ERO

by F. P. Dorchak

  But to... insert the Colonel, for example, into an earlier time. How can that be possible?

  She regarded Cherko for a long moment.

  There are many things which we can do that may appear impossible. They appear impossible because of your point-of-view’s perspective. Your sciences are limited not because of any so-called laws, but because of chosen focuses on certain perspectives at the expense of other entirely valid points of view.

  She and Qxuill continued down the hall, Cherko following.

  The Colonel said I felt “familiar” to him. What did he mean?

  He sensed your Human connection. Within our ships, if subjects

  Subjects?

  If subjects allow themselves, they can sense more than they have traditionally been accustomed to. The ship—us—we act as catalysts. Of course, if subjects are truly and deeply afraid, then they will experience fear, and on truly unimaginable levels. Simply put, we bring out your darkest and brightest inner predilections.

  She stopped.

  It is one more reason for our measured contact with your Race. We attempted contact with one of your more well-known personalities, attempted extended and in-depth cooperation with this individual, but he was too immersed in deep-rooted fears—fears the individual tried desperately and unsuccessfully to address and banish—but we could no longer progress and terminated contact. He was not ready. This was someone who was well-aware of his situation, well-spoken, and even willing to work with us, yet the individual still could not get past his fears. Contact by us must be extremely measured and considered. There have been too many perpetuated distortions. It is not something we execute without due consideration—but are willing to explore.

  Why do you take such an interest in us?

  Why do you take such an interest in your world?

  She continued down the hallway several more paces before continuing.

  You do not need me to answer your questions. You—your Race—knows its own answers. The problems lie in your Race’s continued focus on certain aspects of inquisition at the expense of others. Do not take this to mean the requirement to totally disregard the physical, but there is so much more to be learned from more open perceptions.

  2

  The trio returned to the control room; the “bridge,” as Cherko thought of it.

  Much of what we are showing you may not be immediately comprehendible. But it has all been calculated to stimulate your potential. We are not necessarily here to give answers... but to form questions which will lead you to your own answers, She said. As we have iterated, what is done to any one of you advances your entire Race. It is most unfortunate that there are those who are so afraid of us, but in their fear are also afraid of themselves. In the beginning we thought we could help many who feared us. We quickly found that there are some in your perspective that simply are not ready. Not willing. But there are also elements within your government that perpetuate a culture of fear—intentionally obfuscate. There is little we can do, except to approach those we can—on individual levels—such as with you.

  3

  Cherko and She entered another chamber, this one much more darkly lit. They stood in the background as several other aliens surrounded Colonel Hanscomb. Anderson already had been delivered to his Fenway park, which had been an easy delivery. He liked the present and just wanted to be around baseball, so they deposited him in Boston to work at Fenway. Cherko observed what the beings around Hanscomb were doing right now, and had already done with Anderson. There was a mental “reformatting” done within Anderson’s mind. Almost and exactly like a computer hard-drive wipe. Cherko picked up that there could never truly be a total rewrite of each individual, but there were certain things these beings could do, similar to erasing a hard drive’s index. It went beyond memory, and though he could understand what they were doing as they did it, he found it hard to translate to the human side of his intellect within this being’s skin. It seemed they... went out into Time and “pulled in” certain events that would make up Anderson’s new life. Aligned elements as basic as his cells to the different time period. Created a new identity and reality surrounding him.

  Or made him “fit” into this new identity

  And they had done all this mentally.

  Though it made sense to him as he observed... he could not easily translate it back to his Human self. It really was the highly advanced metaphysical concept to which She had earlier referred. It was as if life was morphed, reworked, or shaped around Anderson... or the other way around. Both. Perhaps it was his Human consciousness within this alien form, but whatever it was, it was hard to wrap his head (as large as it was...) around it. What it boiled down to was that Anderson—and now Hanscomb—were both made to fit their new lives. It just didn’t quite make sense how.

  The alien attendants completed reformatting the Colonel. Even in this new body of his, which was, curiously, feeling more and more comfortable, Cherko couldn’t understand all that was accomplished—just that it had been. The ship, he also felt, had also arrived at 1919 Earth. That made Cherko feel a little better. Hanscomb wouldn’t be inserted into a war. He would be a barnstormer—how cool was that? He’d have memories of having flown during the war, but would not have actually been placed within it. Other pilots would remember him. Paperwork would confirm him as having been there. Everything had been taken care of. And Hanscomb, Cherko picked up on, was good with all of it. He just wanted to fly.

  We have arrived at the coordinates where we will deliver our Colonel, She informed. We have arrived in the southern end of the state of Illinois. We will leave Colonel Hanscomb with a biplane and necessary memories and capacity for this new life.

  You left him with a biplane? How? Cherko asked.

  We created one.

  Is it there?

  It awaits.

  How’d you—

  Another ship, much larger than ours, wherein which lies such capability. Come.

