by Carlos Hardy
“It’s their power source,” Fitz whispers.
“It’s the only leverage we have.” Doley says very matter of fact.
Doley walks from one side of the room to the other, ushering manning over. He refuses to budge as a sinister smirk covers his face.
“Gentlemen, I am the Speaker for a reason. I knew your hand before you played it.”
Mr. Fitz nervously glances towards Doley, who attempts to relax in his suit.
“What are you afraid of, Speaker?” He asks.
Manning takes very calculated steps. The sphere begins to vibrate louder.
He takes another step. A dim light flows from the sphere, stretching across the room.
His legs are completely locked, his entire body suddenly immobilized.
White light seeps from the sphere, finding its way into Manning’s forearm. His caramel-colored skin glistens in the dimly lit space as white light wraps around his forearm, pulling the dark pigment from his skin and depositing it into the sphere. It vibrates louder.
“Make it stop!” Screams the speaker of the house. “Make it stop!”
Chapter Eight:
The Sphere
Mr. Fitz pulls the sphere away, halting the presence of the white light. Manning immediately begins massaging his forearm, attempting to rub the burning sensation away. Staring at his arm in amazement, he can see that a portion of the pigmentation in his skin has been lifted. Gliding over his pale forearm with his index finger, he ominously glances up at the two men as the glow from the sphere intensifies.
Visibly, the sphere appears more alive, more powerful. Mr. Fitz quickly shoves the sphere back into its lockbox, and shoves it back in the vault.
“I had to see this for myself,” Manning states, turning away from Fitz and Doley. “There is one question that I’ve pondered for months now.
Adviser Doley cautiously steps closer. “What’s that?” He asks.
Manning nervously massages his head with his open palm. “There are hundreds of countries, all with citizens with similar pigmentation to mine.”
Before he can fulfill his question, Mr. Fitz jumps in. “They don’t want them,” he states rather sharply. “They want Americans. They only want African-Americans.” He steps forward, finally acknowledging the elephant in the room. Fitz awaits some sort of response, but it never comes. Instead, he wanders over to the other side of the room near a few large drawers that are attached to the wall.
Inside the drawer, he retrieves a body bag. Cooling vapors emanate from the drawer, as Doley and Manning patiently await whatever Fitz is up to. The seemingly mad scientist slips on gloves, and a smile extends from ear to ear. Slowly unzipping the bag, he showcases the dead body of a woman with nearly stark white skin. The scent narcotizing, playing on Manning’s gag reflex.
“What you see here was once a dark-skinned Latina woman from South America.” Mr. Fitz states, unzipping the bag to expose everything down to her feet. A few patches of dark pigment remain on her body. “Her body was found near Santiago, in Chile. The American embassy thought it a good idea to investigate.”
“I’ve seen enough,” Doley states, turning away.
“No, you don’t understand,” Fitz says. “Our research indicates that the sphere is a part of their power source.”
“We’ve been over this, Fitz.” Manning states. Fitz continues. “This sphere must fuel their ship, colony, and potentially their planet. We have run tests on people of color from every country on this planet. That sphere only held its charge when exposed to African-Americans from North America.” Fitz takes a breath then continues.
“The power is unrelenting. The sphere grows. Manning we think there is enough energy in that one sphere to fuel fifty countries.” Fitz waits for Manning to accept his plea. “Who else knows about this?” Manning demands, his responses turning short and snappy.
Doley undoes his tie, inhaling sharply before releasing a much-needed sigh. “He wants a bill,” Doley says.
