James Patrick Kelly: Fruitcake Theory Bjorn is trying to tell me that the rooster isnāt dumb as a spoon. Obtuse, maybe. Na•ve, yes. Tedious, without a doubt. The rooster is sitting across the aisle and up two seats, paying no attention to us. Weāre just followers. Heās staring out the window of the van at the snow. "Heās Kuvat, Maggie," says Bjorn. "Aliens think differently than we do." "Cranial capacity." I tap the side of my head. "Check that skull. Heās got room up there for half a cup of brains, tops." "Maybe heās got some kind of distributed nervous system," Bjorn says. "How else could they have built the starship?" "The scarecrows built the starship," I say. "The roosters came along for the ride. You follow long enough and itās obvious." "Intellectual bifurcation is just a theory." Nevertheless, Bjorn slides down in his seat, defeated once again. "All we know is that theyāre Kuvat, both roosters and scarecrows." He takes out his appetite pacifier and starts sucking at it. I donāt mean to upset him. The rooster starts eeking to himself. "Eek eek eeeek, eek eek eeeek! " He looks like a cauliflower the size of a washing machine -- with legs. They are bird legs, to be sure, with scaly shanks and clawed, three-toed feet. But his body is an enormous scoop of convoluted flesh. All he wears is the translator, a golden disk that hangs on a cord around his neck like the Noble Prize for Stupidity. His skin is as translucent as spilled milk. Beneath it are coils of muscle marbled with gray fat. He has spindly arms and his little head is mostly mouth. We canāt see the upright ruddy flap, like a roosterās comb, just behind his button eyes, because tonight heās wearing a Santaās cap of red felt. Bjorn pops the appetite pacifier out of his mouth. "I think thatās āJingle Bells,ā " he says excitedly. "The eeking." He makes a note of this. Bjorn is new to the following team. Heās twenty-four and takes everything too seriously, except himself. Heās fat and blond and sweet as a jelly donut. I really do like him; he just hasnāt realized it yet. He brings out the mother in me. I yawn. Iām not a night person and Iām riding in a van at two in the morning. Itās the roosterās fault, of course. Itās December 22 and the rooster has got a bad case of holiday spirit, even though he doesnāt know an elf from an elephant. He wants to do a little shopping. Itās a security nightmare, but we accommodate him. We always do because weāre asking for the Kuvat encyclopedia for Christmas. Not that we know whatās in it exactly, but these creatures come from a planet a hundred and thirty light years away. Theyāre bound to have a grand unified theory, the secret of cool fusion, and a cure for cellulite. =Persons?= The rooster turns toward us. =This one has hunger.= "Me too. I havenāt eaten since dinner." Bjorn is always happy to interact with our charge. "Wait until you see the food court at this mall. Itās totally grade. Must be thirty different kinds of ethnic." Heās starting to bubble with enthusiasm; I give him a needle stare. "Well, maybe only twenty," he mutters. =This one has also thirst, persons.= "This one is called Maggie." I touch my chest. "Mag-gie." The rooster canāt tell humans apart. This continues to annoy me; Iāve been following him for four months and he still doesnāt know who I am. =Laughing all the way, person, ha, ha, ha.= There is some debate as to the accuracy of Kuvat translations. Iām sick of this rooster. Iāve asked to follow any other Kuvat, preferably a scarecrow, but Iād even settle for another rooster. As far as we know, there are four besides this one. Roosters donāt have names, donāt ask me why. At first we gave them nicknames -- Dodo, Dopey, Dumbo, Ding-dong, and Dufus -- only when Balfour found out, she pitched a fit. Our job was to follow, observe, and protect the Kuvat, she said, not to make snide remarks. She doesnāt even like us calling them roosters. When she overheard Jasper laughing about "Dopey" back in August, she pulled him from the following team and banished him to Waste Assessment, where he sifts through Kuvat garbage and samples their sewage. This rooster has been the most rambunctious tourist of the five. Since the Kuvat landed in May, heās been to the pyramids and the Taj Mahal and the Eiffel Tower. Heās crazy about zoos and disneys. He