There are tents erected in addition to the stationary buildings and food trucks at the edge of the lot. It already smells like corn dogs and fried dough, with just a hint of cinnamon and sugar. The idea that you can get a corn dog and churros before going to talk to people who are sure they’ve been abducted by aliens is rather delightful. Space Con has something for everyone—the types who swear they saw a light in the sky and went somewhere else, those like me, who live for the theoretical aspects, and still others who just want to dress up like aliens, meet celebrities who have played aliens, and take pictures with them.

“That’s the sound of singing stars.”

I shouldn’t be surprised he knows that. I smile as I open the car door and grab my bag. “Let’s pick up our badges and hit the ground running.”

“As you wish.”

That has to be a Princess Bride reference, right? This will be the best day ever.

8

Seeker

When they check the identification that I spoofed so I can receive certain benefits while I’m stranded on 97-B, I try not to reveal my tension.

But they only give the card a cursory look, then hand over the “badge” that grants me access to all the joy this festival offers. Beside me, Jen bounces as if she cannot contain her enthusiasm, and once we have our documents, she’s off, racing across the obstacle course of bodies and temporary structures. I keep pace as best I can, always aware that if the tech camo fails, I’ll be in severe danger.

The roundtable is held in a building on the other side of the property. Most of the seats are taken when we slip inside, but Jen finds us space near the back. Experts are already speaking about the recordings she mentioned as we get settled. The space is airless, and later in the day it will become sweltering. While Jen gazes at the speakers in rapt attention, I study her.

She is graceful like a planetary curve, softness incarnate. She is warm tones and gentle laughter. I find her features strange, but less so than I did when I first landed on this world. I have become accustomed to the way humans look, less so to the way they smell. They’re constantly emitting chemical signals, but they don’t seem to do this intentionally. To me, their moods shine like colors, and I can’t unknow the information.

One of the experts at the front of the hall is desperate and nervous, an acrid tang discernable all the way at the back. Another has indulged in some recreational fumes that cling to their raiment and head fur, dispersing tiny whiffs of rotting sweetness. They give a brief introduction but I don’t dedicate my full attention.

The nervous one says, “Without further ado, we’ll just play the recording for you. Please hold all questions until the track ends.”

A low whooping sound begins, and I still, scarcely daring to breathe.

That’s an emergency beacon, similar to the one I’ll use if I can adapt it and charge it using local tech. The sequence runs three times and then cuts off abruptly. Around me, I hear humans speculating on what that could have been. They’re anatomically incapable of detecting all the tones, and it’s rather remarkable that they’ve acquired this evidence at all. I wonder what they’d say if I confirmed their hope of what it portends.