  * * *

  Cherko-as-alien stood among the handful of real aliens (as opposed to himself) that grouped about Hanscomb. They stood in the middle of a large field in the dead of a pleasant summer’s night. It was hot and humid, he noticed, but neither bothered him. Fireflies busied about and they were surrounded by the stereophonic sound of crickets. Fog danced at their legs and feet. Cherko saw the real aliens still conversing with Hanscomb over by his new Curtiss JN-4D "Jenny."

  This is where we shall leave him, She said, still looking to Hanscomb and not Cherko. He will be left with all the innate information he will need to survive in this continuum. He will fit in exceedingly well.

  Cherko and She watched Hanscomb nod to his alien attendants. Watched as he then made his way toward them, attendants in tow. Hanscomb stopped before She.

  “Thank you,” Hanscomb said. Cherko felt an intense emotional sincerity radiate from him. “I don’t know how you do it, but thank you. I’m looking forward to this.”

  She nodded.

  “And I’ll really remember nothing of any of it? You?”

  Nothing, Colonel.

  Hanscomb shook his head. “Don’t know how you do it.” Hanscomb looked to Cherko-as-alien.

  “And you... I wish I knew what it was about you that feels so familiar. But, thank you, too.”

  Cherko looked to She, then Hanscomb.

  I have not done anything, but wish you well.

  Then Cherko let slip—or did so intentionally—an image. An image of him flying satellites.

  Hanscomb’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened—then She touched him, and Hanscomb’s gaze went blank.

  It was time.

  Hanscomb turned away from them and casually headed back toward his new life and plane. Midway there, he stopped and gazed up into the stars. He stayed that way as Cherko and the aliens departed.

  4

  We want to show you something, She said.

  5

  Cherko-as-alien looked out the view screen.

  We’re in Roswell, aren’t we?r />
  Yes, She answered.

  You’re going to show me what really happened?

  She said nothing at first.

  You’ve taken us back to that day, haven’t you—1947.

  We and others like us have always been watching your Race. We’ve always remained in the background, and for good reason. En masse, your kind has never been ready for who and what we are. Who and what you are. But on this night, something changed.

  What?

  Observe.

  Cherko-as-alien looked to the screen. They were over the New Mexican desert at an altitude of sixty-thousand feet.

  Something shot across their view. They tracked it. Locked onto it. Cherko watched as the image was brought into focus on the screen.

  A UFO.

  But this UFO had U.S. Army stamped on it.

  Cherko turned to She.

  It’s true—all I’d read was true?

  Your government had developed a primitive version of our craft from its extraction of German scientists after your second world war. Brought them over to your country. Embedded them in total secrecy into the North- and Southwest to continue their work. Unknown to even the most secret of your government agencies, they created ships extremely close to ours in functional capability, but not yet near our current capabilities.

  She turned to him.

  But that was not long in the making.

  At this point in your history, She continued, they only had rudimentary flight—but it was highly successful. For your scientists, it was an incredible breakthrough. Capabilities only heretofore dreamed. Vertical flight to the edges of the atmosphere, sustained speeds factors in advance of their fastest conventional aircraft—

  We’d created this? Us—humans?

  Yes.

  They were tested in areas of the country already controlled in secrecy, like your desert Southwest. We’d been observing. That was when we decided to intervene. To make an overt act of our presence known.

  She looked back to the screen.

  There were several of the U.S. Army flying HEUFOs darting back and forth over the desert. Not all the HEUFOs were circular. Some had aerodynamically shaped surfaces, some fins and vanes.

  This is incredible. We developed this? On our own, Cherko repeated, staring at the screen in awe. And back in the 1940s? It’s almost too much to believe.

  We made ourselves known to your scientists on this night. We began by allowing ourselves to be seen from a distance—like now. Hovering just outside their area of operations. We initially allowed them to come to us.

  Even as they spoke, Cherko saw one of the Army disks pause in mid flight. Hover. It clearly saw something—

  Then we’d fly off, demonstrating our capabilities. We continued like that for a period of time before actively participating in their flight activity.

  Cherko-as-alien stood in the bridge. Continued to watch the screen. Right this moment they were doing what She had told them they’d done in history books—but were again doing it real time.

  Not only watching history in the making, but recreating it.

  Roswell, 1947. The birthplace of all things-UFO. Ground zero.

  And all after having deposited one Major Anderson in Fenway Park in present time—the future?—and one Colonel Hanscomb in an Illinois field back in 1919. She and her kind could’ve just let both perish in their aircraft’s destruction—but hadn’t.

  And now he found himself here. In the cradle of all UFO lore.

  Cherko—the him inside this form—shook his head.

  Aliens. Spaceships. Human-developed spaceships.

  He’d never had believed it had he not lived it... seen it with his own eyes—alien or otherwise.