“The President?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Fitz steps closer, his tone a bit lower, pressing on the gravity of the situation. “I don’t think you two understand what we’re dealing with here. That pod is beyond our greatest technological advancement.” Manning moves into Fitz’s personal space barely brushing against his nose. “No, your implications are completely understood Fitz, misdirected but understood.” Doley maintains his distance and allows the power struggle to continue. “I’ve reached out to the President about this bill.” Fitz listens closely. “Do you know what kind of damage this will do to our economy if this gets out. Mass chaos.” Fitz begs. “Please, afford me a moment to explain.” “You don’t seem to be doing a good job at that Fitz.” “Give me time and I am confident we will provide answers that could protect all of us.” Doley tightens his tie, he’s obviously ready to depart. “We’ve given you thirty years my friend.” Fitz all but gives in. He’s given half of his life to this project and it’s being ripped away.
“There is a country to protect,” Doley lifts his hand in an attempt to silence Fitz. His tone softens. A distance memory carries him away. “Look, we’ve made contact.”
“You never told me about this.” Fitz says, anger rising in his voice. It appears as though the cooped-up scientist has some backbone. “Brad, you never told me about this. You’re hiding precious information that could unlock the future for humanity. Who are they?”
“Trust me, Fitz. If we don’t act now, there will be no future. Our time is limited.” Despite the outrage in Fitz’ eyes, Manning can understand Doley’s position. “The President wants one-million African-Americans in the lottery.”
“Lottery?” Fitz clears his throat. He quickly looks to Manning, but he isn’t fazed. He knows what’s coming.
“We write a bill sending the one-million to them.”
“You can’t do that, when? Where?” Mr. Fitz shakes. “These are Americans. Where are they?”
“Would you rather go?” Manning asks.
“Their families will be compensated greatly. I’m positive the American people would be enamored by their generosity.”
“Twenty-first century slavery,” Mr. Fitz says, turning away. “That’s what this is.”
“Call it what you will. I don’t see the difference between this and military enlistment.”
Fitz grabs Doley by the lapel on his suit jacket. “There’s a big difference. You are choosing based on race. That isn’t American.” Manning turns and begins walking towards the exit. “Mr. Speaker. I would think that someone of your stature wouldn’t want this for your people.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Fitz?” He turns around, his smile grim, his voice menacing. “My skin color? My heritage? Country over heritage? This has nothing to do with skin color. Only survival.”
Doley meets Manning’s grin, and it’s apparent he’s made the right decision to trust him. Mr. Fitz places his hands into his lab coat pockets, pacing back and forth as he calm’s himself. “Okay,” he finally begins, “tell me about their language.”
“After discovering the ship years ago, they left evidence that they would soon return. Their language is deciphered through high-grade technology.”
“Where in the universe do they reside now?”
“Fitz, I understand your need for a press conference, but there are certain things that must remain classified.” Doley takes a deep breath, witnessing the look of betrayal on Fitz’ face. “We waited. Four months ago, there were signs.”
“Where?”
“South Africa. Brazil. The Middle East. These places all have one thing in common: people of color. You see, there were a few people of color disappearing here and there. We thought nothing of it. After a few months, it hit Chicago, Miami, Houston greatly, and so on.”
Fitz paces back and forth angrily. “This is unconstitutional, Brad.”
Examining the pigment change on his forearm as it glistens, Manning interjects.
“It’s my job as a legislator to find the loophole. Constitution my ass!”
“This isn’t personal,” Doley grins. “It’s science. So, we struck a deal with them.”
“You can’t negotiate with them,” Fitz pleads. “You don’t know their strengths or weaknesses.” “We consider this a foreign trade with an ally.”
“This will ultimately save our civilization,” Manning states. He chuckles while surveying the room before confidently walking towards the exit, his chest forward, arms pulled back. “I must return to the Hill.”
Doley turns to walk away. Fitz’ stark tone forces him to stop. “What are you afraid of, Doley?” Doley turns back. This is the most emotion he’s conveyed since he and Fitz won a hockey championship in college.
“For the first time in my life, I realized I have the fate of billions in my hand.” Doley stares into his opened palms. “They were gracious enough to provide us time for the transfer. We denied their request six months ago. We thought they had gone but then they came back…” Doley voice lifts, his moping elevates to concern. “They can wipe us out. If they don’t get what they want, they’ll start with the European countries. This is a global crisis at our doorstep and we will act!”
