“When it comes to spaceflight, changes in speed are called delta-v or the difference in velocity. Unlike on Earth, if you don’t actively change your speed, you just keep going. It’s a bit like driving on black ice.”
Kath is aware her answer is longwinded. She’s in danger of causing the reporter’s eyes to glaze over. She’s also mindful of the director’s advice to bore them with detail. Kath is careful not to talk too long, but she’s also determined to slap down the hype. By answering at length she’s taking the wind out of their sails.
“Changes in velocity are expensive, so we minimize them every chance we get. And remarkably, so do they!
“We’ve all seen runaway truck lanes on steep mountain roads. They look like side roads, but they’re only a few hundred yards long and full of gravel. Often, they run up the opposite slope. If the brakes on a truck fail, drivers can turn into these lanes and the gravel will slow them to a stop.
“In the same way, An̆duru is plowing through the clouds of gas giants to slow down without using its engines to brake. It’s saving fuel.”
Oops. So much for the idea that they’re only ‘actively considering’ An̆duru as an alien spaceship. By dancing around one point, Kath’s blundered into another. If she’s wrong about An̆duru, she’ll never live this down.
She smiles, hoping she’s said enough. The reporter sits down.
For now, the press haven’t figured out her strategy. They seem perplexed at the answers coming at them. Some questions are answered with a single word. Others invite an impromptu physics lecture. In all cases, Kath’s sidestepping the regular press briefing style. She’s trying to defuse the tension.
Another reporter asks, “What role will the military play in this?”
Kath steps back. This question is for the President, who brushes past, stepping up to the lectern.
“Our armed forces are subordinate to civilian control. They will function in the same manner they always do. As Dr. McKenzie said, we don’t anticipate hostilities.”
“But you have a military advisor?” the reporter counters.
“I do,” the President says, gesturing to Nolan. This time, he’s ready.
“As the President has outlined,” he says, resting his hands on the lectern, “the military’s role is in support of civilian efforts. In the same way we assist FEMA during hurricane season, we are standing by, ready to help in any way we can.”
“So you’re not expecting a fight?” the reporter asks.
“Contrary to what you see in the movies, the majority of America’s military assets are dedicated to logistics. We’re really good at supply chain management, intelligence, and analysis.”
Damn, he’s quick, Kath thinks. He’s lying. Well, he’s bending the truth. Behind the scenes, the military is scrambling. If the Russians are retrofitting their missiles, somewhere someone is doing the same thing here in the US. Nolan would know for sure, but he’d never admit it—not to her.
Nolan says, “This isn’t Hollywood. Tanks and planes can’t fight in space. As impressive as an F-22 raptor is, it can’t go into orbit. No, our role is peaceful. We’re here to support the civilian effort.”
“But if they’re hostile?” the reporter asks.
The President cuts in before Nolan can reply, stepping up beside him at the lectern.
“They’re not. We can’t read our own fears into what’s happening. We have to remember, this isn’t about America or China or Russia. This is about all of us.”
“Yes,” Kath says as Nolan backs away. She’s excited. Enthusiasm gets the better of her. Kath doesn’t mean to intrude, but the President doesn’t mind. She steps to one side, giving her the lectern. “We have to stand together. Remember, we have to see this from their perspective as well as our own. They think we’re the aliens. They’ve seen Earth from a distance. They’re sending a probe here in the same way we sent probes to Mars or the moons of Jupiter. They’re exploring. Like us, they’re curious.”
The President is content with that answer. She steps back as Kath continues.
“We’ve looked up at the night sky and wondered about our place in the universe. We’ve asked, where is everyone? We felt sure we’d find life among the stars, but we can only examine a small portion of our own galaxy. Faced with silence, we looked deeper. When it seemed as though no one was home, we spotted An̆duru. We can see this strange object using the planets in our own solar system to slow down. To me, that’s exciting.”
Another reporter calls out, “So you’re not worried about an invasion?”
