Kaiju Agonistes

June, 1971—The Messenger Summit

Speaking directly to the local sapients is always a near-final resort, but what’s a watchseed to do? These natives are as stubborn as plate tectonics.

The meeting is held on a bright sand beach on Likiep Atoll. Naval vessels prowl the topaz water at a distance, and delegations from various countries and blocs wait at the lagoon’s edge, some strolling bare-footed in the surf (which Messenger has assured them is not particularly contaminated). It has also left them chairs extruded in glistening black polymers from its own spinnerets, but the humans seem reticent to lounge in the alien beach furniture.

Shortly after local noon a shadow rises from the sea and glides carefully into the lagoon, taking care not to send waves crashing over the tiny figures awaiting it. The watchseed’s third and most successful battle configuration centers all four of its car-sized eyes, scintillant with sungleam in thousands of facets, on the humans below.

Greetings, young thinkers. In proximity I can speak to you via your minds and foster a common understanding among you regardless of your throat noises. I am Messenger. It is regrettable that we must meet directly to discuss your cultural shortcomings.

“I’m…very sorry you believe we have cultural shortcomings to discuss,” says Richard Nixon. Henry Kissinger, assorted aides, and Eugenia Aldrich-Haines stand nervously behind him. He gestures as though offering to shake with the gigantic creature. “I’m the president of the United States of America, generally acknowledged as the leader of the free world, and on behalf of my friends and allies, I’d like to welcome you to this historic—”

“My honorable colleague is so excited by this unique opportunity,” says the president of France, Georges Pompidou, “that he speaks prematurely on behalf of all of us, who do indeed welcome you to this historic—”

“My very good friend is, of course, trying to lighten the burden of this great moment by humorously underplaying the objective significance of the, ah, United States,” interrupts Nixon. “As is his, uh, charming custom.”

“My most excellent ally readily grasps that this affair is far too important,” says Pompidou, “to allow the unremitting egotism of any one nation to dominate it.”

“Our friend and comrade Messenger,” shouts the Soviet premier, “the people of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and our comrades from East Germany, Bulgaria, China, Cuba, Vietnam, and…sigh…North Korea…greet you warmly!”

“We agreed to offer separate statements,” says Mao Zedong, who looks more at ease with the towering monstrous form than he does with the bright sand and surf.

“Comrade Messenger,” says the Soviet premier, “we are a unified bloc, and by mutual assent our communication will be handled by myself.”

“We agreed to separate statements!” says Mao, “And we intend to give comrade Messenger some mangoes as a gesture of—”

“Comrade, if I have to hear about those damned mangoes one more time, I swear—”

Many things about your species have been confirmed or clarified by this interaction. Please accept my invitation to relax.

“Messenger, if I may,” says Ted Heath, prime minister of the United Kingdom, “you have yet to tell us where you come from and who or what you represent.”

I represent the community of the galaxy. I bring you the good wishes of the seed-planters, who, in their wisdom, placed my embryonic form in your Pacific Ocean long ago.

“Good God, it’s aliens after all,” says Nixon. “Well, greetings! Greetings from earth! We’ve certainly had some, ah, misunderstandings, haven’t we?”

We have not. My mission has been clear to me at all times. Your collective response has proven less than desirable. As a result, I have been forced to initiate this dialogue.

“What is your mission, comrade?” says the Soviet premier.

I am here to educate you in the folly of unrestrained high-energy warfare. Your civilization is your most precious possession, and it is more fragile than you comprehend.

The human delegations stare up in puzzled silence for a long moment.

“You’ve got a…well, pardon me, but you’ve got a pretty goofed-up way of delivering that education,” says Nixon.

“Yes, you have killed several million people,” says Mao Zedong.

“Look who’s talking,” mutters Pompidou.

“Oh, you’ve got some fucking cheek,” says the prime minister of Vietnam.

I am empowered to reluctantly generate limited fatalities as a form of instructive stimulus.

