Jessie Atkin
When the aliens finally began their full-scale assault, it was certainly without any intention of taking over the world to the tune of “The Song that Never Ends,” but pop-culturally educated millennials grew up during the peak of children’s television and to anyone who was from planet earth this was both a genius and commensurate response to this particular onslaught. Just for variety, a few hours into the invasion, there was a shift to, “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” and later, “Baby Shark.”
“Desist.”
“At least I’ve changed the tunes up, you just keep repeating that single word. Maybe you’re not as smart as you thought.”
“Desist.”
“No one else can hear you. No one else can hear me. This is a private show for your entertainment.”
“Desist.”
“Maybe you’re still learning our language? But you did this to yourself you know,” the human host reminded the invader in its head.
“It is not an issue of communication.”
“Oh, well, that’s good. It’s kind of comforting having you here, knowing one of the voices in my head is actually real. Can you hear the other ones?”
This question did not receive a response.
“I have clinical anxiety you know. Does that mean you have clinical anxiety now too?”
The intrepid body snatcher attempted to ignore the monologue continuing at the back of their skull and finish herding house pets into what looked to be a coral fenced in by laser lights.
“Those aren’t good eating if that’s what you’re thinking.”
When this comment too failed to elicit a response, the human went back to singing.
“They are as nutrition-filled as any other biological creature of this world.” The reply was certainly delayed, but it did bring the renewed musical interlude to a halt.
“If you’re planning to keep this place it would be better if you got used to eating algae and seaweed, or crickets. If we’d stuck to that this might even have been a planet worth taking. Kind of a strange choice for you, unless you just braved interstellar travel to collect spare parts. Though, honestly, that seems like a lot of work for very slim returns.”
No explanation of the alien’s intentions were forthcoming.
“You can hear me thinking, why can’t I hear you? Are you just not thinking?”
There was silence except for the frenzied yapping of confused and confined house pets.
“This is the song –”
“—Desist.”
“Do you not have music where you come from?”
A thrumming sound, a cross between a hum and a shake, echoed through the oddly shared space that seemed to be the human mind.
“Was that supposed to be singing?”
“That is transmission.”
“So, no music then?”
“What is the necessity?”
“Of music? Expression.”
“A waste of sentience.”
“A waste? What’s the point then? Of collecting nutrition-filled biological creatures? The absurdity of it all. Sorry if your opinion doesn’t hold much weight with me.”
“You participate in too much auditory output.”
“Again, that’s a matter of opinion. And I take offense that you’re not taking mine into consideration. If I had the technology to take over a planet, I’d pick one where I appreciated the entertainment stylings. What’s the point of taking over a planet if you can’t take a second to relax and enjoy their version of television?”
“Survival is the only intention worthy of interstellar travel and domination.”
“That’s depressing. Didn’t you get our golden record? Didn’t you hear Chuck Berry?”
There is no reply. And it’s unclear if the parasitic alien consciousness is ignoring the unwilling host or actually considering the question.
“Doesn’t ring a bell, huh?”
“The concept is irrelevant.”
“Then it’s very clear you’ve never heard Chuck Berry. I can give you the chorus of ‘Johnny Be Good.’”
“Desist.”
“You can hear me, and that’s not a complaint by the way, but why do I only get your answers? Are you like a legilimens expert?”
Again, only the barking of the dogs being penned together, no matter their size, grows across the communal gray matter.
“You don’t have an internal monologue.”
“That is how your noise identifies?”
“It’s not noise. Usually, no one else can hear it. You made contact; you did this to yourself.”
“We do not make contact. We harvest resources for the continuation and health of the collective.”
“Collection anyway. Not very collective. Didn’t exactly embrace our differences. Never had to explain yourself before, did you?”
“It is not necessary to make justifications to lesser sentient beings.”
“You could just let me go.”
The alien parasite makes no reply, obviously trying to live by the creed of ignoring lesser sentient beings.
“I was never a big athlete, you should know. This carcass of ours is gonna be pretty tired soon. Do you sleep? Do I sleep anymore? Probably be fun for us to find out.”
The human host clears their throat, at least in the mind, and sings the scales only learned from viewing “The Sound of Music.”
“A whole musical movie, I can recite most of it. You’ll hate it, probably, but it’s really great. You’re missing out. Trust me, eating house pets is no reason to live. But Julie Andrews.” The human host makes the noise of a chef’s kiss knowing that the meaning will not translate in the slightest.
The humming of the overture begins.
“Desist.”
“Hope it’s all worth it.” The songs continue, the last meaning in the silence.
***
Jessie Atkin writes fiction, essays, and plays. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, Writers Resist, Daily Science Fiction, Space and Time Magazine, and elsewhere. She can be found online at jessieatkin.com, and on Twitter and Instagram as @JessieA_7.