Robert Wilson and the Invasion from Within

by Scott Ruesterholz

  “Tonight, there will be an 8:00 PM curfew nationally. Schools and all but essential businesses are closed for the duration of the week out of an abundance of caution. Looting, violence, and any criminal behavior will not be tolerated. Rest assured, all governments are working closely together, and so we expect you, our citizenry to be calm and act accordingly. I know we can rise to this challenge. Americans always have.

  “To our alien friends who I am sure are listening, every nation has asked our news networks to leave the 6 to 6:30 PM Eastern time slot open, so you can speak to the world if you so wish. From there, we hope to engage constructively with you. God bless the United States of America.”

  The camera flips off, and President Neverian sighs a breath of relief. He delivered the remarks flawlessly; hopefully, he has reassured the public to remain calm, at least until 6:00 PM. His advisors give him thumbs up, and there is scattered applause. His wife and three children who were listening in the adjoining room burst in, and he crouches down to give his kids a big bear hug.

  “Want some ice cream?” he asks his kids.

  “Yes! Please!”

  “Alright, let’s get out of here.”

  Neverian knows family time will be hard to come by in the next few days, but the next few hours should be quiet, so he’s looking forward to at least an hour with his kids before he’ll be back at work in the Situation Room, waiting alongside humanity for someone on the spacecraft to speak.

  Nearly every world leader reads these same words as they address their people. The only exception is Russian President Mikhail Malvodov, an authoritarian nationalistic strongman, who includes a final concluding sentence in his remarks: “Let me assure you that only a Russian will ever rule over the Russian people.” Malvodov is a pariah on the world stage, generally contemptuous of international norms and politically oppressive to his own people. Little is known of his background other than that he has worked in various intelligence agencies. He stands at around five foot eight inches, stout, and has combed-back fluffy white hair, with cutting blue eyes that never betray an emotion. He has been ruler of Russia for over thirteen years, and while Russia was nominally a “democracy,” it’s well known that the elections were rigged, which is ironic because Malvodov is likely sufficiently popular to win fair elections anyway. Even though he brutally cracks down on political dissidents, Russia’s economy has boomed in recent years due to Arctic mining, buoying his popularity and funding a military modernization effort. Despite his uncouthness, his fellow leaders recognize his cunningness and shrewdness in international affairs. Undoubtedly, his off-script remarks will be the subject of much chatter overnight in diplomatic circles.

  It’s barely 3:30 PM, less than twenty minutes from the conclusion of the leaders’ remarks, but it feels like hours to all of humanity. Time has slowed to an interminable crawl as they wait for the clock to strike 6:00 PM. Most major cities have become ghost towns. Streets are empty, bars and restaurants closed. Everyone is home with their families.

  Robert is still in his office with Mark and Chris, the closest thing he has to family. The TV is still on in the background with pundits discussing the speech and unified global response. The reviews are glowing, and their idle speculation as to what the aliens may or may not say fills the empty time. Arbor Ridge has just sent a company-wide email, giving all but a few “essential” employees the rest of the week off from work, as per the President’s orders.

  “He’s sure a smooth operator. I would’ve been shaking. Heck, I’m just watching and I’m shaking,” Chris says, betraying his trademark nervousness.

  “And that was a smart move, having every world leader speak together, though of course Malvodov was going to do his own thing,” Mark chimes in.

  “But was he wrong?” Robert asks.

  “What do you mean, Robert? There’s no need to be provocative.”

  “I mean we all know he’s a tyrant, and no one should ‘rule over’ the Russian people, they should govern over themselves. But he’s got a point. We seek peace, but not in exchange for servitude. Some things are worth fighting for,” Robert pointedly responds.

  “Sure, but I don’t think Neverian was suggesting that,” Chris jumps in.

  “I hope you’re right Chris. I really do. I just, I’m just not sure…” Robert trails off as he stares off into the distance. Mark and Chris know this look. The gears are turning; he’s pondering over something, a thought that has been nagging at him for some time is resurfacing.

  “Okay, I have some things to do. Go, get out here, go to your families. You’ve been neglecting them too much the last few weeks as it is.”

  Just as they get up to leave, his desk phone rings. Chris and Mark only hear half of the conversation.

  “Hello?”

  “Mister President, those were wonderful remarks. True leadership. How can I help?”

  “I see.”

  “Absolutely, you can count on me. I’ll be there.”

  Robert hangs up, leans back in his chair, and brings his clasped hands to his face.

  After about a thirty-second silence weighs on the room, Chris asks, “Well? What did he want?”

  “You know, I haven’t talked with him since the day I called him after he won his election to congratulate him. I forgot how winning his personality is,” Robert gleefully non-answers, happy to string along his friends.

  “And he called because…?” Chris tries again.

  “Well, there’s that big spaceship in the sky behind us,” Robert points out the window.

  “Yes, we’re aware, why specifically did he call though?” Chris tries again.

  Having enjoyed himself as spectator to these shenanigans, Mark decides to help his friend out, “Where is it you said you’ll be?”

  “Oh, that. He invited me to the White House tomorrow. Apparently, he’s hosting a bunch of corporate and social leaders to discuss our response to whatever it is the aliens say tonight.”