Kath laughs. For a moment, she’s not only addressing a room full of reporters but the entire country and the world at large.
“There’s no invasion or attack or whatever,” she says. “There’s a good chance they don’t even know there’s an intelligent species down here. They’ve simply spotted life at a distance and are coming here to investigate.”
“They don’t know about us?” the reporter asks, surprised by the idea.
“Not at first,” she replies. “Not when they initially set out for Earth. By now, they’ve picked up our radio signals, but they probably still don’t know that much about us. They know there’s life down here, but that’s about all.
“You have to remember just how vast distances are in space. We estimate An̆duru entered our solar system at upwards of six hundred kilometers per second. At that speed, it could travel the length of the Continental US in a couple of heartbeats. As fast as that is, it’s only a tiny fraction of the speed of light.”
Kath looks down at a handful of numbers hastily scratched on a Post-it note scrunched up in her hand. She doubts her calculations. Kath should have laid everything out in a spreadsheet. Double-checking assumptions is always wise. It seems Nolan isn’t the only one that would prefer a cubicle and a bit of time to compose himself.
“Based on its speed, An̆duru took centuries to get here. Depending on its point of origin, it could have been sent when Columbus set sail for the Americas. For that matter, it could have launched during the reign of Alexander the Great. Or as far back as when the first stones were being laid for the pyramids. We just don’t know. The only thing that’s certain is that it has been out there a long time.”
She fiddles with her paper, hoping she hasn’t missed a decimal point somewhere.
“At the speed An̆duru was traveling when it entered our solar system, it would take five hundred years to cover one light year.
“Regardless of where it’s from, it set out long before we began broadcasting our intelligence to the stars. So no, they don’t know anything about us as an intelligent, spacefaring species. At least not until they got quite close.”
Kath sees an opening in the reporter’s stunned response. If he’s in shock, so is everyone else. When faced with the unknown, most people become defensive, retreating in fear. Kath has the opportunity to steer the ship in another direction.
“We need to lead with science. Whatever this is, it’s the product of science. Regardless of where you go in the universe, hydrogen has only one proton. Two plus two equals four. For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Science gives us our best shot at interacting with An̆duru.”
Several more questions are called out but the President brings the briefing to a close.
“As we learn more, we’ll share more information with you. For now, it’s important to focus on the science, and that’s going to take time. We will see you again tomorrow at 10 am. Thank you.”
She turns and walks away from the lectern, followed closely by Nolan so Kath falls in line behind them. Once they’re outside the room, the President swings around, holding her finger barely an inch from Kath’s face. Until this point, the President has been calm. Now she’s enraged.
“Do not,” she says, emphasizing those two words through gritted teeth, “talk about interacting with this thing. Understood?”
Kath nods.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the President says. Sh
e stalks off, leaving them standing alone in the corridor.
Layers
“I told you,” Andy says, pointing at a camera barely visible against the glare of his studio lighting. “You heard it here first on Truth@War, but now it’s been confirmed by none other than the President of the goddamn United States of America.
“Comets ain’t dark. Calling this thing dim or obscure never made any sense. An̆duru Kumārayā. It’s the Prince of Darkness. That goddamn comet is an alien spacecraft! There’s no hiding it. It’s all in the open now. We’ve won. Call it what you will. I call it Satan. Lucifer. Beelzebub. Don’t you see? We’ve caught these bastards in their lies.”
He chuckles, looking down at his notes. Breaking eye contact and laughing are effective ways of building rapport. They’re mixers. They’re different ways of engaging with his non-existent audience. Oh, hundreds of thousands of people will watch him online, but Andy has to play to an empty garage. He has to appeal to an audience that’s not seated in front of him. Real-time feedback is missing from his virtual world, so he has to imagine their response and react to that. People love spontaneity. Somewhere out there, they’re laughing with him, rejoicing that he’s been proven right.
“We did it! You and me. We forced their hand. They had no choice. They had to come clean.”
