Eldritch Humans

You always assumed that the others were lying when they spoke about humanity like some cosmic horror. The thought was absolutely absurd. Every civilized species across the galaxy knew that any wound larger than a cut would leave someone bedridden for months, let alone such an injury as a lost limb.

Yet, that was the one story you heard the most about the humans. That a cut could stop bleeding in minutes, that it could heal over in hours, if not days. That they could lose a limb, survive long enough to get to the medic, and then come away with a replacement.

“Completely ridiculous,” you always told them. “That would kill someone.”

But the stories never stopped. Soon enough, your crew beneath you began talking about humans in different ways. They spoke of how humans would consume literal rotten wheats and vegetables that had been fermenting in water.

You scoffed. “Ethanol is extremely poisonous. Even a drop would kill any of us in a heartbeat.”

They always clamored in their efforts to convince you otherwise. You never listened. Humans were nothing special. They were hairless, upright bipeds with limited technology and brainpower.

“And then there’s this thing called ‘sleep.’ They need, like, eight hours of it a day.”

“Eight hours a day? That’s a third of a day!”

“A complete waste,” you muttered beneath your breath. “No species would ever evolve to require it. They would evolve away from it.”

Your crew never stopped the stories. No matter how much you limited their rations or what humiliating jobs you assigned them onboard, the rumors spread like wildfire. Even when you called an all-hands assembly to touch base on this information, they all stood in staunch opposition. Every single set of eyes in front of you gleamed with a light that said they finally believed they’d gotten one over on you.

It was a year after humanity had first come onto the interplanetary scene that you were finally assigned one to your vessel. You had just pulled into port for your monthly crew swap and supply stop when you received the news. You remember the ledger of names, and how odd it felt to see the human one among it.

Axorniu, Zihulvu, and Gragragraf … those were normal names. Korlatz, Heenobu, and Milenpor were a bit weirder, but you always assumed their parents had to be “Special.”

Then, at the very bottom of the list, right beside the picture of a hairless biped showing teeth, was the name “John Smith.” You stared at it for what felt like forever, trying to work out how it was meant to be pronounced, only to struggle whenever you caught a glimpse of their picture. Something about how they bared their fangs in their crew picture, combined with the unmistakable sense of joy in their amber eyes, filled you with a dread unlike any other. How could such a simple species find joy in showing off their greatest natural weapons like a predator?

“John Smith, reporting for duty.”

When the human finally came aboard, he was similar to his picture, but without the teeth. You were grateful for that. You didn’t need him causing a riot among the rest of the crew simply by existing.

“Captain Relani. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

You held out a hand. The human hesitated for a moment, then shook it and showed their teeth again. You tightened your grip in an almost instinctual fear response, and they showed their teeth more as they tightened their grip.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve been looking forward to serving on an alien vessel since we humans first left Earth.”

“Right.” You gave enough of a tug to pull your hand from theirs. “First step is a bag check. Nothing illegal or dangerous onboard.”

The human complied wordlessly, dropping the bag from his shoulders and handing it over. A glass bottle clinked from within. You arched an eye ridge at the human, and the skin on their face reddened some. A fear response of their own, you assumed.

You found the zipper—a primitive latch, in your opinion—and tugged. It took some searching and digging through piles of clothes and photos of other humans before you found what you were looking for. It was two glass bottles, about the size of your forearm, filled with a clear liquid. You studied the human glyphs on the labels, but were unable to understand any of them.

“What is this?” you asked.

“Vodka.”

You stared past the bottles at the human. “What?”

“Vodka. You know, for drinking at the end of the day.”

“Water?” you asked, assuming the translator chip embedded in your brain was malfunctioning.

The human scoffed. “With all due respect, sir, water ain’t gonna get you drunk.”

Your gaze narrowed as you broke the seal on the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Right away, the starch odor of ethanol hit your nostrils. You gagged and held the bottle at arm’s length.

“What the hell are you thinking, bringing a poison onto my ship?”

You replaced the cap and were half a second away from throwing it into the waste bin beside you, when the human clamored and grabbed the bottle away.

“It’s not poison, sir. Just alcohol.”

“A poison,” you reiterated.

The human shrugged. “W-well, I suppose, but it’s fun to drink it.”

You stared. For the first time in your life, you were at a loss for words. There you were, right in front of the first human you’d ever encountered, hearing that they had fun drinking ethanol. In a rush, all the stories you’d heard about humans came back to the forefront of your thoughts.

You shook your head and steeled your gaze again. If one of those “facts” was true, then that meant every other fact carried weight. Lucky for you, you had the perfect way to test the veracity of it all.

“Drink some.”

The human stared for a moment, then chuckled. “Sir, are you sure it’s all right to drink some before we’ve even left port?”

“Prove it’s not poisonous.”

The human shrugged, twisted off the cap, then raised the bottle to their lips. You watched, wide-eyed, as they downed an eighth of the bottle in one go. They let out a heavy breath as they pulled the bottle away, once again showing teeth. But not once did they keel over and perish, nor did they burst into flames like you’d seen happen a couple of times. No, they simply stood there, returning the lid to the bottle.

“See? Just vodka.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t say anything. In one swift, simple act, the human before you had shattered all of your beliefs about how life in the galaxy worked. You planned about how best to accommodate the human and their “sleep pattern,” you considered how close they needed to be to the medical bay, and, worst of all, you wondered what the supply cost would be to keep him availed of ethanol during his month on your vessel.

“Yes.” You handed over the other bottle. “Just vodka. Go aboard, John Smith.”