  “He’s got a good PR mind,” marvels Mark. “He’s got world leaders on board, speaking from the same script. Now, he’ll get non-government voices to join the chorus.”

  “True. Okay, I’ve got work to do, get out of here and to your families.”

  With that, Chris and Mark walk out, Robert takes his elevator back down to Project Ridley, and walks into his office, determined to find an answer to a question he has been wrestling over for months. With a few keystrokes on a computer, a hole forms in the black sphere, and a ramp pulls out. Robert walks up the ramp and goes into the sphere.

  Finally, it’s 6:00 PM on the East Coast. Robert is back in his office with the TV on, perhaps the only man above ground in the Jersey City tower.

  President Neverian is back in the White House bunker. He’s seated at the head of the table, surrounded by generals and advisors. There are two TV screens on the far wall. One is linking him to a bunker in West Virginia where Vice President Victoria Larom has been taken. For government continuity purposes, they are to remain in different places, at least for today. Neverian is happy to have it this way, never viewing her as a close advisor in the first place. Like all of humanity, a news channel is broadcast on the second screen.

  Every news channel is just showing a blank, black screen. No transmission yet. 6:01, nothing. 6:02, nothing. Then with a screech, the screen goes white, and a figure appears.

  Supreme General of the League Council Anton Frozos is now sixty years old. His red eyes are as fiery as ever, but his frame seems a bit slighter than Robert remembers it. Rather than his customary brown military tunic, he is wearing a white button-down shirt, likely an effort to humanize himself, Robert assumes. Most strikingly, a deep scar runs from the outside of his left eye nearly to the edge of his lip. Robert can only wonder who or what caused it.

  “Greetings, Earth. My name is Anton Frozos. I am the Supreme General of the League Council. This council governs the Leagu
e of Planets: a galaxy wide federation. Today, 478 planets make up the League, and we hope to make your Earth number 479.

  “We come from a more ancient, distant part of the universe. Our technology is far more advanced than yours; that’s how I am able to speak to each of you in your native tongue: English, French, Chinese, and so on. We have developed speedways—imagine them as shortcuts—folding spacetime and allowing us to travel great distances that would have taken decades in mere minutes. The transport destroyer above your United Nations building hopped through these speedways to reach your planet. I am speaking to you through this ship, but it is commanded by Admiral Tyrone Tiberius who is my representative on this mission.

  “Earth’s location in the universe will be a critical junction in our network of speedways as we seek travel to the far distances of this galaxy. That is why we offer you ascension into the League. Merge into our federation and coexist with our government structure. We seek peace and deal fairly with those whom deal fairly with us. We can share our technologies and advance your civilization generations forward in mere days.

  “But know that if you resist this offer, Admiral Tiberius has my full authority to act as necessary to convince you to change your mind. His ship carries fifty-seven thousand crew, hundreds of space fighters, landing vehicles, and planetary weapons you have yet to imagine. And his ship is but one of hundreds in our military.

  “There is but one logical choice. Join us. And if you do, we expect unanimity. This is a planetary decision, and I do not tolerate rebels and saboteurs. You have seventy-two hours to provide Tiberius with your answer. That is 6:00 PM New York time, April fifth.”

  Seventy-two hours, Robert thinks to himself. He has been preparing himself for this very day for the majority of his life, and the next three days need to go perfectly to have any chance of success. And even then, it would be a long shot.

  Chapter 6

  The White House

  April 3, 2029

  Robert Wilson takes his seat at a long table in the Cabinet Room of the White House. There’s a giant rectangular table, with perhaps twenty seats on each side and two at each end. President Nick Neverian will be sitting at the center, his back to the windows. Robert is on the other side and about five chairs off-center. He is still wearing a black suit jacket and American flag lapel pin, but he’s traded the t-shirt for a white button-down shirt and a blue-and-yellow striped tie. Now is not a time to be a corporate mascot.

  It’s 9:00 AM, and he’s tired. With the total lockdown on air travel, he drove instead, leaving at 4:00 AM, not that he would have been able to sleep anyway. The roads were empty. Fortunately, for the moment, people are calm, or at least shell-shocked, to be more accurate. There has not been significant civil unrest, looting, or panic, though Robert noticed a much larger police presence on Washington D.C.’s streets.

  As well as Robert, there are numerous dignitaries in the room: leaders of international institutions like the World Bank and UNESCO, organizations like the Chamber of Commerce, Unions, major charities, a movie star, the Archbishop of Washington, a musician, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and several other business leaders. Robert is set to be seated next to Attorney General Brian Braddock, who fortunately is yet to arrive. Much of the crowd is mingling, but Robert sits at his seat, takes out his phone, and plays one of the first viral apps he “invented”—a Tetris-like block game. He swipes away news alerts of troops amassing on the Russia-China border; those rumors have been flying around for several hours now, ever since President Malvodov went off-script in his remarks.

  Finally, Braddock sits down. “Morning, Robert how are you?” he asks, extending his hand.

  Robert shakes it. “I’m just relieved you have something else to do than investigate me for a change,” he says with a smile.

