Experiment 93

“Who are you?” Thomas asked.

 “I do not understand,” she said, strangely confused by the simple question.

 She had an odd accent. Could she be a foreigner? Somewhat more slowly, Thomas asked, “Your name, what are you called?”

 Finally seeming to understand, the girl replied “I am number Ninety-Three.”

 —Ninety-Three? Thomas had thought that the girl had understood this time, but that wasn't even close. “No, no, I mean . . .” he held out his hand, “I am Thomas Jones, and you are?”

 The girl held out her hand as if it were some kind of salute and began to reply. In exasperation, Thomas took her hand and began to shake it as she said, “I am Humanoid Infiltration and Neutralization Unit, experiment number Ninety-Three.”

 Thomas let go of the girl's hand and stood there perplexed. He was beginning to strongly suspect that this girl suffered from some kind of mental illness. That would certainly explain the clothes and the odd behavior and declarations. Should he call the police? No, she didn't look dangerous. However, he couldn't just leave her on the streets. . . . It would be a pain, but Thomas decided that he had to take her in to the hospital. They could take a look at her and get in touch with child protective services—but how could he get her to go along?

 He thought for a moment, then said, “Sure, I can help you. Come with me and I'll take you someplace where I can get you help.”

 “Okay,” the girl replied and followed Thomas out the door. He felt bad about tricking her, but if she was this easy to trick then it really was a good thing that he came across her before someone less benevolent did. Besides, he wasn't lying, he really was getting her help.

 They got in his car, and he put on his belt. Ninety-Three watched him, and then put hers on with almost exactly the same movement. Thomas turned the key. The engine sputtered and then died. After two more tries he let out a sigh and put his head against the steering wheel. This old thing was on its last legs, but he couldn't afford to replace it yet. After all, he had spent most of their money on the one that had . . . no, he didn't want to think about it.

 With a sigh, he said, “I'd better get out and see what's—” but stopped abruptly when he saw something move inside of the girl's tattered, filthy old shirt. He jumped back as a snake suddenly sprang at him! No, wait, not a snake. It had no eyes or mouth. It was pale and thin, with a large rounded spear shaped tip, a flat underside, and a smooth ridge along the top. The tip of the thing quickly disappeared behind the steering wheel.

 Thomas's heart was racing as he worked up the courage to peer around the wheel. When it came into view, he saw that the tip had become silvery and melded into the crack between the dashboard and steering column. Thomas leaned back again as the girl leaned towards him. She turned the key in the ignition, and the car started nearly as if it were new. The snake-like thing pulled back into view, the girl pulled up her shirt a short ways and it began to wrap itself around her stomach as she said, “I have repaired your,” she paused for a moment as if searching for the right word, “van.”

 Ignoring the fact that she had just called his car a van, Thomas sputtered out “Wha . . . what is that thing?”

 The thing unwrapped itself and curled around in front of her, looking for all the world like a dog sitting at attention in front of its master. Pointing at it with a quizzical look on her face she replied, “My tail?” Then, as if suddenly understanding something, she said, “I understand. Tails cannot—normally do that, correct? I know that my tail can do things that my designers' tails could not.”

 When she had pulled up her shirt to hide it, he had been able to clearly see where it joined her spine, it definitely was a tail, which he supposed made sense for a lab experiment, but . . . “Your, um, designers had tails as well?” Thomas asked, just barely managing to hold back the urges to laugh, cry, and possibly pass out.

 It seemed as if a thought struck her, and with a perplexed look, she asked, “Do people . . . not have tails here?”

 “Not usually.” Thomas replied, seriously on the verge of hysterical laughter.

 “I am—sorry.” Her face was once more expressionless. “I had thought that it was—usual to put clothing on one's tail here, so I did so. It would—look as if that was not necessary.”

 “No, no,” Thomas replied “I think covering it was a good call. You should continue to do that.” Or you'll end up as a lab specimen again, he thought to himself.

 Looking as if she was thinking something over, Ninety-Three said, “Has the—device brought me farther than I had supposed? Am I no longer on the planet Arthalli?”

 “No, no, you're not,” Thomas said, actually starting to laugh now at the absurdity of it all. Suddenly, it hit him. Thomas knew what was going on! He reached down—and pinched his thigh hard. Ouch! That hurt!! Okay . . . so Thomas still had absolutely no idea what was going on.

 Thinking on it carefully, while Ninety-Three watched him expectantly, Thomas narrowed it down to two options. Either he had finally snapped—or there was a teenaged alien lab experiment sitting in the passenger seat of his car. Either way there was only one man that he trusted to help him.