saw the third game of the •08 World Series and was a Special Guest at the Sixty-Sixth World Science Fiction Convention. He seems to be partnered with Kasaan, the scarecrow who is the leader of the Kuvat expedition. Bjorn has signed on to the theory that the roosters are scouting us and make detailed reports back to the scarecrows, who rarely leave the compound weāve built around their starship. This theory is conveniently unverifiable, since weāre not allowed to follow roosters onto the starship. When we pull up to the entrance of the Live Night Mall, Balfour herself gets onto the van. She nods at the two of us and then approaches the rooster. "You will have an hour. Iām afraid thatās as much as we can do, one hour. These two will accompany you for one hour. Anything you want, these two will obtain for you. Do you understand everything? These two? One hour? "Even though she wonāt admit it, itās obvious that Balfour, too, thinks that the rooster hasnāt got the brains that God gave to spinach. =Kuvat pay? That is the habit.= "No," said Balfour. "These two will pay for everything." =Person, is there fruitcake? This one hears much of the information of fruitcake.= "Fruitcake?" Balfour glances back at us, as if we have some idea what the rooster is talking about. Bjorn shrugs. "Iām sure thereās fruitcake somewhere at the mall," Balfour says. =The fruitcake solves much hunger.= As we get off the van, Balfour touches my arm. I let Bjorn go on ahead with the rooster. "Any trouble?" she says. "Not so far." "Well, there is now. Kasaan is on her way here from the U.N." "Here as in here? Why?" She gives me an exasperated glare. "Maybe she realized there are only two more shopping days until Christmas." Balfour is as mystified by Kuvat behavior as the rest of us, but sheās Undersecretary for Alien Affairs. When people have questions, sheās expected to give answers. Sometimes that vein in her left temple pulses like a blue worm. "You want to pull our guest out?" This would be the first time a rooster and a scarecrow have met outside the starship compound. Itās a chance to observe new behaviors -- but the mall is so public. "I donāt think so. No." "Tell him about Kasaan?" She rubs her eyes and I realize that she probably dragged herself out of bed for this. "Maybe he already knows. Look, Iāve seeded the mall with our people. Weāre going to let this happen, okay? Itās the good old observe and protect. I just wanted to give you a heads up." She turns away but catches herself. "Howās Bjorn working out?" "He should do more sit ups." She sighs, but the vein subsides. "Itās two-thirty in the morning, Maggie. Not even Hack Bumbledom is funny at two-thirty in the morning." "Want me to pick you up some fruitcake? Itās full of information." "This could be big." She brushes snow off my shoulder. "Iāll be in the security office." Followers and their families are scattered strategically around the room. When we take roosters on field trips, we try to minimize their access to the mundane world. If we can, we clear a site completely; otherwise we drop by unannounced and late at night. Weāre in and out before the media and the Kuvat chasers and the oddjobs arrive. There are a few civilians shopping at this ungodly hour, and of course the staff of all the stores are mundanes, but weāve got good coverage. The Live Night Mall is "Y" shaped. Ribbons of light hang from its vaulted glass ceiling; they shiver in the warm breeze that blows from the ventilators. Each of the arms is lined with the usual assortment of shops selling games, infodumps, shoes, T-shirts, ties, hats, kitchenware, software, artware, candy, toys, candles, perfumes and pheromones. You can get a skin tint, a hair style, or walk-in liposuction. At the end of each of its arms is an anchor store, a Sears & Penny, a Food Chief, and a Home Depot. The three arms come together in a vast, garish, and noisy cluster of fast food storefronts. Bjorn might be right about the number of ethnics; I donāt think Iāve ever seen Icelandic in a mall before. At the hub of the mall there must be a couple of hundred round tables. The surfaces of each are screens tuned to themed cable stations. Even though the place is pretty much deserted, itās still filled with the ghostly mutter of news and sitcoms and cartoons. Iām expecting to spot the