The Peacemaker's Code

by Deepak Malhotra

  “You seem confident of that.”

  “I’m certain of it. But I don’t want to waste precious time convincing you of things you will eventually believe. I want our time spent more productively. So I’m asking for a favor. For the next hour, please keep in mind that if I’m lying, then this entire conversation is irrelevant—and you can walk away having wasted only an evening. But if I’m telling the truth, lives depend on you suspending your disbelief and taking our discussion seriously.”

  The request seemed reasonable enough. But there was another way to interpret it: Don’t question anything I say.

  Kilmer audited the situation. His presence here appeared voluntary, but maybe it wasn’t. A few of his concerns had been addressed, but most had not. He was expected to answer their questions, but he was not allowed to ask his own. And now, they wanted him to believe whatever they told him—no matter how incredible it might seem.

  Before Art could press ahead, Kilmer took to his feet. The three agents turned to each other, unsure what was happening. Was he about to walk out? Did he just need to stretch his legs? Kilmer walked slowly, as if he were still considering Art’s request, until he reached the other end of the table. Then he eased himself into the chair directly opposite the one he had occupied earlier. The agents and the TV screen were now on the far side of the room from him. He waited a few seconds for everyone to get used to the new arrangement before he spoke.

  “I’m ready to hear what you have to say, Art. And I’ll do my best to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  Art smiled. “Thank you.” Then he pulled his chair closer and rested his forearms on the edge of the table, his eyes suddenly brandishing a level of seriousness that most people would find hard to muster.

  Lane readied his pencil.

  Silla leaned forward.

  Art pulled the pin. “It’s not Russia or China. And no, it’s not North Korea or Iran either. I wish it were that simple.”

  Then he launched the grenade.

  “Tell me, Professor. Do you believe in the existence of extra-terrestrial life?”

  ~ 2 ~

  What in the actual hell?

  Kilmer’s mind raced to consider all the ways in which the question might have been intended. Are you open-minded about things? Are you able to discuss topics that go beyond your understanding? Are you prone to believing things for which there is no evidence?

  Or was Art really asking him about the possibility of encountering aliens?

  He waited for Art to provide additional context, or to clarify his question—but Art said nothing more.

  Is this some kind of test?

  “How do you mean, exactly?” Kilmer asked.

  Lane jotted something down.

  “I mean precisely what I asked: do you believe in the possibility of extra-terrestrial life?”

  “Do I believe in aliens?”

  “We don’t use that term. But yes. That’s what I’m asking.”

  It suddenly felt like a parlor game—a discussion you might have with friends over a few beers. Do you think there might be life elsewhere in the universe? Kilmer decided to give his standard answer.

  “Probabilistically, yes. The universe is too large for there not to be living things somewhere else. There might even be microorganisms trapped in water somewhere in the solar system for all I know. But do I think there are aliens that are sophisticated enough to travel great distances in space, who will find Earth, and who will just happen to visit our planet—which is over four billion years old—during my lifetime? No, I don’t think so. The odds are infinitesimally small.”

  That was the extent of his view on the matter, and because no one had interrupted his monologue, he had managed to recite all of Kilmer’s Thoughts on Alien Encounters in just under thirty seconds.

  “This is clearly not the first time you’ve thought about this question,” noted Art.

  “Everyone has spent at least a little bit of time thinking about it.”

  “Some more than others, I assure you.”

  Kilmer decided it was time to start asking questions. “What, precisely, does Triad do, Art? And what exactly is this about?”

  “I’m getting to that. But first, let me confirm something you said. If there was an explanation for why extra-terrestrials might visit Earth during your lifetime, would you be more open to the possibility of an encounter?”

  Kilmer forced himself to take the question seriously.

  “Provisionally… yes. That would go a long way in making this a more interesting conversation. It’s not hard to believe that there is life elsewhere in the universe. It’s also plausible that there would be intelligent life, as we conceive of it. That they would have the technology necessary to allow interstellar space travel seems like a stretch, but they might have been leveraging the scientific method for a million years, while we’ve only embraced it for a few centuries. But the biggest hurdle, in my casual estimation, is that we have to multiply all of those small probabilities together, and then multiply by an even more remote possibility—that they just happen to show up when human beings are around and evolved enough to notice.”

  “Great,” said Art, as if significant progress had already been made. “Now, I’m going to make this quick—and this is where I ask you to give me the benefit of the doubt. We can get into the details later, but the short of it is this: we know with certainty that extra-terrestrials exist. We know that they are intelligent, that they can find us, and that they have chosen to do so in our lifetime. This is not a theoretical finding, or a probabilistic assessment, or an interpretation of some aberration we’ve detected in the cosmos, like the bending or redshifting of light from a distant galaxy. We know all of this based on firsthand experience.”

  Kilmer said nothing. He was focusing on Art’s words—and looking to see how the other agents were reacting. Silla and Lane showed no signs of surprise or anxiety. They sat impassively, as if they were part of a hiring panel that was interviewing him for an entry-level role at the agency, and Art had merely read out the job description.