Andy smiles. He knows the drill. Anyone that’s good at vlogging has to be a master of body language. Smiles are an art form. People think they involve the mouth and perhaps even the teeth, but that thinking’s too small. Smiles encompass the jaw, the cheeks, the eyes, and even the brow. If they’re to be believed, they need to involve the whole face, otherwise they come off as cheap and insincere.
“Now, the thing you have to understand is layers. A conspiracy is a secret. As soon as it’s revealed, it’s no longer a conspiracy—it’s a fact. What did you see in that press conference? Do you know what I saw? Layers.
He taps the desk, letting his passion flow.
“They only ever give up a little information, just enough to gain your trust, but don’t be fooled. There are layers to their lies. They tell you there’s a spaceship. They don’t tell you how they know. They won’t tell you they’re already talking to them.”
“NASA does this all the time. NASA sends electromagnetic radio waves to space probes around Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. You don’t seriously expect me to believe we’re not talking to this thing as well? Ha! They’re already in contact. They’re taking orders from their overlords.”
Andy presses a pressure mat with his foot. The image on the screen behind him changes. A dark, menacing spaceship appears, moving against a backdrop of stars. The details are vague. The warship is elongated. Spikes extend from the bow. There are turrets in the shadows. It’s fake, but it looks convincing. Andy paid almost five thousand dollars for this animation, but it was worth it.
“This has always been and will always be about taking our freedoms!” He bellows, “The United States! That’s what they hate. They hate that we’re united. That we have freedom of speech and the ability to defend that speech.
“I’m telling you. You can’t trust them. They’re lying. Right now, they’re preparing the camps. They’re going to round up dissenters. No one will be able to speak against the arrival of their masters. They won’t allow it.
“Don’t believe them. Don’t listen to their lies!”
Jorge
Jorge stands in front of a wooden bench on a decrepit pier in Vera Cruz, Mexico. Beside him, the day’s catch rests on ice. Seagulls squawk, floating on the breeze, looking for scraps. Flies buzz through the air.
He holds a six-pound sea trout by the gills and runs the back of his knife across its skin. Starting at the tail and working up to the head, he strips away the scales. An old electric pump feeds seawater out of a rusting tap. Loose scales swirl within the stainless steel basin, washing down the drain and back into the sea.
Jorge’s brutish and quick. He handles the fish as though it weighs almost nothing. Once scaled, he flips it over, slices open its belly and scoops out its innards. With a flick of his hands, he dumps them into the sea, much to the delight of the gulls.
Jorge uses a hatchet to sever the head. He runs his knife along the spine, filleting the fish. The head, tail, and spine go into a tub for use in a broth. The fillets are stacked on wire trays, ready to be smoked. He’s lost count of the number of fish he’s handled. Once it mattered. When he was younger, the count was a matter of pride. Now, it’s enough to know he must finish before dinner.
Dozens of rickety piers dot the beach. They reach from the city slums to well beyond the low tide mark. Waves wash around the support pillars. Trawlers nudge car tires tied to wooden piles.
All along the beach, kids wade into the water. Most of them are cooling off after the heat of the day. Some are fishing. They’re trying to catch the flounder and speckled trout that come in to feed on the offal floating on the waves.
Behind him, the sun slips below the mountains. A breeze blows in from the Gulf. Jorge finds his rhythm. Grab a fish, descale, gut, lop off the head, and slice a couple of fillets. Grab another. And another.
By the time Jorge finishes, the Moon has risen. He pushes a cart with ten trays packed with fillets into his makeshift smoker. Originally, the metal shell was a commercial dry-cleaning machine owned by his sister. Like all things, it broke down once too often and was discarded. Jorge traded the parts and kept the frame. He cut a hole in the top to act as a chimney and set up a tray for the wood fire. He repurposed the steel racks that once held fancy clothing to hold his fish.
Jorge starts a fire and waits for the flames to build. He adds bark soaked in lime juice and herbs. Pungent white smoke billows within the empty shell. Jorge slides the trays in and closes the door. After four hours of smoking, his fish will be ready for the market.
