Andy’s engrossed in the discussion.
Dr. McKenzie says, “Science starts with questions, not answers. Scientists are human. If anyone wants to find a cause for autism, it’s us. We want answers. Solutions. But we won’t invent them where they don’t exist. So this guy lies, and we spend decades double checking—just in case!”
Andy says, “I guess, deep down, we’re not all that different, huh? We all want answers.”
“Yes,” she says. “The difference is in what satisfies our thirst. Science is just a bunch of ideas that have been tested. That’s all.
“No scientist will object if you claim the President of the United States is a lizard-person. They will want to know how you propose to test your idea, though. Until it’s tested, it’s meaningless.
“By themselves, ideas are nothing more than the churning of a restless mind. Ideas have to be proven to have merit. Without testing, they’re worthless.”
Andy says, “That’s just common sense, right?”
“Science is not common sense,” Dr. McKenzie says, surprising him. “Common sense tells me the sun goes over my house during the day. I can see it!” She points to her right, slowly bringing her arm up above her and over to the left. “The damn thing starts over there. Rises above the trees. Looms high over my balcony. And then sets on the other side of my apartment, dropping behind the mountains.
“There’s nothing in my daily experience to convince me otherwise, and yet that perspective is entirely misleading.
“The funny thing is, there’s nothing wrong with this kind of thinking in daily life. Even though it’s incorrect, I still refer to sunrise and sunset. But the sun doesn’t rise or set. Earth turns. And yet, that distinction makes no difference in ordinary life. I can be a successful mechanic or work at the corner store, and I’m no poorer for thinking it’s the sun that orbits Earth rather than the other way around.”
Andy asks, “So flat-earthers aren’t all that crazy?”
“They’re not crazy, but they are ignoring science. They’re isolating themselves, cutting themselves off from learning more about the world around them. They’re retreating two and a half thousand years into the past. Personally, I’m happy to side with Pythagoras. He and Aristotle and Eratosthenes did the math. They figured this out long before we put satellites in orbit.”
“If they’re not crazy, what difference does it make?” Andy asks.
“Ah,” Dr. McKenzie says. “It’s a matter of precision. If you want to build a house, you don’t need to account for the curvature of Earth. You can treat the ground as flat. It won’t make any difference. But if you want to build the Golden Gate Bridge, you have to take into account a spherical Earth. Even though the bridge pylons are perfectly straight, they lean away from each other as the Earth curves. That affects the length of the suspension cables and their tolerances. How they’re going to handle an earthquake, stuff like that. Oh, but it’s only a few inches. Yes, but keep building bigger and longer things and you’ll find it becomes ever more important to be precise. When it comes to flights between countries, the shortest distance in three dimensions follows a curve when drawn on a map.
“If you’re happy to live like the Amish, you’re welcome to consider the Earth as flat. But if you want things like GPS on your smartphone, it would be wise to accept science.
“The thing you have to understand is science is not normal. What’s normal is superstition. What’s normal is jumping to conclusions. If science was the norm, it wouldn’t have taken us tens of thousands of years to figure out the basics.”
Andy asks, “So why do we jump to conclusions?” He pauses, laughing as he adds, “Asking for a friend.”
“We see patterns,” she says. “That’s just what we do. Look at a cloud and you won’t see water vapor condensing in the air. You’ll see the Lion King or an alligator. You’ll see everything that’s not actually there. Why? Because our brains are hardwired to make snap decisions based on fragments of information. This way of thinking was essential to surviving in Africa. Lions really could creep up on you in the long grass. Recognizing that shape out of the corner of your eye was invaluable, but it’s a lousy way to make decisions in the 21st century.”
Andy nods as she continues.
“The reason people don’t trust science is because it’s not obvious. If it was, the choice would be simple.
“Also, we’re hardwired to be suspicious of strangers. As most people don’t know any scientists personally, they struggle to trust them. Was 9/11 an inside job? If you’ve been watching Dave’s YouTube channel and Dave’s a funny guy and Dave says yes, so will you. You sure as hell won’t believe some grumpy scientist you’ve never heard of before.”
“Okay,” Andy says, picking up another question from his social media feed. “LibTears from Gunnison, Colorado asks, Why should I believe in climate change?”
“You shouldn’t. Next question.”
“Wait? What?” Andy replies. He dangled some bait, but she didn’t bite.
“No one is trying to change your beliefs,” Dr. McKenzie says. “I don’t want you to believe in climate change. I want you to understand it.
“Beliefs are overrated. The Eiffel Tower is in France. It makes no difference whether you believe that or not.
“Our beliefs are irrelevant. Understanding is far more important than beliefs.
“Beliefs control people. Understanding inspires people.
“I don’t want to control anyone. I want LibTears to step outside the bubble and learn for himself. I want LibTears to understand. I want him to be inspired to act.
“Don’t overcomplicate climate change. You don’t need a Ph.D. to understand this. Look at the global temperatures over the past century. They’ve risen in line with fossil fuel emissions. The whole concept really is as simple as the Eiffel Tower is in France. Climate change shouldn’t be a political issue or a point of contention.
“Science is not a question of beliefs.”