  Art, meanwhile, was speaking faster now, like a man racing through non-essentials to meet a deadline.

  “Yes, they can travel great distances. Yes, they have chosen the United States as their destination. And yes, we have every reason to worry that they mean to do us harm. Now, what I need you to—”

  “I’m sorry,” interrupted Kilmer. “Are you saying that aliens have already landed on Earth—in the US?”

  Agents Silla and Lane turned toward Art, as if they were unsure how he would respond to the question.

  Art slowed down. “As I’m trying to explain, Professor, the extra-terrestrials have made their way to Earth. We have even managed to communicate with them. All of this will require more time to explain to you, but for now, I just need you to accept what I’m saying so that we can move on to the reason you’re here.”

  Kilmer noticed that Art had not actually answered his question. Why share so much information but still dodge the question about whether aliens had in fact landed in America?

  “Okay. So, why exactly am I here?”

  “To help us avoid a war,” said Art. “And if that proves to be impossible, then to help us win it.”

  “Avoid a war?”

  “Correct.”

  “Against aliens.”

  “Correct.”

  “And if that fails, then to help you win the war?”

  “Correct.”

  “Against aliens.”

  “Yes.”

  Kilmer took a deep breath as he searched for the right words.

  He found them.

  “Are you out of your goddamn minds?”

  The agents glanced at each other.

  “Why do you say that, Professor?” Art asked.

  Just as Lane readied his pencil, poised to take notes, Kilmer caught his eye.

  “Put the pencil down, Agent Lane, or I walk out of this room and I don’t come back.”

  Lane looked at
Silla. Silla looked at Art. Art nodded.

  Lane put down his pencil.

  Kilmer continued. “Here’s why I say that, Arthur. You’re telling me that you’re in contact with an alien race that has traveled trillions of miles to planet Earth, and that if I can’t help you avoid a war with them, you want me to help you win it. And no one here sees the problem with that?”

  Silence.

  “Okay. Let’s do some backward induction. Why would aliens travel all this way only to lose a war? If they decide to fight, it’s because they have good reason to believe they can win. And based on the fact that they found us—while we can barely make our way back to the Moon—well, I’m guessing they probably have the edge when it comes to technology. They just might have what it takes to beat us in a war.

  “But let’s imagine for a moment that we do, somehow, end up having a military advantage. If they don’t already know it, they’ll figure it out soon enough. At which point, why will they stick around to continue fighting a war they will lose? They can just turn around and leave. It’s not like we can follow them home to finish the job.”

  “So, what you’re saying is…”

  “What I’m saying is, if our Plan B is to defeat a highly advanced alien race, one that has traveled trillions or quadrillions of miles across space, in a war that they’ve initiated, then our Plan A had better be an impeccably crafted strategy of unparalleled friggin’ genius.”

  Silla and Lane looked at Art. For the first time, Kilmer sensed a hint of concern. But Art remained composed.

  “Is it your judgment, Professor, that we only survive this crisis if the aliens have peaceful intentions?”

  Kilmer shook his head. “No, Art. I’m not saying that your only hope is that they want peace—because winning isn’t the only alternative to losing. History might seem like nothing but a series of wars, but most of human history is a story about wars that did not occur. Just because we can’t win a war doesn’t mean we can’t avoid it.”

  “So you might be willing to threaten the use of force to get them to change their calculus?” Art asked.

  “It’s unlikely to be quite that simple, but I don’t know enough about the situation to offer specifics. I only want to point out that while having a Plan B is usually a great idea, the existence of a fallback option introduces its own element of risk. Having a Plan B makes it easier, when the going gets tough, to abandon your Plan A. And that can be disastrous if Plan B is a beacon of false hope—an ignis fatuus.”

  Kilmer turned to Silla. “Agent Silla, you asked me earlier if I would have enjoyed being a fly on the wall when Chamberlain or Churchill were debating alternative strategies. Let me tell you what I would have really liked to witness. The meeting where Hitler decided to break the treaty he had negotiated with Stalin, and to invade the Soviet Union. I would like to have been in the room when the Japanese decided to bomb Pearl Harbor. These people were not stupid. They were not irrational. They debated the pros and cons. And yet, somehow, they decided to light the fuses that would ultimately burn their own empires to the ground.”

  “You’re worried that we might end up making the same mistake,” Silla said.

  Kilmer shrugged. “I don’t know. First of all, I have no idea what we’re dealing with. For all I know, you’ve been feeding me a bunch of BS and there isn’t any alien threat at all. But if the threat is real, I need a lot more information before I can make predictions or offer advice. Simple logic suggests that you can’t expect to win such a war—and if your strategy can’t even stand up to simple logic, you’re in serious trouble. But we can’t rely exclusively on simple logic either. Strategy has to meet the demands of simple logic, but it should never become a slave to it.”

  Art glanced at his watch. “The meeting is about to start.”

  Kilmer looked at his own watch. It was 8:04 p.m. Interesting. “Any chance I can get some coffee before it starts?”

  “How do you like it?” Lane asked.

  “Black, and as hot as possible.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “I’ll have it the same way,” Silla responded.