“Hey, Papa. Dinner’s ready.”
“Coming,” he replies. “Just cleaning up.”
Maria is good to Jorge. Too good. She should be living her own life, not caring for her aging father. Besides, Jorge’s convinced he can tend to his own needs. If he can handle a trawler at sea, can he not clean his own house and cook his own meals?
Jorge’s wife died a couple of years ago from a disease he couldn’t name. In America, she would have had a chance. In Mexico, she went from healthy one day to dead by the weekend. While Jorge struggled to understand what was happening, Maria knew. She’s a nurse at the local hospital. She pleaded with the doctors for help, but her mother slipped away before the antibiotics she so desperately needed arrived from the US. Maria and her boys moved in a few weeks later and have stayed ever since. Jorge told her she didn’t have to, but Maria is like her mother. She’s as kind as she is strong.
Jorge wants to feel useful. Perhaps that’s why he spends so much time at the local orphanage instead of with his own grandsons. Oh, he loves Maria and the boys, but he’s drawn to the orphanage. He finds a sense of purpose in helping others.
Jorge seals the plastic tub full of fish heads and tails. He hoses down the pier as the cool of evening falls. Once he’s finished, he kills the electric pump and drags the tub over to the tiny shack he’s proud to call home.
Waves lap softly at the shore. Time to relax.
Jorge sits on the porch and kicks off his boots. Insects swarm around the light above him, but he doesn’t care. It’s cooler out here. Besides, he loves the smell of the ocean. After eighteen hours on his feet, he’s not moving.
Jorge sailed for the fishing grounds just after midnight. He spent the early hours of the morning trawling forty miles offshore. Coming back, his first port of call was the tourist market beside the main docks. Spanish mackerel, red snapper, and wahoo fetch a reasonable price from the rich. Tonight, some American will be feasting on his catch in a fancy hotel somewhere in Tampico or Cancun. Most of his haul was sea trout, which is good eating in the slums, especially when smoked.
His eyes grow heavy. Tomorrow, he’ll take his fillets to the market. The
next day, he’ll do this all again. For now, he can rest.
“Here you go, Papa,” Maria says, handing him a bowl of beans and smoked tuna—he saves the best fish for his family.
“Thank you.”
Chilies bite at his mouth, reviving his tired soul.
“Evening,” Padre Jesus says, coming along the boardwalk.
“Hey, Padre. You hungry?” Jorge says, patting the seat beside him.
“I’m full,” the padre says.
“I have your fish heads on ice,” Jorge says, pointing to the tub.
“Thank you, my friend.”
“I’ll bring whatever doesn’t sell to the orphanage tomorrow.”
“You are doing the Lord’s work,” the padre says, sitting beside him.
Jorge has his mouth full so he doesn’t reply, but he smiles, nodding. His daughter Maria stands in the doorway listening.
“Have you heard the news?” the padre asks.
“News?”
“They say, aliens are coming.”
“From Honduras?” Jorge asks, surprised. Those fleeing decades of civil unrest in Central America usually stick to the coastal roads along the Pacific. He’s only ever seen a handful of refugees risk the mountain pass to Vera Cruz. Too many bandits.
Padre Jesus says, “From Saturn.”
“Saturn?” Jorge laughs, spitting a mouthful of rice back into his bowl.
He looks out at stars rising over the Gulf, asking, “From there? Out in space?”
“Yes, my friend. They’re coming here.”
“Here?” Jorge asks in disbelief. “To Vera Cruz? Why would they come here?”
“Not here,” the padre says. “To Earth.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“Are they like the man from Krypton? The Superman?” Jorge asks. “Faster than bullets and stronger than steel?”
Padre Jesus laughs. “I don’t know.”
“Did you know about this?” Jorge asks his daughter.
“Everyone knows. It’s all they’re talking about on the American TV.”
Wherever Seeds May Fall (First Contact) Page 8