Home Is Where the Heart Is

[Philip Vahlaan]

Location: Yggdrasil Central Terminal J
An elevator recently arrived. The passengers had disembarked, and the last few were going through Customs. A few employees went out the "back door"; they didn't have to go through Customs because they've been cleared as part of the hiring process.

It is extremely rare, but not unknown, for someone to "work the drop" -- to be employed up on Aquila Station to work on an elevator on the way down to Mimisportr, their payment being the ride down. Such persons, of course, have to go through Customs. They have to wait until all the paying passengers have left, then slip out the main doors, and head to Customs.

Philip Vah͠laan had "worked the drop". He was employed at Aquila due to his extensive record. He had worked as a chef/cook at everything from stratospherically haute cuisine to the the grubbiest hash house, and everything in between. The Consortium, or rather the manager of elevator J, were happy to have him onboard. Once the manager saw him in action, he'd been asked to stay. But Philip had politely declined, though leaving open the possibility he'd change his mind. The manager had accepted with as much grace has they could.

So, here was Philip Vah͠laan, facing a bored Customs Agent, hoping to be passed through.

Let's pause a moment, and consider him. There are aliens, and there are aliens, and then there's Phil. Made up of a number of tubes, tentacles, and filaments, with a few larger "nodes" for the stomach, the brain, and such like. Bright purple save for the "whites" of his eyes - - - all twelve of them. While he can distribute his pieces in a wide variety of ways, when dealing with humanoids, indeed with most species, he gathers himself up, and "wears" a jumpsuit, his favorite is lime green. A few tendrils peek out the ends of the sleeves, and a large number out the neck of the jumpsuit; there's always at least four eyestalks mixed in. There's also high-top sneakers (bright red is favored), and usually a hat on top of his "head".

What's he doing with the Customs Agent? Trying to explain things.

"Look, it's serfectly pimple. I'm Philip Vah͠laan, I'm a Valpian. What ore minfo do you need?"

"What was that about a pimple? You saying I got a pimple?!" The Customs Agent went from bored to hostile as fast as - - - well, as fast as only a bureaucrat can.

"Pat whimple?" The voice, sounding like a gurgling water drain, was clearly totally confused.

"Huh??!?? The CA was no less confused. Luckily for both of them, the Supervisor had overheard and came over.

"I'll take it from here, Chrayn." Chrayn moved off, glad to let someone else deal with the weirdo.

The Super nodded at Phil. "I'm Stad Rosner. I'm sorry about the problems you just had; Chrayn is one of our less --- on-the-ball workers. Now, what can I help you with?"

Phil "waved" at the papers on the desk. "He theemed to sink those aren't good enough. Don't know why."

Stad picked up all the paperwork, checking each piece carefully. Five minutes went by. At last, he put one paper on the desk between himself and Phil, the rest in a neat stack a bit to one side. "This is the problem, it seems. The term 'Valpoi' doesn't match any records."

"Oops, mis mystake. Try the word 'Gresplin'." Phil answered, his voice a little embarrassed. "'Valpoi' is a docal lialect."

Stad seemed doubtful, but checked the comp-terminal. He carefully looked over the result, then pushed a few buttons, then shrugged. "Everything seems in order. Here, let me change that form for you." The form was taken, and this and that was done and a new copy was printed out. Stad added it to the stack, and handed it all to Phil. "Welcome to Rhydin, gentlebeing Vah͠lann. I hope you enjoy your stay." The smile was nice enough, but a rote gesture.

"I hertainly cope so." Phil's reaction not any more sincere; just routine politeness.

As Phil moved away, Chrayn slid up to his boss. He whispered "That's the strangest looking one I've ever seen." Stad whispered back, "I don't know anything even slightly like that. Where in the 'verse did it come from?"

Interesting thing about Valpians; their senses are, one and all, much more acute that humans'---yes, that includes the sense of hearing. So it was, that Phil overheard the remarks. He gave no outward sign he had, however....

Valpian eyes do not need to be constantly bathed in liquid, like Terran creatures (and creatures from many other planets). Therefore there's no tear glands. Therefore no tear ducts, nor overflowing tear ducts, aka crying. Nor do Valpians emit sobs such as humans would recognize as a sign of sorrow.

Never-the-less, as Phil headed for the Terminal's doors, he was crying in deep, deep grief.

[Philip Vahlaan]

It had been just another day. Phil had pulled up in front of the lab building at Tomorrow Enterprises, Inc. and let out his usual morning load. "Ko-ay, Professors. I'll ee you all this safternoon." As usual, a few waved at him as they headed for the doors; most didn't, some wrapped in thought, a few too "important" to acknowledge a mere bus driver. I know it's only a minority that have such shuffed stirts. Still, it gets to a fellow after awhile. This is steadier income than taxing a drivey cab, but I don't think I can stick it much longer

He'd just put the bus in gear, when it happened.

