by Carlos Hardy
“Are you sending the National Guard to assist the affected universities?” They ask.
“No, we are not. We don’t find it necessary at this time.”
“Are they serious? Such morons!” Jaylen shouts. “We’re under attack, and they’re going to do nothing.” Bree does her best to prevent Jaylen from making a scene. They turn back to the television.
“With all due respect, Mr. Doley,” the reporter’s words are frustrated. She’s steadying them to the best of her abilities. “Is this not a national emergency?”
Doley’s chief of staff pulls on his cuff, ushering him away. That reporter musters one more question, commanding a flood of others.
“Is this an attack on black Americans?”
“Will America protect black Americans?”
“What aren’t you telling the American people?”
“Should we be afraid?”
Doley continues his path back towards his plane without looking back, ignoring the hailstorm of aggressive questioning. There was anger in those voices, deep concern for what was happening. Doley boards his plane as it cuts back to news anchors. There’s nothing but silence and bleak expressions on their faces. That was all they saw before the power cut out, and the room fell dark and silent.
“So I suppose we’re just left here to die?” One of the Students growl in frustration.
Words flurry into an audible mess: students release conspiracy theories, others are simply outraged, some are scared as can be.
“This could all be a hoax. Fake news,” one of them roars. “I think the pentagon is behind this. They hate the black community.”
Professor Green sits in a chair near the edge of the room. Jaylen approaches him, wary of what he knows.
“So what do you know, Professor?”
“I don’t, but I do know your frustration.”
“No, you don’t. You’re privileged, and you always have been.” Jaylen’s tone floods with rage. “They’re going to let us die in here, aren’t they?”
“We can get through this. As a country we always have.”
“I already told you, I’m not listening to no kook.”
Caleb forces his arms around Jaylen, protecting him from making a mistake.
“Bro, it’s not his fault,” he says.
“Sure it is. He’s not going to help us get out of here,” Bree says, stepping in front of Professor Green. She’s done playing games: we want answers. “Okay, Green. What do you know?”
Jaylen breaks free from Caleb’s grasp, swinging his leg down to kick the chair out from underneath Green. He falls to the floor, groaning as his injuries worsen. An uproar outbreaks in the student union; they voice their frustration at the professor, crowding around him like an angry mob.
Micky Knolls, one of the few white students at the University, steps in to the professor’s rescue.
“Just stop it,” she says, forming a barrier around the professor. “Fighting will get us nowhere. Like it or not, we’re in this together.”
Bree steps forward. “Are we?”
“We’re all humans vying to find our way out of this mess, right? We’re in this together.”
“So Becky, why isn’t your government sending out the National Guard?” Bree asks.
“I don’t know, and my name is Micky.”
Jaylen makes his way over towards her, his hands raised in the air. All eyes fall on him.
“I have a question: why are there white students out at HBCUs?”
Caleb places his hand on Jaylen’s chest, tentatively holding him back. “Guys,” he says loud enough for the room to hear, “we need to be more productive if we have a chance of getting answers.” He turns, offering a helping hand to Professor Green.
“Yea, why do white students attend HBCU’s?” Bree adds.
“I think we finally agree on something,” Jaylen flashes a smile.
Micky stands, refusing to back away. “I have every right to attend this school,” she says, “and you can attend any school you desire.”
“Historically, we were forced to create our own HBCU because your ancestors didn’t want us at theirs.” Jaylen gripes, his anger rising.
“Look around the room, Becky,” Bree glances out to the overwhelming majority of black student faces in their audience. “We are here by choice. I wish I could say the same for you.”
“And am I not?” Micky says with trepidation, slowly backing away.
“No. You just want what you can’t have,” Bree’s voice has an edge to it. “But what we have can’t be taken, learned, or abolished. It’s in our DNA.” Pronounces Bree.
Professor Green whispers in Caleb’s ear, “And that’s why they’re here.”
Caleb turns back again, pulling the professor into a nearby corner while the conflict arises in the center of the room.
“Look Professor, you have to give us more than that. These students are going to destroy the place,” Caleb desperately tries not to show his anxiety over the situation. “This whole speaking in puzzles is played out.”
“I am sorry. But this will take time to figure out.”
Frustrated, Caleb turns to walk away. Professor Green focuses on his back, removing his glasses from his shirt pocket to clarify his view. “That’s it,” he whispers. Caleb turns on his heel. “Your back.”
“What about my back?” Caleb questions.
Professor Green limps towards Caleb, his hand gliding over Caleb’s exposed back. His eyes widen as he kneels, his eyes fixated on the spotted design on Caleb’s skin as he remains still. His palms gently massage the ridges on the pale pigments, and they move as if they were alive.
“You’re freaking me out,” Caleb says.
“This is quite intriguing to say the least. The shape is definitive and purposed.” Green is obsessed. He removes his phone from his pockets, taking a photo of Caleb’s back.” He shows Caleb the photo.
Caleb hasn’t paid mind to the spots on his back for months now. The would-be blotchy patches of pale skin have aligned into little circles, forming a symbol on his skin.
“That’s weird. I’ve never noticed this before,” he states very matter of fact.
