Posthuman Blues

Just as they had intimated, the spacewomen returned for me.

This time they deigned to reveal the workings of their craft. I was justifiably fascinated by the might of their technology and the intricacies of their biology, which they explained in a series of telepathic lectures.

As I had suspected (and described in my account of my previous experience with the spacewomen), these space travelers adopt the anatomy of desirable female celebrities selected from television transmissions. In my case, the entire crew of aliens resembled either Angelina Jolie, Jessica Alba or Natalie Portman. Interestingly, this distinction isn't frivolous or motivated by aesthetic sensibilities; the different personae are used both to help delegate responsibilities on board the ship (duties ranging from navigation to xenoforming) and to assist in their contacts with Earthlings (or "Terrans," as we're known among the spacewomen).




Appearance of typical spacewoman.


Most of our meeting went as the last. I toured the ship, this time permitted to observe the magnificent sky-blue propulsion crystals that allow the spacewomen's triangular craft to dart across the galaxy in mere minutes.

While snacking on otherworldly fruit (genetically engineered in vast orbital orchards tended by robots), I learned that the spacewomen had long ago mastered the science of parthogenesis and kept their species alive through an advanced form of cloning. Using such methods, a new Jessica Alba clone -- complete with artificial memories -- could be biologically manufactured in only two and a half hours, thus ensuring a never-ending flow of synthetic starlets to assist in the exploration of the known universe.




Dramatic photo of descending alien mothership.


The exact reason for the wholly unexpected return visit proved elusive. Fortunately, I gleaned valuable data about the aliens' agenda . . . information that is so devastating in scope that I hesitate to divulge it for fear of drawing the attention of the ever-vigilant military-industrial complex.

I also learned that, despite their technical prowess, the spacewomen are in some respects endearingly naive, so highly evolved that they've transcended emotion as we Terrans commonly experience it. For example, the concept of "modesty" is apparently quite foreign to the spacewomen, as I failed to note any clothes concealing my hostesses' flawless, vat-grown flesh. And when I mentioned the word "love," their faces were consumed with a rapt, curious expression.

Despite -- or perhaps because of -- my obvious incredulity, the spacewomen unanimously selected me as their unofficial "diplomat" and have promised to initiate further encounters. As a blogger, I feel it's my duty to keep you informed. And since I'm well aware that the explicitly technical nature of my encounters may well arouse the ire of the Terran military -- as well as rock the already delicate exopolitical balance -- I feel my best protection is to forego anonymity.

To be continued . . .