  “It must awkward for you to be here.”

  “Why?” Robert asks, feigning ignorance.

  “I think six of the attendees used to run companies you acquired.” He points them out. “Myself, Johnson who the President put at the World Bank, Clemons at Commerce, Sayers our Ambassador to the UN, Stewartson, and Paulson.”

  “It’s seven—you forgot Bill Williamson. Understandable—he’s a forgettable man. But I don’t see why it’d be awkward for me.”

  “Well, taking over people’s companies and firing them isn’t all that endearing.”

  “That’s not how I see it, Brian. I made you all rich buying your companies, and now you’ve all got jobs where you get to spend time with the President of the United States. Seems like you should be thanking me.”

  Braddock’s smile disappears, and Robert gets back to his game.

  Finally, the President walks in. The murmurs of the crowd fall silent as everyone settles into their seat. Robert slips his phone into his pocket. Walking in with the President are China’s Ambassador to the United States, a moderately obese man of about fifty-five, and the Secretary-General of the United Nations, the former President of Chile, a woman of sixty-five, who are seated to either side of Neverian.

  Neverian, as ever, looks the part of President with a well-tailored black suit and a blue-and-red striped tie, but he looks tired. Undoubtedly, it was a night of numerous phone calls and little sleep. He has some prepared remarks laid out in front of them, but doesn’t really rely on them. It is in settings like these where Neverian really shines.

  “Thank you all for coming; the media will be here in a few minutes. You don’t have to say anything in this room, though I’m sure they will ask you for comment later if you’re inclined. Your presence here is critical as we must show a united front to rally the support of our people. I’ve asked the Chinese ambassador and Secretary-General here, because President Li and I have rallied the world’s governments to a consensus. The UN Security Council—that’s the U.S., Russia, China, France, and the United Kingdom—and several rotating members will pass a resolution today accepting entrance into the League but requesting that we manage our internal planetary affairs. It is our best option to preserve life. It’s critical everyone here support this message.”

  The heaviness of those words hangs over the room, but several individuals start voicing support.

  “Thank you,” the President continues. “So, we will bring in the press, I’ll basically repeat that, everyone will be on camera, so look resolute, and we’ll march on.”

  “I’m sorry, I have to ask,” Robert jumps in, eliciting glares from all over the room.

  Braddock pushes his chair away as though his proximity could suggest approval.

  “Yes, Mister Wilson?”

  “How do we know—even if they say yes—they’ll let us govern ourselves autonomously as we do now?”

  “We can’t for sure, but Frozos in his remarks last night didn’t signal intent in ruling over internal affairs.”

  “I just don’t think we can hand over the keys to the kingdom on a promise from an individual we know nothing about,” Robert retorts.

  “Their technology is clearly superior; it’d be a massacre. I’m trying to save lives.”

  “At what cost? Is trading in a free life for one in servitude a wise decision? Is nothing worth dying for? Sure, we’d be underdogs, but some fights need to be fought, despite the odds. That’s how he thought.” Robert points to a painting on the wall behind Neverian—it’s a portrait of George Washington.

  “Well, Washington may have been outnumbered, but the British only had guns. Who knows what weapons they have? I hear you; these decisions are not ideal, but here we are. I was elected to make tough decisions. So I need you to get on board, like everyone else.”

  Robert gives a slight nod, so Neverian nods back and signals to his aides to bring the press in.

  A rush of cameramen and reporters swarm in to the room—at least two dozen people and six cameras. They are standing at Robert’s back so they have a clear shot of the President, who proceeds to giv
e a similar brief statement that he had just outlined to the key leaders in the room. When he’s finished, China’s ambassador briefly speaks, echoing Neverian’s remarks and signaling his nation’s support for the proposal. The Secretary-General then speaks to outline the process. Reporters start shouting questions, which Neverian ignores as his aides attempt to shuffle them out of the room. The photo op is over.

  Sensing the moment slipping away, Robert jumps in, “That’s a good question, did you hear that Mister President?”

  “I’m sorry?” Neverian inquires as he glares an annoyed look at Robert.

  “The reporter, over there, I think she asked about Russia and China?” Robert points to her, by the far head of the table.

  “Thank you, Mister Wilson,” the reporter says. “Yes, Mister President, there are press reports of troops amassing on the border of Russia and China. I was wondering if you or the ambassador have a comment on that situation?”

  “Well, I think it’s important for us to put aside our squabbles, not fight amongst ourselves, or be aggressors. And I would condemn and will not tolerate any destabilizing or military actions. Okay?” Neverian says.

  “I’m relieved to hear you say that, Mister President,” Robert says, leaning forward in his chair to insert himself into the conversation. “I’m not a diplomat, but it sounds to me like we believe all international borders should be respected?”

  “That’s one hundred percent what I’m saying, Robert.”

  “I think that’s comforting to hear for many, no, all of us. I know you’re not a man of idle threats, so I assume it’s safe to say the United States would stand with a nation who was attacked and provide military support? As you know, Arbor Ridge maintains a large inventory of arms, and if a nation came under attack during this time, we’d gladly provide supplies for free. I agree with you, it’s a time for solidarity.”