rooster here somewhere but all I can see is a handful of followers and a Santa nodding over a latte. Kevin Darcy pushes his sleeping four-year-old by me in a stroller and murmurs, "Sears and Penny." So I pick my way through the maze of tables. As I pass Santa, he shoots out of his chair. "Where did you come from?" "Home," I say and try to get by. "No, you didnāt." He pushes in front of me. "Youāre a stranger. Who are all these people?" "This the mall, friend. Weāre all strangers here." "Not at my mall, youāre not," he said. "Listen, why donāt you take the rest of the night off?" I flip open my wallet and give him a good look at the ID. "Iāll bet youāre tired. Iāll clear it with your boss." He glances at it, but I donāt think he sees anything. "Itās not him," he says uncertainly. "Itās all the presents. I have to finish my list." Now Iām just guessing at his story, but Iām pretty sure Iāve got it right. Heās old and broke and stuck in Social Security shock -- just trying to earn a few extra bucks over the holidays. Only he hasnāt actually moved to a night schedule, so heās trying to tough this shift out with chemicals. Thatās why heās just south of coherent and has cephadrine eyes. "If I go, theyāll replace me with a Santabot." He lowers his voice. "They donāt take bathroom breaks." "Excuse me." I sidestep him. "I have to see a rooster about a fruitcake." "Wait! Iāll put you on my list." He clutches at me. "What do you want for Christmas?" "How about someone elseās life?" He considers this and I slip by. "You can have mine!" he calls after me. "Hey!" As I enter the Sears & Penny, I notice an odd, stinging, flowery smell, something like the scent of a rose, only with thorns. I follow it to the menās underwear section, where it is so strong my eyes water. A mundane sales clerk is tapping, "Silent Night,"on the keypad of his cashcard reader, Bjorn and the rooster are sitting on the floor on a red and white checked plastic tablecloth, having a picnic. The roosterās Santa cap is cocked at a rakish angle. He has opened a plastic bag containing three white Fruit of the Loom undershirts. He is eating them. Somehow he has also obtained a four pack of Murrayās Chocolate Mint Wine, two of which are now empties. =Hungry?= He holds a wine-stained rag out to me. "No," I say, "thank you." I try to catch Bjornās eye but he is staring between his legs as if counting the red checks on the tablecloth. =One hundred percent cotton.= The rooster pulls a new undershirt from the bag and turns it this way and that, as if admiring it. =Tasty cellulose.= He opens another can of Murrayās and pours some on it. =Not starchy like french fries.= He takes a bite. The smell is clearly coming from the rooster. This is new behavior; I have to know what caused it. "Uh, Bjorn, could I speak to you?" He finally looks up, his eyes red and watery from rooster smell. "You think Iām fat." He shivers like a barrel of Jell-O, then laughs out loud. "What?" "Everybody thinks Iām fat. I am fat!" He spreads his fingers across his waist. Sure, Bjorn could do a creditable Santa without padding but whatās that got to do with following the Kuvat? And whatās so funny? I try to say, Thatās not true, except the words swell in my throat like balloons. I cough and manage to choke out, "Whatās going on here?" =He knows you bad or good,= The rooster says around a mouthful of undershirt. =so good good goodness sake.= "Heās not stupid, Maggie." Bjorn giggles and reaches for the last can of wine. "He just doesnāt know what he knows." He pops it open and drinks. "Bjorn!" I want to stop him but the rooster smell is blooming in my head. "What have you told him?" Iām not sure whether my feet are touching the floor. =Kuvat not stupid.= The rooster chews with a sideways motion, like a horse. =This one sees. This one remembers. But only Kasaan knows.= "Kasaan? What about Kasaan?" "Itās the truth," Bjorn says. "Want some?" He offers me the Murrayās chocolate wine and I snatch it away from him. =Cotton?= The rooster offers the bag of undershirts. "No." I wave him off absently. "Maybe later." "Heās emitting some kind of euphoriant," says Bjorn. "Can you smell it, Maggie?" =Tidal of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.