Andy is stunned by her answer. He looks at his social media monitor, wanting to pick up another question. The live view count has reached forty-nine million and rising! He’s about to say something when several network crews come through the back door. Their broadcast cameras have lights and microphones attached. There’s someone in a suit with a lanyard hanging around their neck directing traffic. They only let a couple of people from each team through.
Andy says, “And we are ready for the main event.” He switches on a portable camera and manually overrides his automated system. This gives him control for a moment. He turns the handheld camera around, reversing the view as he yells, “Let’s get ready to rummmmble!”
Andy swivels the GoPro around, adding, “You can see the SWAT team over there. Wave boys. Be nice.” Neither officer flinches. “And here come the broadcast networks. Okay, it’s time to talk about all things alien. We ain’t barking at a knot no more. It’s time to ride, my friends.”
He turns off the portable camera and the studio cameras kick in again.
“In two days,” the general says, “shortly after midnight, Comet An̆duru is going to pass over the Gulf of Mexico. We really don’t know what to expect. Given what we’ve seen on other planets, we anticipate the release of vast amounts of energy. We need the public to take this seriously.”
“How vast?” Andy asks. “Are we talking nukes?”
“This will not be a nuclear detonation,” the general says. “In 1908, we saw something similar over Siberia in Russia. An iron meteorite skipped off the atmosphere, coming in at a low angle and bouncing back out into space.”
“Tunguska,” Andy says. “You’re talking about the Tunguska event!”
“Yes. But nothing hit the ground. There were no fragments. No crater. But it released enough energy to flatten trees over eight hundred square miles. Basically, it devastated an area the size of Rhode Island.”
Andy points at the desk in front of him, “And you think that’s going to happen again, but over the Gulf?”
“Yes.”
“Only bigger?”
“Yes.”
“How much bigger?” Andy asks, feeling that’s a pertinent question. He senses reluctance from the general on this point.
“Ten times bigger.”
“And how big was the explosion over Tunguska?” Andy asks. “What would it have equated to in megatons?”
The general defers to Dr. McKenzie with a slight wave of his hand.
She says, “Roughly thirty megatons.”
“So An̆duru is packing somewhere around three hundred megatons?” Andy asks.
“Yes.”
“Fuck!”
“That’s one way to put it,” Dr. McKenzie says.
“And over the Gulf, that’ll cause what? A tsunami?” Andy asks.
“It’s possible,” she says. “It depends how deep An̆duru descends into our atmosphere before being deflected.”
Andy is unusually quiet in the way he poses his questions. Normally, he shouts. That he’s subdued is probably unsettling for his viewers. This is no longer about theatrics. In a soft voice, he asks, “How big will the wave be?”
“Ah, we really don’t know, but we advise anyone living within fifty miles of the coast to evacuate. People should avoid low-lying areas, estuaries, and river mouths for up to four hours following the event.”
Andy shakes his head. He’s got nothing. Dr. McKenzie waits for a follow-up question. She nudges his foot.
“Okay. Well. That’s interesting.” He raises an eyebrow, screwing up his face. “Alright. What else can we expect? What should we be doing?”
“Good question,” Dr. McKenzie says, smiling. She appears a little too cheerful as she responds, “Do not look directly at the event. You should be indoors, not outside. Preferably in a basement, against the south-facing wall. The more stuff there is between you and the passage of An̆duru, the better.”
“So basement parking garages are good,” Andy says. “Hilltops with a pair of binoculars, bad.”
“Very bad,” Dr. McKenzie says. “Like you’ll never see anything ever again kind of bad.”
“Got it. What else?”
“We’re evacuating oil rigs and refineries in the region. Utility companies will disconnect from the grid for at least an hour, so there won’t be any power during the encounter. This will affect all homes and businesses and even services such as streetlights. Police and paramedics may not be available immediately before or after the event. Please do not use 911 for anything other than a life-threatening emergency.
“We’ve advised hospitals to take themselves offline at midnight. Patients should be moved to a safe area, preferably a basement parking garage. Backup generators should be disabled. Any devices that use battery power should be disconnected.”
“Wait?” Andy says. “Any device? Like everything?”
“Yes,” Dr. McKenzie says. “We’re anticipating an electromagnetic surge covering most of North America. At midnight, your viewers should disconnect their television from the wall. They should unplug computers, fridges, microwave ovens, dishwashers, dryers, hot water heaters, bedside lamps. Everything.
“It’s not enough to simply turn your devices off. You must unplug them. You should disconnect the battery in your car. If possible, you should take the battery out of your cellphone and laptop. Take the batteries out of your flashlights and portable radios. If you have an old-style fuse box in your house, you should turn off the mains power and remove the fuses. People with newer homes should flip their circuit breakers into the off position.”
For Andy, the most terrifying aspect of what he’s hearing is the matter-of-fact way in which Dr. McKenzie describes what should be done.
“We do not recommend using candles. A naked flame always presents a fire risk. Please, do not use candles or gas lanterns. In some areas, it may not be possible to restore power immediately. Emergency services have access to diesel generators, so they should be back online, but you may be without power for several hours. Please be patient during this time. There’s no need for panic.”