  Had it really all started with Roswell? Had that been the Honest-to-God starting point? Had that crash—and what had caused that crash—back on that stormy night in July of 1947 really initiated all this, or had these beings really been around long before? Way before. When you looked at the way these beings behaved, as they moved through time like going from one room to the next, really, what was “time,” anyway? It was more like a destination, a “coordinate point.” If they really could flit through it like he had just witnessed—hell, experienced—then there was no “start” to anything. It all just folded in on itself, like that David Gerrold book he’d read way back (and what did that now mean?) in his youth, The Man Who Folded Himself. A time-traveling guy.

  Time really had no meaning. Or it did... but just not in the way we—the Humans with which he was still, vaguely, associated—recognized and used it.

  And would you just look at him? He was an alien for Chrissakes! Was wearing this body of a Gray. He was now one himself—yet not.

  How’d they do all this?

  How could one set of physics work for humans and another for aliens? How did this all work?

  He really hadn’t much of a clue, but somehow they had transferred his consciousness not only across bodies, but species (that is, if this “appliance” he wore was a living, breathing species, and not just some inorganic suit he’d been slipped into).

  The implications were staggering.

  At first being in this alien form had been like breaking in new gloves, but things fit pretty nicely now. He even felt comfortable in his pseudo-alien mind. And to look back at his own body like he had—from the outside—not any mirror or downward-directed gazes, was consciousness expanding. He couldn’t explain it, but that alone did something to him. Touching this other him with an alien hand that was him did something to him.

  And couple this with his work in New Mexico. Well, there was a lot to assimilate—providing these beings let him remember any of it.

  But, what now?

  He really didn’t want to go back to that job. All this made his work for the government pitiful. Childish.

  The government just didn’t know what they were messing with.

  Or did they?

  He’d always pained over what would cause the government to so zealously guard what they’d found out in that desert back in ‘47. What was worth them not only threatening people, but out and out making them disappear? What could be so damned important that his own kind—Humans—would kill each other to keep something so damned secret? Make Forrestal literally go over the edge? What if—

  Before he realized just what he was doing, and like all Human-created stray thoughts, Cherko-as-alien reached out into the consciousness of the alien ship—for just a fraction of a moment in which he wasn’t even sure if he was wholly serious about doing what he’d ever so briefly considered doing—and wondered if he really could control this ship with his mind. Take it for a spin. Especially this souped-up alien version of it, maybe even take it down into the HEUFO fray and mess around a little...

  She and Qxuill, who had been observing Cherko, took no action. There was a loud explosion, a massive and colossal concussion... and all went dark...

  6

  HEUFOs and UFOs.

  Humans. Aliens.

  Impact. There had been an impact.

  Standing in the She ship—not standing in the ship.

  HEUFO. Aboard a HEUFO?

  Stood among his own kind—humans—aboard the HEUFO. Turned to She, but looked into the eyes of a human.

  Surprise. Incomprehension.

  Quantum entanglement.

  Two places at the same time.

  Went toward human.

  Fear!

  Going to crash, human shouted, going to impact formation!

  Evasive maneuvers—evasive—

  Body on fire.

  Mind aflame!

  Pull craft out. Trying to pull ship away—away from humans. Each and every cell within his body, his consciousness—alien self, or the human side of his alien self?—torn apart. A trillion-trillion matter-anti-matter reactions...

  Unable to think, control....

  Annihilation.

  * * *

  Cherko awoke, dazed. The always level control room floor was now on a severe ban
k, and there was the odor of what he swore was ozone and things electrical. Cherko felt unwieldy. Clumsy again. Like he’d been shaken out of the body, but as he checked himself, he still wore the alien form. Groggily, he pushed up from the canted angle of the ship’s deck.

  Something was different... really different... about the ship. There was—

  There was a huge tear in its side!

  Cherko got to his feet.

  Where were She and Qxuill?

  The other members of the crew—what had happened?

  No.

  Oh, no.

  What had he done?

  A wave of sadness enveloped him.

  This can’t be!

  Cherko rushed to the tear in the ship’s hull and peered out into the desert, pitch-black night.

  Something wasn’t right about this.

  Different.

  Bodies. There were bodies (what kind?) scattered about the bridge... smoke, and destruction...

  We’re out here, came a calm, telepathic message from She.

  Cherko climbed through the gaping tear and landed on the still warm sand of New Mexico desert.

  What happened? Cherko asked.

  An accident, She sent. Most of the crew are dead... dying.

  You’re dying, aren’t you?, Cherko sent.

  Our dying is not your dying.

  Where are you? Why can’t I see you?

  We’ve been separated.

  Separated—

  A chill ran through Cherko’s Human side.

  Oh, my God, Cherko sent.

  He looked to the ground. To the debris littering the ground, the desert sand. There were fizzling parts, partially burning debris.

  More bodies. Two of them.

  Where are you? Cherko asked, as he came upon the mangled bodies before him. The bodies that had been thrown out of the craft behind him, through the tear in its side. The side of the craft, to which Cherko looked back to see had

  “Army”

  written on it, the “U.S.” part torn off. Cherko stopped before the charred and mangled bodies before him.

  Human bodies.

  West, She sent.