Aliya Whitely
They are the only humans, two in a line of hundreds, and they are arguing:
—down my neck, it won’t make the queue go any faster.
Move up then, look, look at the gap—
They can’t possibly know that they are surrounded by us. Our disguises are excellent; it is a point of pride. One of the reasons we are always in employment.
It won’t make any difference, calm down—
Don’t tell me to calm down!
We have been trying not to stare but the argument gives us the excuse we need.
One human pulls out a phone and starts filming the other, and there’s a moment where the air changes, thickens, as if all might turn to violence. We draw back as one, breath held. But the gap in the queue has become too large for either of them to ignore, so they turn, and move forward, and each pretends the other doesn’t exist for the next fifteen minutes until they reach the front.
Then they are seated together, side by side, to ride the ghost train, and I climb aboard a few cars behind them. Their body language is wonderful to watch: the spikey vulnerability of them, stretching away from each other, willing their thighs not to touch as the bar pins their laps and we all head into the dark tunnel, together.
Creaks and squeaks, cobwebs and gravestones, but I have no time for the thrills of the ride, even though I’m fascinated by the old horror stories humanity used to tell. I strain against the blackness to see them: the backs of their heads, the rigidity of their shoulders. A skeleton falls from a hole above their heads and they scream, and duck, and move together for a moment. Then we emerge into the light, and the ride ends. The bar lifts, and they go their own ways in the summer sunshine. I must make a decision. I choose to follow the one with the phone. I like the way she brandished it as a weapon, as if recording an event was the same thing as controlling it.
I keep my distance from her, trying to look casual. It’s against the rules to follow a human, but I suspect all of us have done it at some point, as they become more and more of a rarity. And there is no reason why I shouldn’t walk in the same direction – past the rollercoaster shaped like a dragon, past the swingboats, past the pizza place and the log flume and the gift shop. She joins the queue for fresh roasted ground coffee and I stand behind her, keeping my lowered eyes on her backpack. It is decorated with badges, mementoes from other theme parks up and down this country. She is, apparently, an avid thrill-seeker, young and wiry and keen to ride. Maybe that’s why she still smells healthy, and has lasted this long.
I’ve been to many of the parks myself. They’ve become one of the best places to see her kind out in the wild.
As we wait our turn I find myself thinking of Tom.
He was a terrible salesman, he knew it, and I should have fired him so that his reality, his expectations of the situation, was met. But how could I bring myself to do that? He was the only human left in the office. My boss understood; we discussed it, and they agreed we could continue as we were, there being very little time left for him anyway. We could all smell the end upon him.
Tom preferred talking to working. He liked to chat about what had been showing on television the night before, or about the other employees.
Is it me or is Val really up herself?
I told him: She’s a bit wary of you.
Me? Why?
I did not say: Because you are uncontrollable. You lack the cohesion of mind that characterises the acceptable in this universe, so there is going to be relief when you are gone. Painlessly, easily gone from a random disease we’ve introduced here and that you don’t even know you have.
I said: She thinks you’re cute.
God no, don’t say that, she’s really not my— He made a face, but there was an air of opportunity in his too-quick rejection, and I wondered if he would approach her later, some time when nobody else was around. I envied Val then, and I wondered how often he had been intimate with one of us, and when he had last even talked to a real human. To someone without a disguise in place.
I expressed this to my boss, and they reminded me that we are not the sole adopters of disguise. It’s a job to our kind but humanity has a long and varied history of such behaviour, for profit and for pleasure.
Tom died in his sleep twenty-six days later: that, at least, was an honest act. One of us took his place, and I see them, now, in the office. I did a performance review on them last week. Our disguises will be maintained everywhere, faultlessly, until the very last one has succumbed. Then the planet will be declared a nature reserve and holiday zone for those planets lucky enough to have travel permissions. It will be a wild haven worth visiting.
Every morning I feel something, an emotion, for Tom, old Tom, who was alive in a way I am not. I do as I am told. I am good at my job. We all are.
She gets her coffee and looks for a seat. I keep my eyes on the barista as I request an espresso. I like the word, not the taste. It’s presented to me in a disposable cup, and I turn, and see her sitting on the end of a long, empty bench. She has her phone out again. She’s focusing on the screen.
I move to the other end of the bench. She glances up as I sit, and I see a moment of recognition. She smiles. I’m flattered she has remembered me, picked me out of the crowd.
Could you believe that? she says. At the ghost train. Some people are so rude. Look at this. She leans over the table and shows me her phone. The other human is in action, her face wide open, flowing through the act of shouting. The sound is off. Everything is fluid: her eyes, her mouth.
She looks like a sea creature, I say.
Yeah, you’re right. She laughs, but she looks sideways at me. An odd thing to say, maybe. Could I be slipping? No, I never slip.
