The Night Grinder

Bruxism. That's what Dr. Field told me.

"You're grinding your teeth at night, Jim. Pretty fiercely too, if these images are reliable. I recommend a night guard that will fit comfortably over your teeth and prevent further damage." He passed a shiny tablet my way with sleek ads for all sorts of bits on its screen.

That's what they looked like to me: bits that oxen and horses and other animal laborers gnawed rather than scream for justice, back when we exploited other beasts instead of handing their jobs to machines. I found the whole display patronizing. Instead of giving me a bit to chew, why not ask me why I start grinding my own teeth to powder the moment I'm no longer alert enough to keep myself from doing so? Might the stress of my job be related to this mysterious affliction?

I kept these thoughts from Dr. Field and dutifully ordered the least insulting "appliance" our pretty lush dental plan covers. It works well, but I didn't have it with me when this turquoise lunatic dosed me with some kind of sedative and put a black bag over my head. My jaws ache like I've been competing to become the galaxy's most cunning linguist.

Now she's smiling and pointing a weapon at me, as I slur and drool my way through the last of the pharmaceutical fog.

There's some cognitive dissonance for you. Does she expect me to enjoy this? Is she getting some sadistic thrill out of scaring me senseless? Probably. What was her name again?

"I hope you slept well, Senator," she says, "I have a refreshment brewing in the next room; while we wait, do you have any questions?" The barrel of the blaster does not move as she speaks.

"Uh, several," I reply. I'm cuffed hand and foot, but I shift about a bit in my seat and find some comfort. There is a metallic taste in my mouth, as if I've been sucking pennies. Remember physical currency? I really am a fossil.

"First, should I remember your name? I recognize you; I think you served breakfast to my wife and I about a week ago. What am I doing here? What's with the weapon? Did I offend you somehow? The translation software on my device is buggy. I may have committed some sort of inadvertent, verbal sin when asking for another latte. Can I persuade you to forgive me?"

She laughs. Their laughter is melodious and charming. The contrast between it and the gun is stark.

"Oh, you have not offended me in that way, Senator. The trouble is that the bombing of my home world carries on apace, despite the fact that my people are no threat to you or yours. I would like you to end the bombing campaign, please. When you do, I will be delighted to release you, unharmed."

Ah. A political extremist. They're rare, given how generous our government is to its friends and how ruthlessly it eradicates its enemies. She might be insane, obtuse, or just obstinate and naive about the consequences of abducting and threatening a government official. This is a good test of my rhetorical skills. They have grown rusty, given how seldom I have to come up with honeyed speech on the fly these days. Everything passes through the AI filter now.

"Forgive me," I am striving to make my tone gentle and sweet. Where is that refreshment? "I take it that this is not your home world. Your physical characteristics suggest that you might hail from TRAPPIST-1f or 1g, is that right?" I've got to be careful here. Most extraterrestrial species are sensitive about being mistaken for each other. I'll never forget that time Roberts was bitten in his ponderous behind by an agitated visitor from one of Raphael 6's moons. Gigantic, yellow teeth!

"Yes, that's right. You have been bombing various parts of the planet for many years. Would you please stop that?" Some device or other beeps in the neighbor room.

She backs toward the door. As it slides open, she holsters the blaster. She's smooth. Probably saw some combat as part of a resistance cell we squashed. "Your refreshment is ready, Senator. Do you enjoy pepelo tea?" She's fetching. I've had brief parties without pants with a few members of the domestic staff, but I don't think she's one of them. Pity.

"I've never tried it, but I look forward to doing so, thank you." I pull out the kind of dashing smile that used to make voters swoon. I hold her gaze. It's important to prevent her from ignoring the fact that I'm a feeling being, not just an obstacle to her deranged designs.

Kirch briefed us again about handling extremists last month. They have stunning psychological insights that work across species. That's typical of Keplerians, as is gender fluidity. My PA dials up my pronoun sensitivity accordingly before every meeting with Kirch. I am growing old and will have to wear my trousers rolled, if I get out of this in one piece.

The aroma emanating from the mug she schleps for me is pleasant. Cinnamon? Clove? Terrestrial cousins, perhaps, of whatever she's been boiling. There's a shiny silver straw in the mug. She moves it gently between my lips, the blaster in the other hand. Ambidextrous? I'm envious.

"Not too much at first, Senator. It's sweet and strong and hot." Her voice is calm, and her English is pretty flawless and virtually unaccented. Only the eyes seem a little off, though there's more excitement in them than madness or bloodlust. I think she's happy with how things are going. I've got to keep her that way.

