This afternoon, I went with friends to see X-Men: First Class. There was a lot to like about it…and a fair amount not to like. Ultimately, it was an entertaining but unremarkable summer blockbuster.
Before that, at our writing group, I penned this:
“You can kill the alien,” says Greene, “but only if you can prove the alien was going to try and kill you first.”
“I thought you said these aliens were peaceful,” says Black. “Not aggressive. That whole ‘I come in peace’ shtick they did with the Ministers when they visited a year ago. The way I hear it — spindly legs, brittle exoskeleton — they couldn’t hurt us even if they wanted to.”
“I didn’t say it was going to be easy,” says Greene. “But they won’t let you off the space station unless you can prove that it was self-defense.”
“I still don’t see why I have to get caught. You know I’m better than that. If the Company has any doubts about my experience, I — ”
“This isn’t about doubts. This isn’t about past performance or confirmed kills. We know your reputation, and we value your experience. This is about a space station so tight under lock and key that there’s just no other way out. If you want to escape, you’ll have to get caught.”
“And face a full inquest, maybe even execution or worse, the whole place crawling with surveillance, Marines.”
“It sounds bad when you put it like that.”
“And now you’re saying I have to convince them that I acted in self-defense. Against an alien who’s physically incapable of acting like a threat. That I’m not just fighting guards, but genetics. Frankly, escape sounds like the less impossible impossibility.”
“If you run, they’ll find you. If they find you, they’ll kill you. Remember, you’re not even supposed to be there. It’s only the local celebrations that are getting you on board. You don’t want to draw undue attention to yourself.”
“What, like by killing the aliens’ leader on the eve of their most sacred holiday, you mean? And by trying to convince them she made me do it, despite centuries of evolution that have already convinced that them she couldn’t? That kind of attention?”
“The Company needs her dead. You understand that much, right? The pains we’re taking to get you there?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you think we’d send you in empty-handed? This holiday — you know what it is?”
“No.”
“It’s Truthteller’s Eve. It’s the one day a year when no one can lie. Just can’t. There’s some kind of drink, a truth serum, everyone has to take it.”
“But that’s — ”
“We have an antidote.”
Oh, and I did the crossword, despite the paper copy having been ripped out by some cheap jerk at the supermarket where my father bought the paper. (If I had a nickel for every time that happened…) That was my Sunday.