= "Yes." I sit down next to him. If I donāt, somebody will have to pull me off the ceiling. "How did it start?" "He was talking about Kasaan. He says sheās going to empty him, or something. Iām pretty sure heās getting ready to turn in his report." He beams, pleased that heās finally won our argument. "I have a theory. He has to tell the truth, right? The smell makes him do it, feel great about it. And itās working on us too. Tell me a lie, Maggie." =Lies stink.= The rooster spits out the undershirtās polyester size tag. "Oh god," I say. "Oh my god." I take a swig of Murrayās and pass it back to Bjorn. "Kasaan is on her way over here." The chocolate weight in my gut helps me forget that Iām breaking every rule of following there is. By this time tomorrow, Iāll be helping Jasper centrifuge Kuvat sewage. =Person,= says the rooster. =You smell unhappy always.= "I am unhappy," I say. "Iāve got a right to be unhappy." "Why is that?" Bjorn asks. "Because we have to follow this stupid rooster around, Bjorn! I donāt know about you, but that makes me feel stupid. It should make everybody in the whole damn world feel stupid." "Well, at least youāre not fat." Bjorn laughs and hands me the Murrayās. Just to be sociable, I take a drink. =Person is fat,= says the rooster. =Person feels stupid.= I hear running footsteps. Our backup is coming fast. When I think of how this is going to look to the rest of the following team, I start to giggle. "Weāre screwed," I say. "Very." Bjorn thinks itās funny too. Balfour herself is leading the charge. "Maggie!" When she spots us she pulls up. She stares as if she has just caught Santa shoplifting. I struggle to my knees and hold both hands out to warn them. "Get out of here, now! Itās an airborne intoxicant." I realize Iām waving a can of Murrayās Chocolate Mint Wine at the Undersecretary for Alien Affairs. I set it discreetly on the plastic tablecloth. "Gas masks in the van," Balfour says to the team as she covers her mouth and nose with her hand. "Clear the store. No, clear the mall. Seal everything." A handful of them peel off, running. The other followers goggle at us, then back away uncertainly. "Kasaan is looking for him," she says. "Are you okay?" "Sure," says Bjorn. "Tidal of comfort and joy." "I think weāre all right," I say. "But weāre not observing anymore. Weāre part of it, Balfour. Now move, before itās too late." They leave, dragging the giggling menswear clerk after them. The rooster stands and brushes a few white threads off. =Person, is there fruitcake?= We find fruitcake at the North Pole, a seasonal kiosk halfway down the Home Depot arm of the mall. The North Pole also sells ten different flavors of candy canes, boxes of assorted chocolates and Christmas cookies in green foil wrap, marshmallow elves, and fudge tannenbaums. Gene Autrey sings "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" from hidden speakers as an animated Santa and his full complement of reindeer cavort around the circular base of the kiosk. I know itās the rooster smell which continues to float up my nose, but I find myself humming along with Gene. The fruitcake is stacked five high in round red tins decorated with scenes of cherry-faced kids building snowmen and wrapped in cellophane. Bjorn takes one off the top and gives it to the rooster. "This is fruitcake," he says. The rooster takes it, turns it over several times, holds it up to the light and then taps a finger against the lid of the tin. =Is hard.= "Itās inside." I shake my head, laughing. "You have to open it first." The rooster glances up and down the deserted mall. =There is no pay person.= Bjorn is unwrapping a white chocolate snowman. "Donāt worry. Weāll take care of it." =This one pays. That is the habit.= He sets the fruitcake, unopened, back on the counter. =Christmas is. The Kuvat pay.= "No, really...," says Bjorn, but I nudge him in the back just as the rooster begins to eek. "Eeeeeek, eek, eek, eek. Eeeek! " Beneath his translucent skin, the flesh appears to seethe. We can hear a sloshing, like a mop in a bucket of water. The rooster claps a hand to his chest and I see a viscous ooze between stubby fingers. He brings the hand to his mouth and blows on it, once, twice, then opens it and shows us. =Pay.= he says. Bjorn drops his chocolate snowman. Clicking softly on his smooth palm are four green pearls. "What are they?" says Bjorn. =The end of fat,= says the rooster. He offers them to Bjorn. =Person eats?