“Would it be out of bounds,” says Heath, “if we were to respectfully ask you to stop producing that instructive stimulus?”

I will gladly cease generating educational fatalities when you collectively embrace a constructive long-term plan for moving beyond your present recklessness. You must renounce atomic warfare and its instruments.

“So this is just a goddamn ultimatum, huh?” says Nixon.

“The surrender of our national arsenal of dissuasion is not an acceptable topic for discussion at this time,” says Pompidou.

“And what happens if we disarm ourselves?” says Nixon. “I suppose we just trust you not to waltz in unopposed and put us all in some sort of…god-damned petting zoo!”

I do not dance. I am not interested in imprisoning your species and forcing epidermal contact.

“You must understand, comrade,” says the Soviet premier, “that so long as any other nation refuses to relinquish its nuclear stockpile, the reduction of our own could not be contemplated.”

“What else would you offer us?” shouts Mao. “What are you willing to teach us? What progress can be ours if we determine your requests are reasonable?”

I am not empowered to share scientific knowledge.

“Now surely you can see the limited utility of such a bargaining posture,” says Heath.

I am not bargaining or empowered to bargain. I am communicating.

“We’re not going to let you tell us what we can and can’t do on our own planet,” bellows Nixon. “Go tell your high-and-mighty masters—”

I cannot contact them.

“Comrade Messenger,” says the Soviet premier, “if you are out of contact with your own people, surely you must perceive your disadvantage. You are a formidable opponent, but we have dealt with two of your kind before—”

“You didn’t deal with shit, Alexei,” says Kissinger.

Your misapprehension is easily corrected. You presume that you have vanquished organisms such as myself before. You have not. I am the only one of my kind ever seeded on your planet. I have withdrawn and reconstructed myself twice to be better able to resist the efforts of your armed forces. My present configuration seems eminently satisfactory.

“We have bigger bombs,” says Nixon, “and if you think we won’t use them on you until you’re Spam on toast, you’re out of your alien mind. We will not be dictated to!”

You agree amongst yourselves that anti-proliferation and arms reduction treaties are desirable things, yet when I speak to you of similar concepts you grow unreasonably belligerent.

“You don’t know what ‘unreasonable’ is! We will oppose you for the sake of self-determination!”

And if a small child opposed your prohibition against drinking poison, for the sake of self-determination?

“You condescending space bastard! We’re not small children!”

Opinions vary.

Eugenia Aldrich-Haines screams in frustration and runs toward Messenger, waving an envelope.

“Messenger! Please! Are you familiar with the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works?”

No.

“If you were to represent yourself as a sovereign nation, I’m confident we could find a means to make you a legal contracting party, which would allow us to offer you very generous compensation packages in exchange for exclusive likeness rights and other considerations—”

I do not understand the purpose of compensation. Your local currencies are consensual hallucinations. I have no use for them.

“Ms. Aldrich-Haines, I did not give you permission to speak!” shouts Nixon.

“What is this?” yells Mao Zedong. “Messenger, comrade, this is some unworthy reactionary ploy! I implore you, sign no business documents this woman offers you!”

I doubt any document your limited ethical systems could present to me would apply to or restrain my activities.

“Messenger, you don’t have to agree to anything now, but consider my proposals at your own leisure! And keep my contact information!” Eugenia flings the envelope as hard as she can, and a black tendril plucks it from the air. “We could operate within another paradigm entirely!”

“Traitor,” yells Henry Kissinger, jogging toward her.

“Opportunist! No one has the moral right to privatize negotiations with comrade Messenger!” Mao cannot run very fast, but he is definitely running in the same direction. Eugenia scampers.

“Privatization isn’t the vice you make it out to be,” huffs Nixon as he joins the pursuit. “The real issue is—”

Shouting, screaming, and multi-directional accusations fill the beach. After a few minutes, when it becomes clear that the natives are intent on having a brawl, Messenger turns and departs as carefully as it entered the lagoon.