BY TRAVIS WALTERS

Copyright is held by the author.

THE CHILDREN crept closer. Tentatively eyeing me, the crazy old man their parents warn them about. They all look afraid that I might lash out at them, but a brave girl, no more than six, musters up the courage to speak:

“Tell us, Elder . . . tell us about the pants.”

My voice will be hoarse, not just from age but from lack of use. Still . . . though it was forbidden to talk of such things, I will tell. If this little one could be bold enough, so could I.

“Sit, young ones.” I clear my throat, a nauseating phlegmy sound. The air here is so dry, I could never adapt to it. “Sit, and I shall tell.”

The children quickly looked around, before sitting in a semicircle around my feet.

“Our first contact with other life forms did not go as we had hoped . . .”

I can still see it, clearly in my mind. One day we were all watching our programs, eyes glued to our phones. Stocks going up, housing prices falling, oil, groceries, cost of living. Then the sky was filled with ships. Massive hunks of polished metal shone in the sunlight. A video message from a smooth-skinned alien with large oval eyes was simultaneously broadcast to the entire planet. Robotic-sounding words translated into dozens of languages.

“We come in peace.”

Governments around the world scrambled to set up a summit. A welcoming service fit for the occasion. Small saucer-shaped vessels brought dignitaries down to the planet. The aliens were tall and lithe, wearing long flowing robes of silver cloth. They must have studied our customs as they shook hands and waved to the people.

They sat through the elaborate ceremony we put on politely enough. Singing, dancing, gymnastics displays. Their patience was not infinite though, and it was clear to anyone that the aliens were becoming restless… frustrated even. Finally, halfway through the second chorus of We Are the World, one of the aliens stood up and waved off the performance.

“Good people of Earth. We thank you for this ritual, but our time here must be short. We did not come to engage in diplomatic relations. We have come for but one reason. We want your pants.”

This was of course shocking news to all, but the Arthullians as they were known were hasty to get to the point. From one corner of the galaxy to another, amongst countless species of life forms, none had been able to perfect making pants as humans had.

“The accurate inseams, the alignments of the buttons… the wizardry of the zipper.” The Arthullians all nodded excitedly as their leader spoke of the pants. Some even rubbed their palms together, greedily.

It would seem that species which had mastered intergalactic travel couldn’t figure out how to make a proper pair of trousers.

“We have a deal for you, planet Earth.” The Arthullian leader went on. “A scan of your planet reveals that you have…” He snapped two of his long, grey fingers together, and a second Arthullian briefly spoke up:

“Ummm, roughly a quarter million metric tons, your eminence”

“Yes,” the leader continued. “A quarter of a million metric tons of gold on your planet. We have observed your culture for some time, and we know your species covets gold. We will give you that exact amount of gold in exchange for your pants. All your pants, Earth, this is an all-or-nothing deal. You have twenty-four of your hours to decide.”

The same underling who had spoken up earlier whispered something to the Arthullian leader.

“You have, twenty-two and one-quarter of your hours to decide.” He corrected himself. Then in the silence that followed he added. “Your welcoming ritual was running long.”

In the hours that followed there was much debate. World leaders tried to confer as much as they could using MS Teams. Some claimed doubling the planet’s gold would do no good, as its value would drop. Others claimed it could advance our technology to have a ready supply of such a valuable but limited conductor.

Above all else there was a call for reason amongst all the chaos:

“We need pants!” The Canadian Prime minister warned. “It gets so cold up here in the winter! You can’t make pants from gold, and if you did, they would be extremely uncomfortable, and impractical!”

Countries with warmer climates were eager to take the Arthullian’s deal. Iran, Turkey, Egypt, and strangely even Scotland. In the end, with the time crunch, the greed of humanity won out, and the deal was struck. All pants on earth would be given over, for the sake of gold. With such a hastily-made deal, there was never any time to debate or plot how the pants would be surrendered.

The Arthullians had a plan.

Within minutes of the agreement being made official, thousands of dropships descended into the atmosphere. They took the pants by any means necessary. From warehouses, stores, closets and drawers. They took them without words or reasoning. Some of us protested some fought back, some died, but in the end, the Arthullians got what they came for.

Then, within two chaos-filled days, they had depleted the earth of its precious resource, and then they were gone. The shame that remained was short-lived. For some, the pants were quickly forgotten. People danced half-naked in the streets, celebrating their new wealth, while others huddled in robes and under blankets, trying to stay warm.

“Fret not,” The American President advised the confused and frightened masses. “We will make more pants, we will rebuild our great nation, one leg at a time!”

But, while our society was struggling to distribute its new wealth, and learning to forgive each other for our global greed, the Arthullians were busy showing off their newly acquired goods. Humanity would later learn that the sleek grey aliens quickly and proudly displayed their new pants everywhere. Hosting lavish parties, attending award ceremonies, and even strutting runways in intergalactic fashion shows. The word quickly spread.

“What are those things and how do they stay up?”

“Who made those fantastic accessories?”

“Where did you get those amazing slacks?”

The Arthullians were smug about their acquisitions, letting anyone who would listen know that they brokered an all-encompassing deal with Earth. The Arthullians alone wore the pants.