  Kilmer couldn’t help but wonder whether Silla’s request was some carryover from basic training, where CIA agents are taught how to build rapport. Strategy #9: Order the same drink as the asset you’re trying to cultivate.

  Lane left the room and Silla started to work the keyboard.

  “Am I allowed to take notes?” Kilmer asked.

  Art walked over to the small table in the corner and returned with a pencil and some sheets of paper for Kilmer.

  “One more question,” Kilmer said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Do the participants in the meeting know that I’m observing them?”

  Art eased himself back into his chair. “Don’t worry, Professor. All the participants know you’re watching.”

  The response was more comforting than Kilmer had expected. The issue must have been bothering him more than he realized.

  Art changed the topic. “I hope the meeting will go better than you expect. But if we are on the wrong track, we need someone to help us figure that out. If we’re heading toward disaster, we need someone to warn us. I hate to say this, Professor, but you might be the only one who can pull this off. That will sound very strange to you, I’m sure, but you will eventually understand why I think so.”

  “You’re right, Art. It does sound very strange. I’m afraid you might be seriously overestimating the value I bring to the table. As for the meeting, I really don’t harbor any expectations about it. I’ve learned, over the years, that when it comes to solving the most vexing problems, nothing ever turns out quite as you expected at the start.”

  Art smiled dimly. “Professor, you have no idea how right you are. But you’re about to find out.”

  In the silence that followed, Kilmer saw the expression on Art’s face change—as if he was having a hard time resisting the urge to say something more. A moment later, Art gave in to the urge.

  “Before we start… I feel like I should warn you,” Art confessed hesitantly. “You know that whole thing I told you about there being an alien invasion?”

  Kilmer tilted his head and furrowed his brows, as if to say, Yeah, what about it?

  “Well, Professor… that’s not even the part that’s really going to blow your mind.”

  ~ 3 ~

  ~ Interlude: A different time ~

  It was early morning, and Chief of Staff Salvador “Salvo” Perez was waiting in the Map Room. Located on the ground floor of the White House, the room had been used by President Roosevelt to monitor progress during World War II. The room no longer contained maps, and it was no longer heavily guarded, but it had managed to keep its name. It occurred to Perez that there wasn’t a map in the world that could help them chart progress in the war that now seemed imminent. He made a mental note of that—yet another problem that someone, somewhere would have to take responsibility for addressing.

  Perez had only been waiting for a few minutes when President Whitman, dressed in an expertly fitted navy-blue suit, walked in. Whitman and Perez met in the center of the room for what would be a short meeting.

  Perez started things off. “I’ll get right to it. As of this morning, we count approximately two hundred alien spacecraft. As you know, a few days ago, there were fewer than ten. General Allen and Secretary Strauss agree that an attack could come very soon. But we have no way to know for sure.”

  President Whitman took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll discuss the situation with the alliance. They’ve let us take the lead until now, but this could change things. We need Earth-side to remain coordinated—now more than ever.”

  Perez nodded. “I’ll have the team in the Situation Room by 10 a.m. And I’ll have those calls set up for you between now and then. Do you have any preference for the order?”

  “Let’s do NATO first. Beyond that, let’s not be picky. Fit the others in however you can.”

  “Understood. I’ll get that do
ne.”

  “Thanks, Salvo.”

  Salvo Perez had known Whitman for thirty-five years, and they had been close friends since they served together in the Army. But Perez still observed protocol, even if no one else was present, like waiting for the president to dismiss him. Whitman gestured toward the door, and Perez walked over to hold it open for the president.

  Ten minutes later, President Whitman was sitting in the Oval Office, finishing a phone call.

  “3:30 is fine. We’ll see you then. Thank you, Art. And please convey my gratitude to him.”

  Whitman reached over to the table behind the desk and picked up one of the decorative fighting sticks that had been gifted by a delegation from the Philippines. The president stood up, gave the arnis stick a few expert swings, and then walked over to the east doors of the Oval Office.

  President Marianne J. Whitman looked out at the new day that was dawning over the Rose Garden.

  The first woman to be elected President of the United States.

  The first woman to serve as Commander-in-Chief in the history of the Republic.

  So, yeah.

  Of course there would be an alien invasion.

  ~ End of interlude ~

  ~ 4 ~

  Agent Lane announced his return to Apate 3 by knocking on the door with his foot. Silla opened the door to let him in, and Lane walked in carrying three cups, including one for himself. Silla took her coffee, and Lane delivered one to Kilmer. It was not nearly as hot as Kilmer liked it, but warmer than he expected. Lane and Silla took their seats. With the meeting about to commence, Kilmer was now sitting farthest from the TV, and he had everyone in his sights as they sat facing the screen.

  The screen flickered on, showing a large, circular table in the middle of an enormous, brightly lit room. It occurred to Kilmer that he’d been expecting a darker room with a long conference table—like a scene from The Star Chamber with Michael Douglas. It was a helpful reminder that he had not, in fact, entirely discarded his presumptions regarding the meeting. He would have to be more careful not to allow his expectations and assumptions to filter what he saw and heard during the meeting.