“So why don’t they just take the African Americans and be done with it?” asks Fitz. “They can’t. They have to be given. It’s one of their tribal oaths.” Fitz tries to dig deeper. “So you offered the HCBUs?”
“Yes, as an olive branch, but it wasn’t enough.”
“You fucks are sick!” Doley and Fitz square up. “No we’ve made a deal. We supply them and they leave us alone.”
Doley’s eyes survey the vault. He ponders his next move.
“Please, don’t do this. There is so much we can learn from them without risking everything.” Doley quickly walks behind Manning. As they both pass the threshold of the door, Fitz finds himself asking one more question. “What do they look like?”
They stop in their tracks. Silence lingers. While Fitz waits for an answer, he thinks back to his imagination running wild for years of study. The Akache tribe and their physical appearance have remained a mystery to him. Doley turns back, offering one straightforward answer.
“It’s hard to describe. I’ll let you use your imagination.” Fitz moves closer. The thought of a true answer has him salivating, hungry for more information. His contemplation and anticipation edges him closer. “Perhaps there is one word to describe them, Mr. Fitz: mysterious. Who would have thought that HBCUs would be America’s saving grace?”
“You won’t get away with this, Brad. We never negotiate with foreign entities.”
Doley returns back to his devious self, he laughs as he exits the room, Manning in tow. Two of Doley’s men pass by them in the hallway, entering the lavatory with Fitz. The door quickly shuts behind them. One of them glances over at the safe where the sphere is located.
Doley and Manning make it to the warehouse before stopping. “I can garner the votes in the House for the lottery,” Manning states.
“Are you certain?” Doley is methodic, but in this situation, hopeful at best.
“This may not go over well with my constituents, but we would be saving lives.”
“It will be a job well done, Mr. Speaker.”
Manning stops for a moment, voicing his concern. “Why only one-million?” He asks. “What if they want more?”
“The deal is that we release one-million African-Americans to them, and they will leave in peace.”
Manning moves his sleeve, looking at the pale skin on his forearm. Markings have arisen, creating an obscure design with ripple waves embedded in his skin.
I’m sure this is the right thing to do, Manning thinks to himself. Doley continues down the hallway without stopping, leaving the Speaker to contemplate what’s to come.
Chapter Nine:
Hunted
Hours after the slowing of the storm, several students in the union building have fallen fast asleep. Cots, benches and makeshift beds dot the large room, though Caleb has found it nearly impossible to get any rest. He stands in the nearby bathroom, his eyes drooping from fatigue, mind ablaze. Using the adjacent mirrors on the other side of the room, he’s able to stare at the abstract design on his back. While he tries his best to figure out what it could mean, a pattern comes together. While running his fingers over the ridges, he sees that they look similar to crop circles that have popped up in the south, things he’d seen on national news coverage.
He leans towards the mirror ahead of him, using the faucet below to splash cold water on his face. His thoughts carry him to the very moment he arrived at school earlier in the day. There was such promise, pride and joy, and it all appears to be gone. He finds a comfortable home in the corner, eyes trained on the only door. He attentively listens for the hum of earlier, wondering if his mind is getting the best of him in this moment. Caleb folds his hands and arms to use as a pillow, and lays his head down. One long sigh, and his eyes begin to flutter, sending him into slumber… for a few minutes at best.
“Who’s there?” He blurts out as a knock on the door echoes.
“Caleb?” The door creeps open, revealing a worried Bree. “I thought I’d find you here.” She leans in the doorway, turning her camera on herself and taking a snapshot.
“Must you capture every moment?”
“I wouldn’t be a journalist if I didn’t.”
Bree puts the camera out of view, understanding how uncomfortable it’s making Caleb. She leans on the floor next to him, slowly sliding down the wall until they’re sitting side by side.
