The 17 by Mike Kilroy

Book Preface

His name was something no human could pronounce.

Perhaps the name that was the closest was George.

George, tall for his race—another word that no longer had a human equivalent—approached the cage with caution. He had no idea what a human in this evolutionary stage was capable of doing. Perhaps those of this thin, gangly adolescent’s race could punch their way through the field that separated captured from captor. Perhaps the boy in the prison could zap him with mental telepathy, or control his mind and make him do things he would not normally do.

George was not taking any chances.

The boy did not look dangerous as George peered at him through the field of white light that swirled like an aurora. The boy sat on the cot—a strange contraption humans used to sleep—with his knees pressed into his chest and his head buried in his arms. The boy heaved violently, which startled George, who jumped back with a fright.

Was that an attack?

“I believe that is what humans call crying.” George was startled again by those words. They fell from what passed as the lips of his friend, whose name was unpronounceable by humans.

Perhaps the name that was closest was Fred.

“Crying?” George asked. He had never heard of such a concept.

“It is what they do to cope.” Fred turned one of his five eyes to look at the boy. “Strange things they are.”

George was confused. That was rarely the case. Of all the species in all the corners of the galaxy he had seen, very few surprised him.

Humans surprised him.

So odd they were; so complex; so full of vast kindness; so full of treachery, too; so conflicted.

So fascinating.

“Why this creature?” George asked, staring at the boy who did a thing George now came to know as sobbing. “Is he the best the race has to offer?”

“Oh, no,” Fred answered, making a clicking, clacking noise that to their race meant a scoff. “He is really quite the dullard. He is really quite average—the perfect specimen. We cannot glean anything from the best a race has to offer, or the worst for that matter. No. Nothing can be cultivated from them. We can take so much from him.”

“Can he help us?”

“Perhaps not. His species add so little to the universe. They think they are alone. They think their lives weigh so much on the cosmos. They have no idea how little and insignificant they are, but they are part of the fabric and deserve study.”

“Seems like a waste of time.” George hated to waste time.

“Oh, no,” Fred clicked and clacked again. “I quite like this one. You know they simulate war … for fun … in video games. They also wage it fiercely all over their planet.”

War for fun? George was appalled by that. George had seen war. There were many words in their ancient texts about war. There were many words in their current texts about war. George had lost so much to war.

“Savage species,” George said, turning his five-eyed gaze back to the boy. “He doesn’t seem like a warrior.”

“No,” Fred said. “He certainly is not.”

Fred turned and slithered away, leaving George alone with the boy. George was startled again as the adolescent lifted his head and seemingly peered at him through the field. George could have sworn the boy could see him. Of course, he could not. He had only two eyes—how strange, how primitive—that couldn’t possible connect with him. Yet George couldn’t help but think he had.

There was something about the boy. Feelings stirred in George he never knew he had. If his race had a heart, it would have certainly broken for him.

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