The Last Starry Night
The Beast

The Artists led them along a winding street paved with moss to a building rather larger than the rest, shaped like a cylinder half-buried in the ground. A line of lighted windows wrapped around the building at eye level. They went through a door that slid open for them, and found themselves in a huge well-lit room with a long table down the center. It seemed to Azzie as though a hundred aliens were standing at this table -- many Warriors and Shamans, and a fair number of Artists, but many more of a bewildering number of types that were stranger than anything Azzie could have imagined. Not far from where they were standing was something like a quivering, wobbling, table-sized piece of American cheese, draped over a low couch. Over there, a ten-foot long tube-shaped being sheathed in armor stood next to a creature with the legs and tail of a kangaroo and the head of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. A red ball-shaped alien rolled here and there, glowing softly when it hit something. There was almost no noise, however. The Warriors hissed softly to each other, and the Shamans murmured, but all the other aliens were silent, except for the rustle of their movement.

The Artists led them down to the head of the table, and as they passed the aliens they were acknowledged with bows, nods, and waving of appendages. The Shamans and Warriors fell silent, leaving the whole of the great hall in silence.

When they reached the end of the table, one of the Artists turned to Azzie and said, “Do not be alarmed. I will be speaking telepathically, to avoid the bother of multiple translations. You will hear a voice in your ear, speaking in your language. Do you understand?” Azzie and Srini nodded; Gwen shook her head; Mama looked thunderstruck. The Artist said, “Good,” and turned to the assemblage. All eyes in the assemblage looked at this Artist. And then Azzie heard someone whisper in his ear, “Welcome to you all, Artists, Shamans, and Warriors, and humans. Welcome to the celebratory Feast of Judgment.

“As with any Judgment, we may be in the presence of a new sentient species. I ask you to treat them tonight as if they were siblings, for tomorrow they may stand beside us as full members of the interstellar community. If the judgment goes against them, then at least let them remember tonight as a night of friendship and equality, so that they may have some taste of what awaits them when they do rise to sentience.

“Because of the Long Exile, it has been thousands of years since the last Feast of Judgment. Nevertheless we remember the ancient traditions, and we shall hold this Feast in accordance with them, to remind us of the solemnity of this moment, and to celebrate the possibility of ascendancy for this new species, the humans.”

At this moment dozens of small aliens like so many dog-sized preying mantises emerged from doors behind Azzie, carrying trays of food. Azzie saw great slabs of nearly raw meat, dishes of leaves covered with sauces, bowls with water and bowls filled with what looked like pebbles, flagons of honey-colored drinks and fizzing drinks that looked like red soda, and covered dishes that, when opened, spilled hundreds of tiny live insects everywhere. The Warriors ate the nearly raw meat, with side dishes of quarry fruit and four-eyed fish. The Artists ate from huge piles of sluglike creatures. The Shamans only drank water. For the humans, there was cream soup with leeks and celery and some meat that tasted like chicken, and the most amazing pizza that Azzie had ever had.

Azzie spoke to the Artist next to her. “Why did you only welcome the Artists, the Shamans, and the Warriors? What about all these other aliens?”

The Artist said, “All of these species that are not Shamans or Warriors are child species of the Artists. We make use of their bodies.”

Gwen choked. “What?′

“Didn’t you know?” asked the Artist. “We Artists cannot travel in space. We are not animals. We are plants. Our true bodies are very tall, very stately, very beautiful, and we grow only on our homeworld. But we are telepathically very powerful. We can control the minds of our child species at great distances. We use their bodies for diplomacy, trade, war, and other such matters.”

“But that’s awful,” said Gwen. “You can’t just use other peoples’ bodies.”

“Can’t we?” said the Artist. “We are sentient; they are not. Doesn’t your species use animals as beasts of burden, or to guard your homes, or things of that sort?”

“Just because the Beast says you’re sentient doesn’t mean you’re any better than anyone else,” snapped Gwen.