= Of course, I am immediately suspicious of the green pearls. What is the end of fat anyway? What will these things do to the human digestive system? "How many?" Bjornās face is as soft as cookie dough. "Wait a minute!" Iām stunned, but I canāt bring myself to stop it. =The one.= "What was it you said, Maggie?" He smiles at me. "Weāre not observing anymore. Weāre part of things now." He accepts a pearl from the rooster. "Thank you. Do I chew?" =Swallow hurry.= "Bjorn!" He pops it into his mouth and itās over. I wait for him to keel over and writhe or throw up or maybe even explode, but he just watches me with that goofy smile, which I absolutely understand. Whatever happens is all right, is true, is good. Weāll both accept it because the world smells so sweet tonight. Bjorn raises his hands over his head like a Sugar Plum Fairy and does a pirouette. When the rooster offers me the green pearls, Iām not at all tempted. "Thanks." I sweep them onto my hand and pocket them. "But I think Iāll save these for breakfast." The roosterās eyes glitter for a moment and go dim. =One,= he says. =Share.= He turns to the North Pole and retrieves his fruitcake. The rooster wants to eat the cellophane wrapping but we talk him out of it. When we pry the top off the tin, he eeks and drops it. =Not Christmas!= The cake is still in the bottom half of the tin; it rolls toward the Playbot store. =Fruitcake stinks!= He starts hopping up and down on one foot. =Stinks like a lie.= "Iām sorry," says Bjorn. "Maybe that one was bad. I can get you another." =Take it away!= the rooster says. =Bury it!= "His hour is almost up." I say, "Letās get him out of here." But we donāt get the chance because striding toward us from the food court is Kasaan. A dozen gas-masked followers trot behind. The Kuvat scarecrows have no more in common with our scarecrows than the roosters have with gallus domesticus. We call them scarecrows because theyāre so gangly and because they wear loud, loose clothes that cover most of their bodies. But nobody who meets a scarecrow ever remembers her wardrobe. What you remember is the impossible head. It looks something like a prize pumpkin, only pumpkins arenāt rust red or as wrinkled as walnuts. The eyes are like bloodshot eggs and the mouth is full of nightmare teeth, long and curved and pointed. If the scarecrows werenāt so shy, so polite, so intelligent -- everything that the roosters are not -- they wouldāve frightened the bejesus out of us. At the sight of Kasaan, the rooster forgets all about the fruitcake and begins to eek furiously. Instinctively Bjorn and I step back. The scarecrow is swooping down on the rooster; Iāve never seen one move so fast. The followers are left scrambling behind. The rooster tenses. He looks as if he wants to run in five directions at once, but canāt decide which one. "Eek, eeek, eeeek, eeeeek, eeeeeek! " Just before it happens, I realize what Iām seeing. This isnāt any meeting. Itās an attack: a lion charging a wildebeest, a wolf taking a hare. "Uh-oh," I say, but itās good. Itās true. The smell has changed everything. Kasaan slams into the rooster, knocking him down. The rooster bounces, rolls and lies, shivering, on his back. His legs pump weakly as Kasaan looms over him. The scarecrow bends to nuzzle the roosterās shoulder. He closes his eyes. His eeking is low and wet. The breathless followers catch up. "What is this?" I recognize Balfour. "Oh my god, whatās she doing?" Kasaanās nubbly pink tongue licks between bared teeth at the roosterās shoulder. It makes a sound like someone washing hands. "Observe," I say. "But donāt protect. Not this time." The licking goes on for several moments. Suddenly the teeth pierce the skin and sink deep. The rooster stiffens, but makes no sound. With a quick jerk to one side, Kasaan tears an apple-sized chunk of the roosterās flesh away. Her jaws close on the meat -- once, twice, three times -- and then she tilts her head back and swallows. The wound brims with purple blood; Kasaan licks it clean. When the bleeding stops, the scarecrow steps away and stretches luxuriantly. "What tasty information!" She offers a hand to the rooster, who struggles to his feet. "You have seen most deliciously." "I have a theory," whispers Bjorn, "about