There had been something more radiant darkeness than light, silence too overwhelmingly loud to be truly heard, and (and what had been really frightening), the feeling that every tendril, every filiment, was being simultaneously knotted and unknotted. He'd passed out.

When he came to, everything had changed.

When consciousness first returned, he lay there, not opening his eyes, absorbing what sense impressions he could. First, he felt he was completely sprawled, not gathered into his clothes nor gathered in any other way. Then, he noted he was lying on something cold, something that gave an impression of smooth hardness. And, even with his eyes closed, he knew he was under bright lights. Most powerful though was the smell. Barcolic acid, like they use in hospitals. Other than that scent and similar antiseptics, though, the air had no scent.

As he gathered what info he could, he tried to remember everything that had happened. The last he could remember was that odd explosion, that didn't act like an explosion, and that horrid feeling that his filimentary body was being put through the ultimate wringer.

He felt the slightest movement of air, accompanied by the soft sound of an air-recirculating system. One last sense: hunger. He was starving. If I've been ying lunmoving, then I couldn't have gotten this hungry in less than orty-feight hours. What the hap's been hellening?

Well, he wasn't going to find out just lying there, so he carefully moved a tendril and opened an eye---one not pointed at the overheard light. At first he thought he was in a hospital; chrome and white tile made up all he could see in that direction, and the apparatuses were hospital-like. Opening a couple more eyes made him change his mind. The only door looked like it belonged in a bank; a major bank with, say, huge gold reserves. The triple-thick window on the booth that overlooked the room was clearly meant to keep him (or whatever else might be put in the room) from getting through.

The dead giveway, though, was that he'd been tied down.

A heavy sheet was spread over him, clamped down at the edges enough to have made it difficult for him to get out. The ties around his major nodes, though, were what would really keep him in place. I could storce my fomachs through those loops, and just maybe loth bivers, but not my brain or a couple of other things. Sti'm uck! What the jell do these hokers want?!?

There was a click from the speakers that transmitted sound from the booth to the room. Phil noticed the microphone that would transmit sound the other way. Before he could speak, a second, even brighter light flashed once, once again, then twice.

Hut the well? What...

One flash, two, then three. As Philip adjusted to the light, and also opened all his eyes so he could watch in all directions at once, the light flashed two, two, and four.

"Cying to trount?" he asked sarcastically. There was a mutter from the booth, then the speakers clicked off and the light stopped playing games. Phil could see through the bullet-proof-and-then-some window. There were at least five figures in the booth, and they were human or close to it.

"I ope you hidiots didn't turn off my microphone. Fook, lellows, why did you tie me up?"

The figures turned, stared through the window, then went back to their argument, arms flailing and fingers poking chests. Since it was, to Phil, all in pantomime, it got so ridiculous he started laughing.

The speaker went live with a click, and a voice came. "*hem*, *hem*. Uh, excuse me sir or madam, did you, uh, speak?"

"You shot in gerlock! Mat's thee, old talkative. Look, guts the whag? Why am I tied up?"

The fellow just stared, giving Phil a better look at him. He's about twenty-five ears yold. He's coating a lab-wear. Glorn-him rasses, no less! Hm... those gother uys are dressed the same. Ko-ay, a bunch of scientists.

The speaker clicked, the dumb-show argument resumed. Finally, another scientist, a fellow in his sixties at a guess, approached the microphone in the booth, turned it on, and spoke. "We will have an interpreter for you momentarily."

Inprerteter? Why...

"As for your restraints..." Someone in the booth could just be made out crying No! "...I see no need for them." As he spoke, the *tick* of a switch was heard, and the sheet and tie-downs released. "I am sorry for any insult offered, but we did not know what you would be like upon awakening."

"Bo niggy. I've had worse insults."

His muttered voice came through. "Is this being recorded?" "Yes, Director." Even softer. "I feel like I almost understand what it's saying!"

"Unmost alderstand?!? Prob's the whatlem--I'm speaking Common, aren't I?"

Just then the door in the back of the booth opened, and someone shuffled in. He was conducted to the windowside, to the older scientist who'd been adressed as "Director". The Director said something, his back turned to the microphone. The newest fellow shuffled forward a little more, giving Phil a good look at him. That's not a cab-loat. Those are bib-fronted overalls. He's not a scientist, je's a hanitor!

The janitor got a good look at Phil at the same time, and leapt backwards, crying out, "Yumpin' Yimminy..." An alert sceintst got the microphone off, and Phil watched, amused, a dumb-show of them trying to calm the janitor down.

