Globslodir's Performance Review

After seventy years as an Earthling diplomat, Globslodir finally meets his boss.

Globslodir's fins were sweating. After seventy, unmolested, years, his boss, Lumpsitl was finally coming to Earth.

Officially, it was to celebrate the centennial anniversary of the First Contact. Unofficially, the humans had become a little unwieldy and needed wrangling. Which was Globslodir’s job at the end of the day, despite his formal title being, “First Lieutenant of Earthling Diplomacy in the Western Hemisphere.”

Not that these humans knew the first thing about diplomacy. Did they have no respect for the art of discussing political minutiae for decades? But these humans did little talking. Even less thinking. But they were constantly on the move, slippery little things. How in the Great Galaxy did they find the energy?

And now, just in time for Lumpsitl's appearance, or perhaps the real impetus for her visit, they had gone and cracked the wormhole equation. Something the Centarians, Iokles, and Fiwers had failed to do, despite being several millennia more evolved. Quite embarrassing for them all really. At least it had happened in Trebunio’s jurisdiction. Nothing for Globslodir to worry about. He shakes his head and pushes open the door to the Centari embassy.

“Hello, Sheryl. Benjamin. Zahid.” He nods at his colleagues, of varying likeability. Sheryl liked to talk about her atrocious cats far too often, for one thing. Didn’t the Earthlings understand the imminent threat the feline species posed? Globslodir plasters a smile onto his emerald face. Such an unnatural expression, baring one’s teeth as a sign of friendship. “And how is Cinnamon?”

Sheryl launches into a recap of Cinnamon’s bowel movements that morning all the way to Globslodir’s office. When he can bear the verbal onslaught no more, he finally arrives and wraps one of his digits around the knob to his office door, bids farewell to Sheryl, and closes the door just a hair slower than slamming it. He glances at the framed diploma above his desk, proof that he was indeed a master of diplomacy, a master of his emotions, and capable of any social interaction. Even with Sheryl.

He inhales deeply, gills flapping, and grabs a stack of papers before heading back out into the hall. Mercifully, Sheryl is nowhere to be seen.

It had been seventy years since Globslodir had first come to Earth but the prospect of mingling with the earthlings still fills him with dread. Making small talk over that disgusting brew, coffee, they liked to sip was surely the cleverest form of torture invented.

And sure enough, as he enters the conference room, there they all are, chattering over the brown liquid like it was Zork’s gift to sentient beings. He sighs and heads over, his sharpened fangs bared in a well-practiced grimace.

After an excruciating minute, chatting about the weather over the crudités, the door swings open. Lumspitl and her attaché enter.

She's a striking female, Globslodir has to admit. Even the humans stand up straighter. Eight feet tall, midnight-violet scales, and golden, bulbous eyes that survey the room like a conqueress of old. His tail curls under the weight of her scrutiny. Though he towers over the humans at nearly seven feet, for the first time in decades, he feels small.

Lumspitl’s eyes lock on his and he feels a push against his telepathic node. He could ignore her, of course, but ignoring a telepathic message from your boss is hardly considered good form.

Globslodir, how nice to see you in the flesh.

Lumspitl, the honor is mine. How gracious of you to visit our offices.

The Earthlings, oblivious to the conversation taking place on a higher plane of consciousness, chatter on. Globslodir and Lumspitl, able to converse vocally and mentally at the same time, interject pleasantries when needed but as was culturally appropriate, kept the human-centered discourse light and meaningless. Nothing of import would be decided here. All of that would take place through electronic messages, veiled threats, and some not-so-veiled ultimatums. Or so he had thought.

Let’s not dodge asteroids here, Globslodir. You’re aware that the humans have discovered how to make a stable wormhole. It's not a question. But it most certainly has a distinct tone of accusation.

Globslodir shifts from one webbed foot to the other, it is tiny. Not even the size of a pinprick.

And yet, they have done it. And under your watch, I will add. Her sun-colored eyes flicker dangerously.

She didn’t need to add that, Globslodir’s antennae quiver in indignation. Besides, the team that developed it was in Japan. Hardly his responsibility, here in the Western Hemisphere.

As if she can read his thoughts, which she very nearly can, Lumspitl shoots him a knee-melting glare. We all know that Trebunio is not the brightest star in the system. You were specifically ordered to keep tabs on him while a replacement is found.

Well, he can't argue with that. He had read that message and promptly ignored it. There was already enough on his plate without watching over the old fool.

“…and how long will you be visiting us, General Lumspitl?” Sheryl asks with a too-bright smile on her face.

Lumspitl bares her teeth in an approximation of a grin, “I believe my trip will be quite short. In fact, I will be departing as soon as Globslodir and I can finish a little project we’ve been working on.” Her head-fronds wave at him, frilly with meaning.

Globslodir glowers, accidentally taking a sip of the atrocious coffee. He nearly spits it out but years of training force him to swallow.

The Earthlings drift around the Centarians, planets orbiting two stars. They purposely greet Lumspitl, bowing with absurd formality, and with only slightly less reverence, to Globslodir. He has to admit that he does enjoy the bowing, a nice custom, assuming one was on the receiving end. Perhaps it was their deference that gives him the courage to do what he does next.

Lumspitl, he telepaths at her. I want a promotion. For managing Trebunio.

Lumspitl turns bright blue, the universal sign for laughter. Globslodir, you must have been dropped in the void as a babe. Out loud, she says, “Sheryl, nevermind. I will be here indefinitely. Overseeing Globslodir’s progress.” Mind-to-mind she adds, I will let you keep your post and not be discharged with dishonor but you will fix your mistake and restore dignity to the space-traveling beings once more.

“So will I be getting a raise?”

......

Originally submitted to the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2021, Round 1

(edited since thanks to the gracious feedback of the judges)