“The Beast is very wise,” said the Artist. “Its tests are very reliable. You will see.”

“I think I’ll be giving this Beast a piece of my mind tomorrow,” said Gwen.

When they had finished eating, the places were cleared and everyone turned to watch what was happening on a raised dais beside the long table. Here, bright lights shone on a large black box. Three aliens stepped up and began to perform some sort of ritualistic dance. There was a Warrior, a Shaman, and the tall cylinder-shaped alien, apparently there to represent the Artists. It seemed to go on for hours, and made no sense at all to the humans. The Warriors watched, utterly fascinated.

Azzie felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw three very strange individuals standing behind her. All three looked essentially human, but strangely distorted. One was very tall and gangly, dressed all in black, with arms that hung down to its knees, a head that was flattish on top, and greenish skin. It had a vacant grin. Another was short and squat, wearing a white coat and black rubber gloves, with a head that was round and bald and entirely too large, smiling with too many teeth. The third was a woman of normal height, with a long nose and long black hair, in a red dress. In her arms she held a small white dog. Her fingers were three times as long as they should have been.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” said the woman. “You are Azalea Griffin?”

“Yes,” said Azzie. “Um, you must be an Artist?”

The woman laughed. “Your species is clever, they say. It is certain that humanity has many hidden strengths. They must be hidden very deeply.”

Azzie did not know what to say. Had she been insulted? Gwen, Srini, and Mama were looking on, but the three aliens ignored them.

“You must be very nervous,” said the squat man with the large head. “You will go before the Beast tomorrow.”

“We can only do our best,” said Azzie.

“You can be sure that the Beast will do its worst,” said the tall green man. His empty grin did not change.

The little white dog sniffed at Azzie and barked. The woman soothed the dog with her long fingers.

“Do you know how the Trials of the Beast are conducted?” asked the woman. “Did they tell you?”

“No,” said Azzie.

“A sacrifice will be called for,” hissed the woman. “A choice must be made. A treasure lost. They did not tell you?”

“No,” said Azzie.

“An adult species knows how to sacrifice,” said the little man, still smiling. “How to make a choice, a choice between evils, and take responsibility for the consequences.”

“A child species believes that there is always a way to win,” said the tall man. “But sometimes there is no way out. All choices lead to disaster.”

“For every choice, there will be a sacrifice,” said the woman. She smiled sweetly, and opened her hand like a huge fan. “What will you sacrifice? That is the test.”

“You seem awfully pleased about it,” snapped Gwen. “Who are you, anyway? You don’t sound like Artists.”

“A pleasure to see you again,” said the woman, and bowed. The three of them then swept away into the darkened room. Azzie tried to follow them with her eyes, but they were gone.

“Why did she say again?” said Gwen. “I’ve certainly never seen her before.”

“There was something familiar about her, though,” said Srini. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I bet she could have, though,” said Gwen. Srini groaned.

Azzie tapped the shoulder of one of the Warriors, who was still fascinated by the ritual. “Did you see those people who were just here?”

“What?” asked the Warrior. “I’m sorry, my hearing is not what it was. Could you say that again?”

Azzie repeated her question.

“No, I didn’t,” said the Warrior. Neither had any of the other Warriors or Artists or Shamans sitting nearby; and none of them could say what kind of alien they were.

Shortly afterwards, the ritual ended, and the lights went up. The feast was over, and the Artists led the humans and the four Warriors away from the table.

“That ritual thing made no sense at all,” said Azzie to Gwen, as the Artists led them to another building, where they would sleep.

“None,” agreed Gwen. “It wasn’t Shakespeare, either, if you get my meaning. Must be something you only understand if you’re sentient.”

“Or alien,” said Azzie.

“It was beautiful, though, wasn’t it?” said Srini. “I mean, they were good dancers.”

“Sure,” said Gwen. “If you like that sort of thing.”