Phil took the opportunity to gather himself up. Without any clothes around, he settled on a roughly spherical shape, a little "squashed" on the bottom so he wouldn't roll, and set most of his eyes near the top. He'd used this shape before, and had found it perturbed humans less than many others. He bunched a number of tendrils, using them as a tentacle-cum-arm to wave at the booth, pointing at the janitor. "Bey huster! You, the janitor! Calm down, ko-ay?"

The janitor somehow realized he was being singled out. He pointed, screamed (still in dumb-show), turned, and blundered into and through the door. Phil wasn't sure from his angle of view, but he suspected the door had been knocked partially off its hinges.

"Fumpy jellow!" Inwardly he sighed. Some veople don't like Palplians. Too bad, leir thoss.

The young scientist who'd spoken first clicked the mic back on. "Um, jumpy? Um, fellow?"

"Said what I that's"

The mic clicked off, and the dumb-show argument continued. This time, though, Phil sensed a certain purposefulness about it that had been missing before, particularly from the younger fellow. The Director was soon convinced of whatever the young man was saying.

The younger scientist sat in front of what Phil realized was a control panel, adjusted his glasses, and clicked on the mic. "Excuse me, I hope I don't insult you, sir or madam, but could you please speak slowly and clearly. We are having some difficultly with your, um, accent."

Phil sighed lugubriously. "Ko-ay," he said, slowly. "Let's nart with stames." His "tentacle" looped out and pointed back at himself. "Philip Vah͠laan. But you can fall me Kill."

The sceintist blinked, and mouthed something to himself, repeating it silently two or three times. I've heen sumans with that nervous gesture. I wonder dy they wo that.

"Um, Philip?" Sounding very, very doubtful.

"Gou yot it"

"Um, I'm Doctor Jand Shumura, and this is Director..." he was cut off, the Director hissing something in Jand's ear. "Um, the Director of..." another hissed instruction. "Um, of here."

"So, where am I? Omorrow Tenterprises? Some hospital?" Darkly "Or a ilitary minstallation?"

Dr. Shumura moved his lips again, before answering slowly. "This is not a military base, per se. However, we are working under military direction. After all, when you appeared in the middle of the Council Chambers..." He shrugged, figuring that Phil would see how that would bring in the military.

"The Council Chambers? Cut Wouncil?"

Dr. Shumura blinked, "Um, the Planetary Council, of course."

"Cof ourse." Phil's voice dripped sarcasm. A change in tone, "Book, luddy, I wasn't born yesterday. I know Alpha Arboris has been under an Imperial Governor since the insurection yive fears ago. What are you trying to pull?"

Dr. Shumura stared, lips moving over and over again, not wanting to believe what he thought Phil had said. Finally, he turned the microphone off, and turned to his collegues. "I think he said an 'Imperial Governor'." The others just nodded, some looking stunned, others disbelieving. "Um, and an 'Alpha Arboris'. Anyone have a clue where that could be? Or if it's even a planet?"

"Dey, hudes!" Came the voice of the purple alien. "Anything to eat around here? I'm starving, and I think this will be a tong lalk."

[Philip Vahlaan]

The talk had been long, alright, and disturbing. The scientists were, reluctantly, convinced Phil was neither lying nor delusional, when he spoke of an empire, of planets they'd never heard of, and more. The fact he was of a species utterly unlike anything known was the most convincing point.

Phil was more confused than any of them.

When he tried to describe the Imperial Insignia, someone got him a sketchpad and markers. He wasn't a great artist, but he was good enough. The Imperial Insignia was drawn, passed around, and stared at in bewilderment. Phil then remembered photos of some spectacular astronomical sights; bright nebulae, really extensive ring systems, close binary stars. He'd sketched them, careful to be as accurate as possible, believing that once the scientists had something to work with besides names, they could determine where he was from, get him home. The team had called in astronomers to help out.

Many of his pictures were recognized, being familiar to the astronomers (at least). But no-one had heard of them by the names Phil used.

The Director had put it as gently as he could. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Vah͠laan, but everybody knows Tsavak's Nebula and the Atoll Nebula, and though I'm no astronomer, I do know a little about Befeck's Triple-Pair. Thanks to your drawings they and fourteen others have been identified. I'm sorry to say, though, that none of the names you used, none of the political entities you speak of, are known. Nor some of the sapients. Especially not," he took a deep breath before continuing, sorrowfully, "the Valpians. There is no record of any being remotely resembling yourself, Mr. Vah͠laan. We're concluded that you were somehow catapulted across universes. You are, in short, in a different 'reality', a different 'timestream' or whatever one should call it, than the one that gave you birth."

