A Long-Awaited Banquet

“Any minute now. Any. Minute.” Johnson dabbed a bead of sweat off his brow with a small pink handkerchief. Noon had come and gone, but still there was a lingering, withering hope for his career. After all, interstellar clocks must be tricky to sync up, right?

“Sir, I don’t think—” Johnson’s warning glare cut off his assistant (Peter? Paul? Some Biblical P-name, he was sure). Peter-Paul wilted, Johnson’s disapproval even more deflating than the sweltering afternoon sun. No, no, it was a noon sun. There was still time.

His watch beeped insistently, but he ignored it. Nothing could be more important than this meeting. They’d told him he was moving too fast, that Earth wasn’t ready. That no one knew how the nascent planetary government would handle a first contact. He couldn’t show his face in the office again if he got stood up.

Twelve-thirty became one, became one-thirty, became two. Begat, begat, begat. Johnson shook his head; this was certainly no time for his old Catholic schooling to rear its head. He’d buried that long ago. Must be the sun. The blazing orb sank dipped on its journey towards the horizon, his dreams falling with it. Accolades from his colleagues, begrudging mutters of well done, Johnson from his nemeses at the home office. Chairship, corner office, beautiful secretary. All fading away.

At three, long after the gelatins and tiny butter flowers had puddled, and the iced punch gone tepid in its gaudy crystal bowls, Johnson finally stirred. The rest of the delegation watched him closely. His sweaty suit jacket snapped from his seat back as he pushed away from the long table, chair legs etching deep furrows in the soft grass. He made a mental note to have Peter-Paul grab him some aloe as, despite his dark skin, he felt a sunburn blooming on the back of his neck. 

“They’re not coming. We’d better close up the atmospheric shield gates,” he finally admitted, throwing down his damask napkin and knocking over his champagne. The cheery bubbles had fizzled in the hot sun hours ago. All that work, years—no, decades—of preparation, meetings, lobbying, all for nothing. Nary a wink, nor a whisper, nor a sorry-can-we-get-a-raincheck. Christ.

“Still better than when my ex-wife ghosted me.” A nervous chuckle rippled through the assembled crowd. Johnson was not quite sure why he’d said that. He’d never been married, wasn’t too keen on the whole “till death” bit. He had supposed some off-color chauvinism was just what the situation called for but, judging from the awkward looks he’d drawn, it most certainly wasn’t.

“Right.” Johnson pulled at his damp collar. “I—” 

“Sir!” Peter-Paul grabbed Johnson’s arm, pointing at the sky. “They’re here!”

Johnson’s legs almost melted in relief. He peeled the insistent fingers from his arm and stepped towards the descending ship, a warm breeze stirring below mighty subsonic thrusters. Whatever happened next, at least he wouldn’t go down in history as the man who totally botched the first in-person first contact. He and Earth only had one chance at this.

“Drum up some fresh food out here, would you?” he hissed to Peter-Paul, eyes not leaving the ovoid spacecraft.

“But sir, shouldn’t we confirm first—” Johnson cut him off with a wave of his hand. Confirmation? This was it! Peter-Paul huffed and stalked away, pulling out his phone to dial the caterers. Johnson knew full well that he was sending him away from an historic moment, but it wouldn’t do to have the Mixolydians greeted by lobster with a side of salmonella.

The ship landed. The crowd perked up like herbs after watering, earlier fatigue forgotten. This would be their first glimpse—anyone’s first glimpse—of the Mixolydians, and a little heat couldn’t dampen their verve. For a moment, Johnson was struck by how ridiculous they all looked. Dressed to the nines, soaked in sweat, surrounded by slumping cakes that the aliens probably couldn’t even eat. Frivolous, to the last. And yet, what was diplomacy without useless pomp and circumstance?

From all their flowery mathematical communications, Johnson had expected the Mixolydians to emerge on a set of gilded stairs, perhaps accompanied by a menacing, cold fog. Instead, without fanfare, a section of the wall suddenly telescoped upwards, disappearing into the ship’s smooth metal exterior with a soft click. Darkness lay beyond. What would these creatures look like, talk like? Nobody knew. They had only ever communicated over text, Earth’s longest-ever long-distance relationship.

Johnson swallowed a gasp as the first Mixolydian emerged. The thing was tall and willowy, with a large head and big, green eyes. Here was where the similarity to the aliens of yore ended. Covered in red scales and sporting a long tail jauntily hitched on its arm, the Mixolydian was more like a tall lizard than anything out of H.G. Wells. It wore no clothing that could be distinguished, and its chameleonic eyes rambled about for a while before landing on Johnson. He held his breath.