“I have a colleague that can help decipher this.” Caleb quickly brushes the professor away.
“Maybe Jaylen is right. Maybe you are crazy. It’s just a distortion of my skin.”
“Caleb, how can you not see the symbolism here?” Green asks, his eyes alive with light. “The shape. The design. It’s like nothing I’ve seen before. How did this happen?”
Caleb stares at the photograph, his memory forcing back mental still images of the day that it happened.
“I don’t know… it just happened.” He says, wondering the truth in his own words. Green feels the weight of Caleb’s words, and he urges him to continue. “It was outside at night, and it… it wouldn’t let me go. The more I resisted, the more it took from me.”
“What did it look like? Feel like?” Professor Green, in this moment, doesn’t seem so crazy.
“I couldn’t see it. It felt like fire burning into my skin. It felt peaceful, yet destructive, if that makes any sense.”
Bree gawks from across the room. Up until now, she’s the only person Caleb has trusted with this information. He soon breaks away from his memory, shaking away those thoughts.
“I’m good. That was a long time ago.”
Staring into the photo, Green quietly says, “You have no idea what you may know, Caleb.”
Chapter Seven:
A Matter of National Security
One hour past the press conference, and the National Security Adviser’s plane still sits vacant on the Maryland tarmac. A black SUV waits outside, as Doley sits alone in the back seat, his mind racing. He scans through classified documents in his lap, and the doors immediately open. With the rock solid expression of a lion, an African-American male enters the back of the SUV. The man glances out the window, undoubtedly scann
ing for security personnel.
The car begins to pull away. The man never glances directly at the adviser, yet Doley hands over the classified documents to the man. Silence lingers as the caramel-complexion man reads through the dossier, crossing one leg over the other. He loosens his red tie around his neck as Doley becomes uneasy. He knows the man well: Rep. Carl Manning, Speaker of the House and member of the Republican party.
In a husky voice, Manning gets straight to the point. “Talk to me,” he says calmly. “What’s the latest?”
Doley places his remaining folder on the seat next to him. “We have reached the threat held with funding for this project, Mr. Speaker. We need more resources.”
Manning looks straight at him and slowly removes his sunglasses. “Brad, we don’t know if I can allocate more money.”
“Sure you can,” Doley says slyly, removing his cell phone from his interior jacket pocket. “This is what we’re up against.” He shows the screen to Manning, premiering a brownish sphere with indescribable lettering written on its surface.
“What is it?” Manning questions, his tone shaky. He’s been caught completely off-guard.
“It’s why they are here.”
“The House has been funding this little project for decades. Now we need answers, Brad.” The Senate is breathing down my neck, and the public is in an uproar.” Manning visibly clutches his hands together, attempting to pacify his frustration at the situation. “I don’t know how much time I can give you.”
Doley glances out the window, and begins to drift away in thought. “How long have we known each other, Carl?” He asks, chuckling outwardly. “Thirty years, and have I ever let you down?”
Manning remains completely silent.
“I need you to trust me,” Doley continues. “What better way to build that trust than with action.” The SUV turns down an unfamiliar street.
“Where are we?” Manning asks.
The car swerves slightly, entering a dark tunnel. Tension floods through, sending nerves on end. Manning isn’t familiar with the route, nor is he sighting any landmarks nearby.
“I need my funding,” Doley demands. “The life of every American depends on this.”
The SUV travels several more miles before suddenly stopping. The doors fly open, and Doley exits the back seat to a solute by armed military officials. He quickly walks towards and enters an undisclosed building, one void of any recognizable features. Based on the view, Manning can only assume that they’re in the mountains just north of Baltimore. The mains doors are opened with dual keys by armed guards, and Manning steps out of the car. His curious eyes search every inch of the space. He releases a soft, menacing whisper.
“So… this is where they’re hiding it,” he says.
The dark area before him emanates dread. Manning rushed to catch up to Doley, meeting his pace as the two continue down a narrow hallway. Everything is cramped and dusty, though the dust was buried beneath the oil-based chemical dancing at Manning’s nostrils. He places his forearm over his nose to cope with the odor, and looks to Doley to find that the scent isn’t bothering him in the slightest.
Feeling the weight of the air and seeing particles fluttering about, Manning continuously wipes his eyes. “You want to tell me what’s going on here, Brad?” He requests.
Doley simply continues up his path. “We’re almost there,” he offers.
They arrive at a second set of doors, as four armed guards stand in pristine attire, awaiting their orders. The tallest of them stands out front, his brash tone cutting through the air.
“ID please.”
They each present their identification. After a brief focus on each of their attributes, the guard summons another to open the metal door with his clearance badge. These four armed men never take their eyes from Doley or Manning, even as they enter the room. Once inside, Manning yanks on Doley’s sleeve.
“You want to tell me where we are?” He demands, but Doley simply takes a light breath, speaking in an ominous, low voice that shifts the narrative entirely.
“Mr. Speaker, you’ve come this far. Why ruin the surprise?”