how these reports are made..." But he doesnāt get to elaborate because Kasaan comes up to him. "What that one gave you," the scarecrow says, "is the egg of a vuot, a worm that will grow over the years in your intestines." Bjorn turns the color of eggnog. "How do you know about that?" I say. "I ate those memories," says Kasaan. "Now the vuot is a beneficial parasite that all Kuvat share. It will filter toxins and regulate your metabolism and prolong your life. You need not worry about side effects. Indeed, I believe you will be most happy with your relationship with the vuot over the coming centuries." I pat my pocket to make sure the pearls -- vuot eggs -- are still there. Kasaan notices this and bows apologetically. "What has happened, is and is for the good. But there is something that has not yet happened, which I must unfortunately prevent from happening." I can guess whatās coming. "We bought them from him," I say. "We paid." "Maggie, a fruitcake is not the price of immortality," says Kasaan gently. =Fruitcake stinks.= says the rooster. =Person lies.= His wound has already healed. "Iām afraid I must insist." The scarecrow lays a hand on my shoulder. =Better not cry. Tell me why.= I know she means me no harm. So does the rooster, Bjorn, Balfour, and all the followers. Iām going to give her the eggs. Maybe later weāll find out what the right price for them is. As far as Iām concerned, the situation is under control. But itās not my mall. "Get your hands off her!" It happens so fast. Santa comes from somewhere behind the followers. No one sees him until he goes airborne. Heās spry for an old man, clipping Kasaan at the waist and spinning him around. The eggs go flying out of my hand and splatter on the floor. Santa and the scarecrow fall in a heap. "Monster!" screams Santa. "Get out of my mall!" Heās got his hands around the scarecrowās neck. We swarm over to pull them apart but weāre a millisecond too late. Kasaan bites down hard on Santaās bicep. She tears off a mouthful of muscle and some red felt rags. Perhaps itās instinct that makes her swallow. "Ahhh!" Blood spurts. Santa faints. The scarecrow picks herself up slowly, licking the blood off her lips. "Kasaan, I am so sorry," says Balfour, her voice muffled by the gas mask. "I thought we had secured the area." Kasaan stares thoughtfully at her. "He is a senior." "Old, yes," she says. "Poor thing probably doesnāt know what heās doing." "This is how you treat your elders?" "What do you mean?" "We have made a terrible mistake," says Kasaan. "I wish to return to the ship immediately." =And a happy New Year,= says the rooster, as he follows the scarecrow out. Three days later, the Kuvat starship takes off. They have yet to return. Barbara Balfour, Undersecretary of Alien Affairs, resigns in February, after taking a merciless pounding in the media and both houses of Congress. In March she signs a contract to write Who Lost the Kuvat?, which presents her side of what happened. Although sales are disappointing, the vein in her temple stops throbbing. Bjorn Lipponen loses one hundred and fifty pounds in six months. Two years after The Incident, as it comes to be called, he is named one of the twenty-first centuryās Hundred Most Sexy Men. Later, he becomes a noted futurist. His book, The Road to Eternity, is in its eighteenth printing. Nobody knows quite what to do with Lester Rand, the demented Santa. There is considerable sentiment for charging him in the World Court with crimes against humanity. But who can say what will happen if the Kuvat come back and find out that we punished the messenger instead of accepting the message? In his later years, he writes a childrenās book, Reindeer in the Mall, which is optioned by Fox and made into a full length computer animated cartoon. I am never going to write a book. Iām not going to live forever There are a lot of theories about what caused The Incident. Some want to blame me for insulting the rooster, even though what I said was only the truth. Others say that it is humanityās fault for mistreating the Lester Rands of the world. Many former Kuvat chasers maintain that when Kasaan digested the information he bit off Rand, he saw into the dark soul of Homo sapiens sapiens and was repelled. I guess everyone has a theory. Hereās mine. It was the fruitcake.