“N—No need?” Andy says, stuttering in disbelief. “We’re under attack. How is this not an act of war?”
“This is not an attack,” the general says. “Let’s be clear about that. The vessel is simply using our upper atmosphere to slow down, just as it did when it reached Saturn and Jupiter. And it’ll go on to do the same thing around Venus.”
“We’re being cautious,” Dr. McKenzie says. “An̆duru could pass us by barely scraping the atmosphere. In which case, it’ll be nothing more than a streak in the sky, but we can’t assume that. We need to be prepared.”
“So this isn’t War of the Worlds?” Andy asks.
“No.”
“How can you be so confident?” he asks. “You’re a scientist. You want us to trust you about 5G and vaccines. Where’s your evidence about An̆duru?”
For a moment, Dr. McKenzie looks down at the desk, hanging her head, resigned to what’s coming.
“Science isn’t about absolutes,” she says. “Science is about being willing to learn more.”
“So this could be the end of the world?” Andy asks. No sooner have those words been spoken than he regrets them, knowing the uncertainty they’ll stir up.
“It could,” she says begrudgingly, “but it’s not. All I can tell you is, we’ve looked at this from every angle. We’ve taken into account every piece of evidence available to us. We’ve tapped the brightest minds alive. An̆duru is not attacking Earth. It’s simply slowing down. It will continue to slow when it rounds Venus. Once it has reached a regular orbital speed within our solar system, we expect it to come back beside us.”
“And then what?”
Dr. McKenzie shrugs. “Then everything changes.”
Evacuation
A helicopter flies low over the slums. A speaker blares over the sound of the rotor blades thrashing at the air.
“An evacuation order is in place for Heroica, Vera Cruz. Tune in to Radio One or your local television news for more detail. Everyone must evacuate. You need to leave now. You must move fifty miles inland.”
People stand around looking up into the sky. The military helicopter makes its way over the city, repeating its message. Jorge ignores it, chopping the head off another fish and gutting it as he stands on the edge of his pier.
“Papa, we need to go,” Maria says, running up beside him as he works on the fillets.
“There is no storm,” Jorge replies, pointing at the clear blue skies out above the Gulf of Mexico. “Hurricanes go north, toward America, not south.”
“It’s not a hurricane, Papa. It’s the alien.”
He grabs another fish. His ax thunders down on the head of a Red Snapper he’s picked out for dinner tonight. He would have sold it to the traders at the port, but somehow it got mixed in with the sea trout. Jorge’s looking forward to eating Snapper.
“The alien isn’t coming here,” he says. “Why would the alien come to Vera Cruz?”
“Papa, it’s on the TV. The American President. She says the scientists tell her so.”
“And you believe her?”
“Mexico believes her,” Maria replies. “They evacuated Laguna and Tampico yesterday.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” Jorge says, laughing. “If the alien comes here, we will feast together on Snapper.”
“You don’t understand. It is going to pass through the sky, unleashing nuclear bombs.”
“Nonsense,” Jorge says, filleting the Snapper. “Why would the alien do that?”
“Papa, please. The hospital is relocating to Cordoba. They’re letting us take our families.”
“Then take them,” Jorge says. “Take the boys.”
“Oh, Papa, if you stay here, you’ll die.”
“I’m not leaving my boat to the bandits.”
“The aliens are coming. Tonight. We have to leave. We must.”
But to Jorge’s mind, such a concept is too fantastic to believe. Here? They
’re coming to Vera Cruz? Maria grabs him by the shoulders, turning him away from his catch, but he pulls back. Her hands drop to her side.
With tears in her eyes, Maria pleads with him. “It’s just for a day, Papa. Please. I can get you a seat on the bus, but you must come. Now.”
Jorge puts down his knife and rinses his hands under the running seawater. With calloused thumbs, he wipes away her tears.
“I’m an old man. This is all I have left. You. You’re young. You go. Me? I have nowhere to go. I could never start again. I will take my chances with the alien.”
Maria sobs, burying her head in his chest.
“Think of the kids,” she says. “If not your own grandchildren, then those in the orphanage. What will they do without their papa? Who will bring them smoked fish?”
As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s being stubborn. His eyes drop from hers. The helicopter circles back, flying low over the water with its speaker blaring. The side door is open. The loadmaster is pointing. From behind the dark visor on his helmet, he stares at them, perplexed by their inertia.
Jorge has tears in his eyes. They refuse to roll down his cheeks. For the past forty years, this is all he’s ever known. There’s comfort in routine. Change scares him. Whether it’s the approach of an alien spacecraft or fleeing to Cordoba, it’s heart-wrenching to leave his life behind. He feels as though he’s being stripped naked.
The drab olive green helicopter flies on, corralling the locals.
“I will come,” he says, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Maria doesn’t say anything. She simply looks into his eyes. Her lips tremble, revealing her anguish. She knows how hard this is for her father.
“You go on ahead,” he says. “I will take the truck up to the orphanage and help Padre Jesus with the children. We’ll meet you at Cordoba.”
Maria wipes her tears. She leans in, kissing him on the cheek, saying, “Hurry. Be quick.”
Wherever Seeds May Fall (First Contact) Page 19