Deathstalker 08 - Deathstalker Coda

sticks, but . . . Right now, most animals are annoyed because people won’t let us have antigrav back-packs, and fly like they do. Just because certain species can’t be trusted when it comes to shitting and pissing. Pardon the language, but I’m a dog, and we don’t care. Humans have the strangest taboos. If they just sniffed each other’s crotches now and again, they’d all be a lot happier.”
    Hellen decided it was time they were moving along, and Owen had to agree with her. A little doggy straight-talking went a long way. She led him back to the patiently waiting alien, who had opened a concealed panel in the ground, revealing a tunnel that led down into the earth. Owen was tempted to make a remark about Lucifer and the underworld, but rose above it. He and Hellen followed the alien down the simply lit tunnel, which sank steadily into the earth for some time before finally leveling off. The walls were made of tightly packed earth, and the smell of dirt and growing things was strong on the close air. Hellen leaned in close to Owen, so she could murmur confidentially in his ear.
    “The Light People built all this. They like dark enclosed spaces. Apparently it makes them feel safe, and secure. Maybe it reminds them of their time in their cocoon. Assuming they have cocoons. They don’t talk much about their home life.”
    The tunnel suddenly broadened out into a great natural cavern, hundreds of feet in diameter. The massed Illuminati hung from the ceiling by their feet, like bats, their wings folded around them like cloaks, huddled close together. They bobbed and rustled excitedly as Owen entered their domain, peering down at him from the high ceiling. Their bright rainbow glows supplied the only light, somewhat muted by the surrounding gloom. Owen counted forty of them, including Lucifer, who was looking longingly up at the crowded ceiling, but stayed politely on the ground with Owen and Hellen. There was no furniture, only raised earth mounds here and there, so Owen and Hellen sat on those. Lucifer regarded Owen thoughtfully.
    “Hear our story, Owen Deathstalker. We came to Hearth ten months ago, and at first the humans made a great fuss of us. We were their first alien contact, and they couldn’t get enough of us. There were parades, celebrations, and endless questions. But when we had to tell them that we couldn’t teach them to fly in space unprotected, as we do, their enthusiasm waned. And when we finally told them why we had come, that we were the last of our species, fleeing from the Terror that had destroyed our civilization, everything changed. We were no longer heroic travelers, just objects of pity. Refugees. Not brave explorers of the infinite, as they intended to be. And when they found out we had no great knowledge to share with them, no amazing advanced technology, just a warning of the danger to come . . . the novelty wore off fast. They lost interest in us. They were bored. We were a disappointment. All the great dreams they’d had of first contact with an intelligent alien species, and we couldn’t fulfill any of them. They wouldn’t listen to us about the Terror. A threat that wouldn’t even arrive for thousands of years wasn’t enough to hold their attention. No one took it seriously. That’s someone else’s problem, they said. Let someone else worry about it. We became a joke, and then an old joke, that no one wants to hear anymore. Let me show you. Turn on the television, Hellen.”
    She nodded quickly, and pulled forward out of the shadows what looked to Owen like a portable viewscreen unit. Hellen turned it on, and the screen showed a close-up of some show host doing what Owen assumed was topical humor. Certainly none of it meant anything to him, but the live studio audience lapped it up. The host was Allan Woss, a tall lanky sort in a sparkly suit, with a mop of bright blue hair and a wide fake smile, to show off his perfect white teeth. He waved his arms about a lot and kept shooting love me looks into the camera. Owen sniffed. He recognized the type. It seemed some things were always the same, wherever you went.
    “He’s a personality,” Hellen said dispassionately. “Famous for being famous. And nowhere near as smart and funny as he thinks he is. And that sparkly suit is just so yesterday’s man. Ostensibly this is a chat show, but really the guests are only there so Woss can have fun at their expense. The Illuminati standing below him, in what Woss so charmingly