“How did we get into this?” Caleb lifts his head, forcing out air from his nostrils.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Silence lingers, forcing an awkward feeling. Their relationship has always been a brother-sister sort of vibe, but in this moment, they can’t even look into each other’s eyes. Bree withdraws her camera, glaring at the lens while she wipes away a few particles.
“You think this is how it ends?” She asks glumly.
Caleb turns towards the ceiling, trying to find some sort of viable answer. “You’re the reporter,” he grins. “You can write any ending you want.”
“There are always things beyond our control.”
“Like?”
“Death.” She says sharply, enunciating her words carefully. “Circumstance. Love. Birth. I mean, life has question marks over all of our lives, and refuses to erase them.”
“You remember when we first met?” Caleb asks, eyes still trained on the stained drop ceiling tiles.
“Yes, at that damned J&P corner store.”
“You actually remember that?” He says, turning towards her.
“Sure do. I believe you were there with your mom. She was pretty.” Bree realizes the sensitive subject, and tension once again builds between them. She places a hand on his shoulder, trying her best to comfort him.
“Yeah. She was.”
“We’re going to make it through this, Bree. If I can make it through that, I can make it through anything.”
She turns to Caleb, her eyes searching over his glowing bronze skin. A light smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
“You still have the cutest nose,” she says, unintentionally dismissing his comforting words. Using her index finger, she gently touches it. Caleb tries to glance away, but simply can’t. He’s locked in this moment. His heart thumbs faster, his gaze meeting the beauty of her almond-shaped eyes, noticing her hair delicately hanging over one of them. Her calming smile makes him melt, forcing things to feel okay, if but for a moment.
He pushes the hair from her face, never expecting this moment to arise. Steadily calming his heart, he feels their bodies shifting closer together. Their noses brush as their bodies softly vibrate in harmony. Bree’s eyes close; she’s ready, ready for a moment that Caleb has been waiting for. His lips quiver as he’s seconds away from kissing the girl he’s been infatuated
with for a decade, as the door suddenly bursts open.
“There you two are,” Jaylen says. Like two ships in the night, Caleb and Bree move in opposite directions as Jaylen grabs Caleb on the arm, and they’re taken out of the moment. “You’ve got to see this. Be very quiet,” Jaylen continues. “Everyone is still asleep.”
The three of them tiptoe into the hallway, slipping into the student union lobby. The horrific storm has taken its toll on them mentally, and physically. They lay asleep throughout different clusters in the lobby, wrapped in makeshift blankets of couch cushions and regal curtains. Caleb, Jaylen and Bree climb down the staircase as she catches up, leading towards the cafeteria. Jaylen gingerly opens the door, trying not to wake the few students that have fallen asleep on the tables.
Passing through into the kitchen, Jaylen closes the door behind them. Jaylen sighs, his face riddled with worry. “Weirdly enough, this room seem to absorb much of the sound, I didn’t want to spook the others.”
They hover over his phone screen, as he searches his pockets for a mobile television controller, equipped with the ability to broadcast stations from around the globe. Jaylen has always been tech-savvy as a kid and he’s hoping it pays off now. He attaches the controller to an auxiliary port on his phone, the flash of a press conference in front of the White House appears on the screen.
Thousands of members of Black to Black, a civil rights nonprofit social change group, stand in protest in front of the gates. They’ve learned all about the movement, and the group’s goals of fighting for social equality in predominately African-American neighborhoods across the United States. Bree lifts the phone from Jaylen’s hand.
“What are they protesting?” She asks.
Antonio Beals, the poignant leader of Black to Black, stands at the head of the crowd. His oval facial structure and well-groomed appearance is pleasing to the eye for most of the woman present. Wrapped in a trench coat, Antonio pulls a megaphone close to his lips. Shouting above the chants of “What are they hiding!” from the crowd, Antonio shouts, “Our lives are at stake. We want answers!”