Doley continues down the dark hall as Manning closely, reluctantly follows behind. They soon arrive at a stark white door, imprinted with emboldened lettering stating Only Authorized Personnel. One small, eerie window rests in the center of the door.
Doley peeks inside while Manning waits. It’s dark. Pitch as the dead of night.
The hatch releases, and the door automatically slides open. They walk inside the small space, and the door behind them suddenly closes as the room begins a rapid descent. They glide down in a smooth, unnoticeable fashion.
Silence lingers in the elevator as they reach the apparent destination. The doors slide open heavily, and Doley takes a few steps into the room. Manning’s eyes widen immensely. Shock keeps him moving forward slowly, hearing Doley’s soft exclamation.
“I told you you’d be surprised.”
Several feet away, hanging on the wall is an unknown, foreign object, slightly gray with a slight shimmer to its surface. Based on what they can see, there’s only a fragment of this strange object remaining. It’s in the shape of a semicircle, and it’s quite apparent that half of it is missing. A plethora of unknown symbols appears scribbled on its surface, as a few men in white coats dab over the writing with soft bristle brushes.
“There’s no indication of the origin of this object; the symbols are something scientists have attempted to transcribe for several decades.” Doley speaks softly, though Manning can barely keep his eyes off the object.
Manning steps into what looks like a gigantic aluminum warehouse. Within seconds, a soft vibration penetrates from underneath the floor. The hanging object vibrates softly. The white-coat men stop what they’re doing, and absorb the vibrations before continuing with business as usual. One scientist removes a sterile mask from his face, and begins to climb down a ladder nearby, making his way over to Doley.
“Mr. Speaker, this is Mark Fitz, head of Science and Technology for the United States Government.”
The man in question stands tall, his build slender and lanky. Long, stringy reddish hair runs down his back. This fifty-something man doesn’t exactly look happy to see company. He removes his lab gloves before giving Doley a handshake, notices the Speaker, and pulls Doley over to the side.
“What is he doing here? Can we trust him?” He asks frantically.
“His five-hundred-million-dollar donation from the House keeps us in business, Mr. Fitz.”
With conviction, Mr. Fitz obliges and maintains his composure. He extends a hand to Manning, and mumbles “Mr. Speaker.”
“This seems like a…” Manning looks at his surroundings briefly, “pleasant departure from the small building in Washington I occupy.”
With a nervous chuckle, Mr. Fitz is delighted. “Yes, it’s quite something, isn’t it?”
It’s obvious that the masked and gloved scientists nearby are closely listening in on their conversation. Doley pokes Mr. Fitz on the shoulder. “Where can we talk?” He asks.
Mr. Fitz walks away abruptly, leaving the two of them to follow. They enter a small lavatory off the main entrance, as Mr. Fitz gingerly closes the door behind them. He leans on a nearby counter, flicking his fingers against the wall to showcase the full and complete soundproofing. Manning can’t help but look through a laminated window towards the large object, thinking back to every tale he’d heard about it. It was mesmerizing to see in person.
“What is that?” He asks quietly, almost whispering.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Mr. Fitz gleefully replies. “It’s an abandoned pod… or ship, perhaps, from the Akache tribe.”
Doley has obviously heard this before, though seems amused at one fact. “Akache?” He asks. ”Is that what we’re calling them?”
“That object landed on Earth about one-hundred years ago,” Mr. Fitz excitedly states, barely containing his
elation. “Though it was only discovered thirty years ago.”
“What is ‘Akache’, exactly?” Manning questions, wondering how a holed-up scientist has this much energy.
“We are guessing, it was one of the many planets that inhabited our solar system one billion years ago. Our data tells us a meteor destroyed it, or so we thought, forcing its inhabitants to flee to surrounding planets.”
“So they came here?” Manning asks.
“No, they tried to come here,” Fitz replies, hands waving excitedly through the air. “Our ecosystem wouldn’t allow it.”
“Our intelligence believes they are what’s causing the storms to appear,” Doley interjects.
“Let’s not be coy here. You do realize what they are after, right Fitz?” Manning retorts.
“Scientifically, it’s unknown. There is no evidence to back that claim. Storm? This is a relic. It’s one-hundred years old.”
“What are you hiding, Mr. Fitz?” Manning inches closer towards him. “I didn’t believe this place existed when one of my close colleagues described it to me, but you’ve managed to renew my faith. Cut the bullshit: where is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Fitz replies as Doley stands silently.
Manning folds his arms over his chest. “I have nothing but time,” he adds.
“I had to be sure I could trust you.” Mr. Fitz says, exiting the room into a smaller hallway. They both follow him, arriving at another door several feet down the hall. Fitz punches in a code as the doors slide open wildly, revealing another enclosed space, a bit smaller than the last. Doley and Manning stand quietly on one side of the room, and once inside, Fitz lowers to his knees and opens a vault in the corner.
After removing a small square black box, he opens it to reveal a grayish sphere. Its’ texture is the same as the object in the warehouse, fitted with the same indescribable symbols on its surface. Fitz lifts to his feet and turns toward the two of them. It’s strikingly similar to the photograph that Doley shared in the SUV earlier, and it begins to vibrate softly.