I like pepelo tea so far. Imagine the happy child of a coconut and an ube--you know, those purple sweet potatoes they grow in the Philippines? It's earthy and sweet and quite rich. I'm clocking details of the place while I play thirsty prisoner. It's rough. Probably an emergency, underground bunker. It smells like old fatigues laundered for a parade: a thin coat of disinfectant over an old, dirty body that my nostrils can recognize. Spartan: just the chair I'm sitting in, a small table next to it, and whatever's in the next room. Not much to work with.

"Do you like the pepelo, Senator?" Her query sounds sincere and solicitous, like she'd sell me some if I were game. She carefully extracts the straw and puts the mug down on the table, never taking her eyes or the blaster off of me.

"It's delicious. Is the weapon really necessary? I'm bound, and even free, I'd be no threat to a young person like yourself." This is a real risk. If she sniffs any cunning manipulation on this tentative step, I'm cooked.

The white sun of her smile sets. I expect anger to rise in its place. Instead, pain covers her face like a tight, cold mask.

"Your government is enthusiastic about the value of education, Senator. The way out of poverty and powerlessness. The only treasure that no one can steal, once it is yours. Do you believe in the value of education, Senator?" She picks up the pepelo and firmly inserts the straw into my mouth. Some of the gentleness left with her smile. This sip tastes a bit bitter.

"Of course I believe in the value of education!' I manage to get this sentence to wriggle out of my mouth around the straw. "I would not be who I am, were it not for my excellent teachers."

She extracts the straw and sets the mug down again. She points the blaster at me, both hands woven together around the grip. "The fear you feel now, Senator. It is my lesson for you; my contribution to your education. Wherever my people are, at the market, or washing their clothes, or feeding their children, or giving birth, or burying their dead, they feel as you feel now. Your bombs could fall at any time, and grind their joy to dust, as they did mine." I am embarrassed to acknowledge that I am trembling, as I search her inky eyes for mercy.

"You see, Senator, my people are fit to mate but once a year. My husband was much kinder than he was handsome, and I liked it that way. He was a priest. He did not pretend to speak for our gods. He tried to make life more bearable for their creations. I waited a long time to find him. Most men are idiots, Senator. Slaves to their appetites. Vain. Good at lying. Not him." Each of her descriptions lands like a slap. She knows what I have done, with her fellow servants, in the dark.

"Shortly after we were wed, he fell ill. Nothing could be done, though our apothecaries are wise, and our bodies are usually strong and resilient. His nerves began to fray. His walk was like the motion of a cart with a broken wheel. His mind began to betray him. But every time he looked at me, I was glad to have been born." She clicks the safety off. I try to think of a way to distract her, but the story is mesmerizing.

"One year after our marriage, the Palolo began--the festival that marks the reunion of heaven and earth, the people and their gods, the arrival, at long last, of the chance to welcome children. My husband and I had been strictly chaste since our wedding, as befits a priest and his bride. To say that it was difficult to be patient is an ugly understatement. I wanted to be with him before his body made that impossible. There was such safety in his arms. There was such effortless, sweet understanding in his eyes. Just as the Palolo was reaching its zenith, as he was guiding me into a warm, dark, private place where our son or daughter would have been made, one of your bombs fell. Nothing is left of him. I am alive, but wish that I were not, save for one thing." The blaster blots out the world for me now. I think she is going to kill me. I might deserve it.

"What's that?" I have to ask. I do so as softly as I can.

"I found my way to you, Senator. I changed bed pans and monitored vital signs in an infirmary for a while. There, I offered aid to one of your wealthy donors. A fat man. A bald man. More like an infant every day.

Then I became a tender of his ignored children, and those of some of your other, wealthy, powerful friends. Then I joined those who serve you as you please yourself and neglect your wife on this happy, hot little world. You will do as I ask. You will pull the pall of fear from the hearts of my people. No one will mourn as I do, ever again."

"What makes you think I have the power to change our military strategy, let alone the deployment or orders of our forces?" I think there was something in the pepelo. Things are soft and fluid around the edges. The dark eye of the blaster barrel seems to blink.

One of her hands relaxes its grip on the blaster. It slips into the hip pocket of her uniform. She has my device.

"It is a simple matter, Senator. My home is on the thin edge of your concerns. Primitive. Simple. It does not get the attention of the important people, of your President and his slimy sycophants. You can give the order to wash fear from my world. You will give it. Now."

She touches some keys. She turns the device to me. She does not move the blaster.

"001200." The emergency code that will scramble my security detail for extraction. Kirch will take point. She will survive to face a trial.

She knows what I have done. She does not look surprised.

"You know, Senator, my husband used to remind me that our gods love all of their children, but there is one sin that they cannot tolerate. It is the sin of cowardice. It took courage to give you the chance to be courageous. I thought you would be a coward, but I had to know."

When she fires, I am glad. The dead don't grind their teeth.