At the door of the building where they were to sleep, the Artists and Shamans bade them good evening. When they had left, a Warrior said, “We will say good night as well. The four of us have agreed that we would like to take a long walk. Perhaps we will replace a good spot to sit and wait for the rising of the yellow sun. We may live long enough to see it rise again.”

Srini clasped their claws. “You have done so much for us,” she said. “We will never forget you. And we will tell our children about you.”

The Warriors bowed. Azzie shook their claws as well, but couldn’t think of anything to say. What do you say to someone who will die in a few hours? They each gave Johnny a lingering hug, and bowed solemnly to Ngoc.

“Good luck tomorrow,” they said. And then the four of them turned and walked together down the mossy streets, under the wan light of the red sun, towards the river and the center of the valley, turning their backs on the Beast’s mighty clock faces.

Inside the building there were just a few mats on the ground. They were very soft, however, and Azzie was exhausted. After helping Mama get Johnny settled down, she lay down and fell asleep immediately.

***

Azzie was awakened by a bar of brassy sunlight that fell across her eyes. She sat up groggily and slowly remembered where she was. Her hut was a simple place with straw on the dirt floor, dried gauzy flowers hanging on the walls. How many beings from how many species had slept here over the eons, awakening to wonder what the future of their kind would be?

The door opened gently, and an Artist appeared. “The Beast calls for you,” said the Artist. Azzie got up, brushed some dust off of herself, and helped Srini to her feet. Gwen was trying to slap feeling back into her legs. Mama was gently waking up Johnny.

Azzie desperately wished that she could get a bath. What had it been, three days now? Four? She honestly couldn’t remember.

The Artists led them up through the streets of the Beast’s Town to a hillock right at the edge of town, where the village abutted the cliff face housing the Beast. On the hillock was a simple structure, with a circular base supporting six pillars. The six pillars in turn supported a dome. The whole structure was almost painfully white, glowing in the dawn’s light. Under the dome was a basin filled with clear water, the sunlight glancing off the ripples from the light wind blowing up the valley. Around the basin, three more Artists stood waiting. One was using the body of a turtle-thing, one was the tall cylindrical alien, and the third was the softly glowing red ball.

“Welcome,” said the turtle-thing Artist. “We, attendants to the Beast, welcome you, and the Beast welcomes you as well.”

“Thanks,” said Gwen, rather gruffly. Johnny sat down by the basin and splashed his hands in the water.

“The Beast,” continued the Artist, “has been informed of the purpose of your visit. The Beast now asks me to tell you that the Trials consist of images and feelings that the Beast will communicate to you telepathically. The Beast asks that you simply react naturally. You need not do well on all the tests to be judged sentient.”

“Okay, just a minute,” said Gwen. “Does the Beast know what’s riding on this test? Does it know that if we’re not judged sentient, then the Warriors will turn off our sun, conquer our planet and relocate us somewhere?”

The Artist said, “The Beast knows this.”

“Is the Beast going to take this into account in its decision?”

“It is irrelevant to whether or not you are sentient.”

“It is not irrelevant!” shouted Gwen. “The choice this machine makes could kill billions of people!”

“The Beast knows this,” said the Artist in the same expressionless voice. “But the Beast is not concerned with what the Warriors will do. Its only task, its only function is to judge sentience. The consequences of its judgment are beyond its control and irrelevant to its decision.”

“Well who gives it the right to make this decision?” cried Gwen. “It’s just some big monster stuck in a cliff! What does it know about humanity?”

Immediately Azzie felt afraid. Her neck pricked with fear. She turned, expecting to replace someone directly behind her, but no one was there.

“You have angered the Beast,” said the Artist. “The Beast sees far into the past, and far into the future. Since time beyond memory of any living species, the Beast has performed this function. For untold eons it will continue to perform this function. What right have you, human, to judge the Beast?”

Gwen bit her lip and looked uncertain.

“There is no other who can judge better,” said the Artist. “Enough questions. The Beast calls for the tests to begin. The human called Ngoc will be first.”

And Mama crumpled to the floor as if she’d been smacked in the head by a brick.