Time-share

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2025. Time-Share. Polar Borealis 32: 15-17. (January 2025.)

When the president removed his mask during the press conference, the nation sighed in relief: their suspicions were finally confirmed. His skin tone had always seemed unnaturally orange, in the same disturbingly alien way as Irn-Bru, and nobody believed for a second that the hair framing that sagging face was natural. Then there was the strange slumping posture...

With the mask dangling about the president’s neck like a combination necktie–noose, a chitinous, glossy black head was revealed, with mandibles that caused the two Secret Service agents to step back, alarmed, and reach for their sidearms. Both vanished in puffs of greasy smoke. The First Lady, who’d been awaiting this moment, raised the barrel of her sidearm to her lips, blew across the muzzle, spun her weapon around her index finger, then reholstered it.

The reporter from FOX paled, but he wasn’t one to reveal weakness before a crowd. “You’re a giant repulsive insect!” he blurted out.

“And you work for a morally repulsive corporation, which makes us about even. What was your question?”

“Where... Where did you come from?”

“The standard response is Schenectady. But that’s perhaps glib. Let’s try and restore some civility here.” The president tried for his famous disarming, boyish grin, forgetting that his mask had slipped. As a result, the giant cockroach’s face writhed disturbingly under the bright lights from the news cameras, hand-sized compound eyes scintillating. “Citizens of the United States of America,” said the cockroach, “I bring greetings from what your people call Arcturus, a bright orange star in the constellation of Boötes. My people traveled many generations to reach you and, having arrived at your small and formerly insignificant world, immediately set our anthropologists to work learning the strengths and weaknesses of your species.” Without the mask holding it in place, his disguise subsided around his sloping shoulders in droopy folds. The cockroach shrugged to settle the poorly tailored suit more comfortably.

“Your weaknesses were many, clear, and easily exploited. For example, with only the slightest guidance, we persuaded you to adopt a diet and lifestyle that leaves your meat well-marbled, soft, and tender.” Having mastered Terran bodily idiom, the Arcturian smacked its mandibles in delight. Though it was hard to read alien facial expressions without practice, this one, in context, clearly expressed great gusto. “Almost as good as your cheeseburgers.” Frothy drool trailed from between the mandibles, staining the rumpled suit. “Fortunately, your strengths were fewer and easier to overcome. Your greatest strength, namely your desire to live together in harmony, with each accepting the other for who they are in their deepest inner self, was easy to suborn. All that was necessary was to give you social media.” The two software titans who’d been standing behind the president stepped forward, bowed, and removed their own masks, revealing two more cockroach faces.

“But fear not: we’re not here for your delicious meat.” One of the roaches behind the president leaned forward and whispered something in the president’s ear.

The president rolled his eyes and looked to the sky for aid, apparently a universal gesture among sapients. “Neither are we here for your women. What an appalling thought!” The third insectoid whispered something in the president’s other ear.

“Nor are we here for your men, asexuals, bisexuals, transexuals, or any other sexuals. Don’t you people have anything better to do with your time than worry about a person’s gender?” The president flung his mask back over his shoulder. “No, fellow citizens of Earth—for those of us who were born here consider ourselves citizens, birther conspiracy theorists notwithstanding—we are here for a nobler purpose: to arrange time-shares in your hottest, most humid, least desirable tropical cities—cities that have become essentially uninhabitable due to global warming, which we confess to having encouraged for several lifetimes. So we won’t need to displace any humans. Rather, we’ll generously help to relocate them to more temperate climes. We apologize in advance to the residents of Minnesota and Maine, and urge you to welcome your future brothers and sisters with open arms.”

The third cockroach leaned forward to whisper in the President’s ear.

“Be off with you!” The president flapped his hands in a shooing motion. “Yes, yes... and your non-binary-gendered relatives too.”

The MSNBC reporter held up her hand. After exchanging glances with his colleagues, the president gestured that she should proceed.

“So what you’re saying is: you’re invading us.”

“Heavens, no! The invasion is long over. Rather, say we’re simply claiming real estate your people can’t use for most of the year. Time-share. Look it up, for heaven’s sake!” The president shrugged violently, vainly attempting to resettle his disguise more comfortably. He failed, and with an unpleasant sucking noise, the suit and orange-tinted skin beneath it slithered past his shoulders to pool upon the floor, revealing an oily black carapace with an extra set of multiply jointed limbs strapped to its ribs. The president stepped out of the debris, shaking a foot in distaste.

The MSNBC reporter raised her hand again.

“What now?”

“Will you at least be leaving us our government?”

The President looked skyward for strength. “That was never in question. You can have your government. It’s not like we care how you govern yourselves. Our agents will continue offering your elected officials suggestions on what actions they should take. You know how that works. In exchange for relinquishing the right to shape your own opinions, we offer the blessing of freedom from thought, freedom from responsibility, and freedom from fear. We’ll tell you what you need to fear, then we’ll eliminate that fear. And together our peoples will thrive.”

The MSNBC reporter foolishly ventured a third question. “To sum up: you’re saying that you’ve successfully mounted a coup, taken over our government, turned our citizens into hors d’oeuvres, ruined our climate, and expropriated our real estate?”

“Shoot that one,” the President commanded the First Lady. “Nobody likes a smartass.”

Author’s note

When Harlan Ellison was once asked where he got his ideas, his response was “Schenectady”.

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