All manner of species coveted the trousers. Most were lining up to make trade deals with the Arthullians, anything to get themselves a pair of Earth pants. But there were some who not only wanted the unique and practical fashion trend, they wanted the power as well.

An insect-like race known as the Trillians quickly grew sick of the Arthullians boasting. They obtained the location of Earth and prepared for their invasion. Meanwhile, global politics were tearing our world apart. Attempts to allocate the newly acquired gold were not going well. Countries bickered over their claims and losses. But all faith was not lost. In some small pockets of the world, hope was flourishing. Pants were already being made to clothe the rich and poor alike.

“It will take time,” Charles Matheson Burns, the president of Blue Pants Incorporated, was quoted as saying, “but we will not rest until we’ve resupplied the world. From London to France, I no longer want to see people’s underpants!”

A collective global groan went up when within a few weeks, the skies were once again filled with alien spaceships. This time it was the Trillians and they weren’t looking to trade. If the Arthullians had dangled a carrot, these insect creatures meant to give humanity the whip. They gathered anyone who could sew and put them to work creating special new pants that would fit the strange, six-legged bodies of the alien captors. After their recent conquest of the Denimites, there were more than enough raw materials to go around. Apparently, humanity was to sew what the Trillians had reaped.

As bad as the forced labour was, the poor few who were lucky enough to have already been re-panted had it worse. The Trillians used special plasma sheers to cut the trousers off any human they caught wearing them, leaving ghastly, crisscrossed burns on their legs.

“Why?” they pleaded. “They won’t even fit you! Why?”

No mercy was shown. The lucky ones died fighting the aliens. The rest of Humanity was enslaved . . . put to work in factories, warehouses and shops. Making pants.

“But Elder?” The small girl’s voice snaps me back to the present. “How did we survive?”

I offer her a smile. It’s small, but all I can muster after all the horrors I’ve witnessed. I run my hand down the overlapped scars along my legs. “Not all species are as cruel as the Trillians. Some were willing to lend us aid when news spread of our enslavement. Sure, they lacked the armies to oppose the invasion, but some were able to smuggle a few small groups of humans away, to provide amnesty.” I look around at the alien world I’ve come to live on these past five years. The turquoise sands, the strange feathered trees, with thin tentacle branches. I will not call this place home, but it is safe.

“You mean the Phordites?” The little girl asked.

I nod gently. “Yes, youngling. The Phordites smuggled away over a thousand humans and brought them here to live with amongst them.”

“They’re good though, right?” A little boy sitting in the semi-circle asked, his eyes narrowing.

I nod, reluctantly. Good? Yes. Generous? Sure. But still, in many ways, they weren’t the perfect match-up for humans to live amongst. We knew we didn’t need to fear them enslaving us in the name of pants, for the Phordites don’t wear any. They wore no clothes at all, which was unfortunate, as their monstrous alien genitals were always on full display. The height difference didn’t help either, as the average Phordite was over nine feet tall. Supposedly the next generation of humans growing up in the gravity of this strange world would be of a similar height.

“— Elder!” A voice from afar causes the children to cringe. “What are you telling the younglings?” It’s Jonas, a member of the new council. Sure enough, he looks angry. The children scatter as he approaches. “Well? What were you telling them? You know you’re forbidden from talking about . . . about the . . .”

“Pants,” I say. Quietly at first, my voice has gone ragged from telling the tale. “PANTS!” I stand slowly, my bare wrinkled legs sticking to the chair. “I was telling them . . . about pants!”

“Don’t say that word, Elder.” Jonas steps back and points to the rest of the community. “We have peace here. Do you not see that?”

I look out at the scattered remains of humanity on this bizarre planet. Men and women are tending fields, building houses, talking, laughing. Children are running and playing in the feathered trees. No one is wearing pants.

“We used to wear . . .…” I begin before my voice catches in my throat. “We made . . . really good . . . pants,”

Councillor Jonas softens, briefly. “We all know the pain of what we’ve lost. Let the children grow up with hope for a brighter future. Let them forget about pants.”

I nod to make him happy, but I give no promises about keeping my mouth zipped. He leaves satisfied for now.

A Phordite slowly approaches. Though their face is fair with elven features, I’m at eye level with what looks like a mix between an angry walrus and a tropical plant. They bend down and offer me an apple. The green-blue soil here is perfect for growing them. I take the fruit and give a curt nod.

Yes, we are safe here. And things could be worse. But I still remember what it was like to feel the smooth fabric on my legs. To smell that fresh “from the dryer” scent. To hear the strange swish of corduroy between my legs; the satisfying sound of the zipper. But above all else, the one thing I remember most about pants was the dignity they offered. Not how they felt, but how I felt while wearing them.

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Travis Walters has been working in a blood bank for the last 20 (ish) years. Being literally in over his head with blood has been swell, but he has always yearned to tell stories. All kinds of stories! Mostly with crude humour and maybe a little gore for good measure. As an amateur writer, he has self-published six middle-grade fiction novels, all part of a series entitled The Orphans of Pearl Place.