Only Human (Themis Files #3)(81)

—So complicated!

—What I was trying to say is—

—Dr. Franklin, I get it. You feel bad because I and two thousand of my friends and family are going to die. You feel responsible. You’ve said that, a lot. It’s cute the first hundred times, but it really gets old after a while. You couldn’t have forced us to do this. The simple fact is that my ancestors couldn’t keep it in their pants, and they messed with your gene pool. You’re probably better off, but that is the reason the Ekt came here and killed tens of millions of people. There’s always a chance they’d come again to finish the job. You have this thing hanging over your head, and I don’t think your species can move forward while it’s there, so we’ll just remove it. Life’s been around for millions of years. Whether I die tomorrow or fifty years from now really doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. We’re all dying. If I can do some good while doing it, why not? Also, we get a free trip!

—Please stop joking about this.

—I’m not joking! I know you think of me as the “alien guy,” but I was born in Michigan! I’ve never left this rock. You have! Does that seem fair? You’ve been to their world and, from what you tell me, it’s an interesting place. I wish it were under different circumstances, but I’m happy to go. OK, so there’s the dying thing at the end, but nothing’s perfect. Do you think the astronauts who died in the Columbia shuttle wasted their lives? They went into friggin’ space! That is the coolest thing anyone can do, besides traveling to a whole other world in a different galaxy inside a giant alien robot, but that’s not the point. Don’t feel bad for us! We’re going into space! Now if you really want to help: When I said don’t feel bad, I meant don’t feel too bad. You can feel a little bad. There is one thing you can do.

—Name it. Anything.

—There is this tiny little bakery on Fifty-third Street. It can’t be more than a ten-minute walk from here. They sell the best pistachio eclair you’ve ever tasted. If I miss anything from Earth it will be—no, it won’t be that, it’ll be the purri and chutney I had in Kerala—but this is close. Do you think I could get one of those eclairs before I go?

—Sure. I’ll send someone in a minute.

—I … You probably can’t get two thousand of them, but do you think you can get the whole store? I’d like my friends and family to enjoy a little treat before we leave. That, and I’d feel like an ass eating an eclair in front of all of them.

—I’ll see what I can do.

—Thank you!

—No, thank you, for everything.

—Oh, don’t thank me yet. Well, you can thank me for the other things, like saving your life—that’s probably worth some thanks—but this plan of yours might not work at all. There are plenty of people left on Earth with a bunch of alien DNA. You could end up right back where you started. Then again, it might work. With any luck, the Ekt will have scared people enough that the UN will mean something again. You’ll have the EDC, again. Themis and—what’s his name?—the other robot will be there to protect you if need be, but you’ll stop killing each other with—

—I’m sending her back. I’m sending them both back.

—What? You went through a lot of trouble to put that robot together, and by you, I mean you you. Seems a shame to do all that just to give her away.

—We’re not ready.

—Are you sure about that?

—I am. I thought we were. I really wanted to believe we were evolved enough to handle this. But we’re not.

—You didn’t strike me as a pessimist, Dr. Franklin.

—I’m not. I’m not a pessimist.

— …

—Do you mind if I tell you a story? I’ve heard many of yours, now I feel it’s my turn. It’s a true story.

—Oh, I’d love to hear it.

—There’s a homeless man. I met him before we went to Esat Ekt. I’d see him around here from time to time. I think he went to the men’s shelter down on Thirtieth. We talked … maybe twice. Nothing more. Anyway, I saw him again yesterday on my way here. He was sitting on the stairs in the little park across the street. I wouldn’t have recognized him, but he recognized me. He said he was looking for a friend. He was worried the aliens might have hurt her. He told me they met there every Tuesday around lunchtime. She bought him chai tea. You should have heard him describe the tea, as if it were the rarest thing on the planet. She lent him a new book each week, and they’d discuss it at the park over chai. He hadn’t seen her in a few weeks. I told him maybe I could help find her. Her name’s Sarah, he said. He didn’t know much more than that, but he mentioned she wore a scarf on her head. I told him I’d do what I could. I had a hunch she might have worked at the UN. Sure enough. Sarah Smith, born Sara Dhanial in Karachi, Pakistan. She is—she was—an interpreter at the UN. Diplomats and their staff weren’t rounded up like the rest of the population, but Sara lost her job and they sent her to a camp in Connecticut. I went back to the park and told him what I knew. He was sad, obviously. I offered to buy him some food. He said no, but he asked if I could spare some change. I didn’t have any, so I renewed my offer to buy him something with my card. He thought about it for a minute, then told me he’d like a couple bags of chai, but that if it was too expensive, he’d settle for one. Then he asked how much a bus ride to Connecticut would cost him. He dug into his pocket and started counting how much money he had. He wanted to bring her tea. He seemed genuinely surprised when I started crying. The point is: There is decency in this world. We just need to look for it. Given enough time, I have absolutely no doubt it will flourish again. Then, maybe.