Ah, that’s why she smiled at me – I see myself in the footage, in the corner of the screen. I’m caught as one of the crowd. We all wear the same expression; doesn’t that give us away? I could swear there’s nothing human about us. These disguises come at a cost, and many of us are very tired. I see it in every face, frozen in video. Or perhaps tiredness is a universal experience, recognisable in every place. We are all surrounded by its victims.
It won’t be for much longer, now. I’ll travel home before the next planet. And I’m due a holiday. There are so many destinations I could pick from, all of them carefully curated.
I have dreamt of a decision in a new direction. In the long hall, back home, where we gather to decide what offer of employment to accept next.
The leader supreme might say: We think this time we’ll try to save them. We think we will go to them and tell them of the plans to phase them out. Surely nobody in this universe really needs another emptied, controlled holiday destination. We’ll offer to fight by their side instead. We will save them, even though they scare us.
Because they scare us.
Then we could make our own horror stories, for a change.
They’ve not had anything new for ages, she says.
Sorry?
They need a new ride here. Loads of places aren’t building anything new anymore. It’s like everyone’s given up a bit. I’ve been making the most of my annual pass but it runs out soon.
I say: Won’t you be renewing it?
Can’t afford to. Got laid off.
Seriously? I can’t believe it. Somebody did what I could not. They made her jobless in the final days.
She shrugs. I was taking the piss a bit, and they said they didn’t have a choice. Can’t blame them, really. It was only delivering stuff, and I liked going the long way round. Windows down, music loud. Wind in my hair.
Like the rollercoasters, I say.
I picture her at the top of the long climb, and then the cart plunging downwards, her hair flying out behind her, twisting in thick strands. It would look beautiful in the ocean, undulating like tentacles. What a wonderful sight that would be.
How about you? You got the day off?
Not exactly, I tell her. We share of moment of manufactured understanding. She thinks that I’m running away for the day, failing to do my duties. She likes me better for it.
My boss reminded me, as I walked out of the door last night, that I should spend less time at theme parks in order not to arouse suspicion. I wanted to point out there are barely any humans left to feel suspicion. I wonder how many there are.
I hate this planet. I hate it and love it.
I say to the human – out of nowhere, not really believing my own voice: We could go for a trip.
What?
I can get access to a… vehicle. We could go someplace far away. The seaside. There’s nothing here worth seeing, right? Nothing new. It’s just—
Waiting to die.
Her smile falls away, and she says: Have you ever been scuba diving?
Scuba diving?
Yeah. Some place like the Great Barrier Reef. Be great to see it before it’s all gone. I reckon it must be a bit like being on a rollercoaster, just – freedom. Except you’re not on rails, so you can go anywhere, and see the stuff happening beneath you, all laid out and moving. Swimming around in its own world. You ever done it?
Yes. Yes, I have been part of another world, and moved within it, almost as part of it. Almost, but not quite.
I’ve not scuba dived, I say.
Me neither.
So let’s go.
To – the Great Barrier Reef?
Why not?
She puts her phone away. She won’t look at me directly. My mum would love that. I’ll just phone her up now, shall I, and tell her I’m off for two weeks of pissing money up the wall because I got asked by someone I just met over coffee? She laughs to herself. Actually, she wouldn’t be surprised.
Would that be in character for you? I ask. I could tell her that her mother is very probably already dead. Almost certainly.
Anyway, have a good day, she says.
The conversation is over, so quickly. For a moment—
But no. No, she makes no fuss as she weaves through the tables and out of the coffee shop. She thinks me strange, but she still thinks me human. No story to tell.
I feel everyone looking at me. I keep my eyes down, and I stay seated, for a little while. Then I order another espresso, just for the sake of the action and the word, and sip it. The barista and the others around me say nothing.
I made the offer, gave her an option. I pushed myself far out of my comfort zone, I felt something genuine. She reached the decision, all on her own, not to take me seriously.
So I have done all I could do. That’s enough, isn’t it? Surely that’s enough.
I am treading water. I am in my suit, a mask over my face, looking down on all that is about to end.
She will last for a while, I could tell that much from her clean smell. But she will not last forever, and in the meantime, at least for today, there are still humans to see and this role to play.
And then I’ll get to take a holiday to some place free of all these obligations and feelings. Some place already emptied. Or maybe I’ll just stay home, deep in liquid, and let this dryness leave me. I’ll forget how to care, for a while, in the cold waters of my home, until it’s time to meet in the long hall again, and choose another job.
Time to head for the next ride.
Aliya Whiteley was born in North Devon, the setting for many of her stories, and she currently lives in West Sussex, UK. Her novels and novellas have been shortlisted for multiple awards including the Arthur C Clarke award and a Shirley Jackson award. She writes a regular non-fiction column for Interzone magazine.
Art: Stephen Daly