“Sorry we’re late, old bean,” the Mixolydian crooned. Its accent was pure upper-crust British society. Johnson was so surprised by the alien’s drawl that he almost forgot to be surprised it spoke English. The Mixolydians had given no indication that they had bothered to learn any of Earth’s languages and had instead spent the last few years communicating entirely in a mixture of mathematics and physical constants. What had at first seemed an impenetrable language barrier was now revealed to have been … laziness? A flair for the dramatic?

Completely immune to the shock it had caused, the Mixolydian swept past Johnson to peruse the oozing offerings on the banquet table. It settled on a salad fork, a bright stack of cocktail napkins and an entire wheel of cheese, all of which were promptly stuffed into its mouth. Johnson caught a glimpse of needle-sharp teeth and a purple tongue. A man in the back fainted.

“Interstellar clocks, you know,” the alien said around a mouthful of sweating Gruyère, “hard to sync up.” A coterie of other Mixolydians filtered out of the vessel, each roughly the same save a different shade of red. They stood off to the side, eyes darting about independently, claws lightly rested on holstered space-guns. Johnson blanched. Nobody had mentioned bringing weapons.

“Ah, yes. Quite right,” Johnson managed weakly. He glanced over at Peter-Paul for some measure of support, but the man was still on the phone with the caterers. “Er—we would like to humbly welcome the Mixolydian delegation to our planet,” he began, remembering his lines. “The p-people of Earth wish nothing more than peace and prosperity for both our—”

“Ooh, my, is this a soup?” the Mixolydian cried, ignoring Johnson’s speech and diving for one of the butter dishes. “I have read much about these aqueous Earthen delicacies.” The alien tipped its head back and drained the dish of melted butter, then licked it clean.

Johnson dropped all pretense at diplomacy, staring mutely, jaw ajar. The Mixolydian looked up from its second dish, blinking twice with layered vertical lids. A buttery tongue slithered up to wet the creature’s limpid green eyes. Disgusting. No wonder the Mixolydians had been so coy, never showing their faces. Not even a mother could love that.

Johnson was about to launch back into his speech when Peter-Paul frantically waved him over. Johnson turned, sighing, as the Mixolydian guards tore into the pot roast. “What could you possibly want?” he asked, jogging over.

“It’s… it’s the Mixolydians, sir,” Peter-Paul whispered, holding out the cell phone.

“I’m sorry, the who?” Johnson felt the blood drain from his face.

“The Mixolydians!” Peter-Paul’s voice dropped to a frightened whisper. “We just got another message from them. They send their apologies for missing the banquet, something about starlight savings time—” Peter-Paul squawked as a thin, red claw grabbed his shoulder and jerked him sideways. 

Johnson turned to see the lead Mixolydian (or not-Mixolydian, as was becoming increasingly clear) pointing its gleaming green pistol at Peter-Paul’s head.

“Now, now, no need to struggle so,” it said, eyes akimbo, stroking Peter-Paul’s temple with its weapon. “We’re just going to have a little chat with your boss here. Don’t squirm.”

“I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding,” Johnson started, stepping forward. Of course, it wasn’t, but it seemed the thing to say.

“Ah-ah-ah!” the not-Mixolydian warned, digging its gun more forcefully into its captive’s head. Johnson froze, and Peter-Paul let out a pathetic whimper. “The Astroyd-5000’s a bit touchy, you see. We wouldn’t want your assistant here to have an accident.”

For the third time that day, Johnson felt himself melting, the gears in his mind clicking sluggishly as he struggled to put the pieces together. The late hour. All the inconsistencies with what they knew of the Mixolydians....

“Yes, you have that right, my dear fellow. Finally, he understands,” the alien added as an aside to no one. Its eyes rolled upward, which Johnson at first mistook for exasperation, until he realized the thing was pointing at dozens of faint white splotches appearing, one by one, miles above in the cloudless sky. Johnson couldn’t make out any details, but he didn’t need them to know that his fears of a soiled banquet were now laughingly tame.

“Look, we’ve been planning this for years, and I can’t show my face in the office again if this takeover doesn’t go smoothly,” the alien said, this time the exasperation clear in its voice. “Let’s talk planetary defenses, shall we? Oh, cheer up,” it added as Johnson fell to the ground in a faint. “At least now you’ll definitely go down in history!”