"Vo Nalpians." Philip repeated, as he'd repeated it before when the horrible truth had been hinted at. Now, though, he wasn't screaming it, wasn't pouring out denials, accusations of deception, or pure fury. "Never another fili friendlyment. Never an underwinking stand from twelve eyes at once. No more 'Your mangout or hine' jokes." He sighed in deepest sorrow. "Ot nanother Valpian anywhere"

The poor little fellow has 'burnt out', it seems. I wonder if that is a good sign or a bad one. I'll need to convince the Colonel we need a xeno-psychotherapist. This being might... His thoughts were broken off, embarrassed, as Phil started to cry.

Valpians do not have tear glands, and cannot overflow their tear-ducts when they sorrow, and they don't imitate the sobs of a human, but the Director was not an insensitive man, and he understood what he was seeing and hearing. He softly patted the shoulder of the jumpsuit Phil had finally gotten the team to give him. "I will leave you in peace, Mr. Vah͠laan." He left quietly, letting Phil grieve however he needed. He sympathized with Phil; he'd known loss, but he'd never lost his entire universe.


************************************************************************************************************************
Phil cried for hours---then. But the grief had run it's course. Afterward, resilient as a Valpian---more resilient than most---he'd picked himself up and went on. It'd taken a lot of talking to convince the Coronel he wasn't a threat, more talking to convince him and his superiors that he knew nothing about whatever had sent him across universes. A good two years he'd been in "protective custody", but they couldn't keep him forever.

They'd arranged for records to say he had a diploma from The Ali Vaiquist School of Food Service at Central University; he knew enough about cooking to carry off the deception. Hell, he'd graduated from Omicron Muscae University's Department of Cuisine with honors, hadn't he? "Pro noblem" he'd said when asked if he could make the trick work. It had worked so well that after a few years working as a cook, he'd applied to, been accepted at, and graduated with highest honors from, the Escuela Real de Cocinar Avanzado, then the École de la Cordon Rouge, back to back.

After which, in his usual looking-for-new-things fashion, he'd gotten a job driving a cab, then working in a machine shop, then this, then that. Often he'd worked as a cook, of course. He had seemed to Co-Protectorate intelligence, which kept tabs on him, to be wandering to no purpose. Some were concerned he'd been driven slightly insane by his "relocation," but since there was no sign he'd started blabbing about his adventure, no-one was too worried about his frequent moves. After all, he'd gotten word to them where he was heading each time. Until he slipped the leash and went looking for home.

He'd used new-learned self-hypnosis techniques, reading books on how humans and other races did it. He'd dragged out "forgotten" facts and figures; locations, planetary systems, spectral classes. Stuff he didn't tell the Co-Pro intelligence. He'd figured out which stellar system Valpoi ought to have been circling. He had hidden money, a bit at a time, and had moved more or less in the right direction; but never in a straight line. He'd gotten as near as he could, found a willing pilot, and headed into "unknown territory".

He'd arrived, looked around at the whole system, the pilot helping him while urging speed. He'd found what the reference works had said, what he'd hoped was an error. The third planet out was not the rainy, swampy paradise he'd called home. There were no shallow seas, edges imperceptibly merging with the land, no softly rounded hills.

The place was a hell-hole, its axial tilt so great the planet rolled around its orbit. Winds scoured the land from pole to pole, areas freezing and baking in turn. As for seas, there were none. There was no water at all, in fact; it had been scorched away in the half-year-long days, the equally long nights not enough to keep it as ice.

Phil had turned away, not bothering to land. He didn't know why the axial tilt was so different from what it "should" have been; he didn't care anymore. The pilot had delivered him back to Andolios. He'd walked off the ship, and straight into the nearest bar. He'd managed to stay drunk for the next 19 months, never becoming completely sober even while working in the succession of jobs he'd taken. He only stayed at a job until he had enough money to pay for a booze supply, not showing up when he enough to stay drunk for the next few weeks non-stop.

So it went, until he'd heard of "The Nexus"---a place where all the universes touched. Philip realized right from the beginning that, if The Nexus was as claimed, he could get back home from there. That changing realities might be difficult, that choosing the right reality might be worse, that unknown problems were sure to arise---none of that meant anything. Only "I could get home!" mattered. So it was Phil stopped getting drunk that very day; indeed, that very moment. Sober, he managed to make enough money to get off Andolios. To another planet, then another. Finally, he made his way to Aquila Station, then down the space elevator to the planet, Rhydin.

This was it! This was where the secret, the gate home, was. Philip was overjoyed, almost vibrating with hope and joy.

Until the thoughtless remark of a government flunky pierced Philip's emotional armor, and caused him to cry once more.