329 Years Awake

by Ellie Maloney

  The General finished the factual portion of the briefing and proceeded with the assignment. “Officers, your subcommand is specialized in asymmetric warfare tactics. Your skill is in devising strategies to fight a vastly different enemy, and until now this has meant fighting against militias, rebels and the like - insurgences on their own terrain. We need you to use this skill and apply it to the scenario, where the United States of America plays the role of a lesser power on a home terrain, and the enemy is vastly exceeding and utterly unknown.”

  Low-level shuffle and whispers traveled the room. It did not take a genius to conclude that such a vastly superior power hardly existed on the face of the Earth. Japan was out of the question; the nation used its citizens as human shields. Although it was an effective, albeit sickening, tactic, it was not the kind of scenario the Pentagon General presently described. The U.K. was an ally, and even if it would go rogue, as unlikely a scenario as it was, it would not be able to put forward the kind of advanced technology that had been observed last night over Los Angeles. Germany? Yes, Germany was a formidable force, but the chances of a German air force coming this close to the U.S. and remaining unnoticed were minimal. Plus, Germany was overextended on the European front at that time.

  So, the Soviet Union? Also bogged down in the war, it’s technical capacity was not a secret. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell this type of technology could be produced by the Soviets. John quickly went over all the suspects in his head and discarded each one of them as the likely enemy. Then he raised his hand to directly address the General.

  “I see a question in the audience. Glad you regained your breath, Ensign. Go ahead.”

  “Sir, there is no enemy power on Earth that would warrant the asymmetric warfare analysis that you’ve requested, where the U.S. would fight as a lesser indigenous power against a vastly surpassing enemy. With all due respect, who are we dealing with?”

  ***

  Argon presided at a meeting of four Unkari pilots sent over to the South Californian coast in order to gather medical analytics. Their equipment worked very well from several kilometres above the ground, scanning vast human populations on the subject of the oscillation-related pathologies.

  “Master Argon, we need new protocols on dealing with this human tribe. They are vigilant, if not to say paranoid. Their petty tribal conflicts make them jittery. I’m surprised that they don’t fire at their own shadows.” Argon smirked. This sounded like an accurate assessment of his research subjects.

  “So what exactly happened over there?”

  “At first, we needed to scan and potentially treat from brain cancer several prominent subjects in their military complex. For that purpose, we took an observational position over what they call a Douglas Factory, where they build their silly flying machines. We have several important subjects with the gene there, but they will not have time to spawn offspring if we don’t treat their cancer with a radiation blast. But since they were expecting an attack from the Japanese tribe, they spotted us immediately. Their vessels were raised in the air and followed us, preventing us from dispatching a steady radiation beam. We had to perform evasive manoeuvres. Eventually, our subjects were relieved from work duties and proceeded to their habitats in the city of Los Angeles. We followed. By that time, their military was on high alert, and they started shooting.”

  “Damage?”

  “Funny, sir. Very funny.”

  “Damage to the research subjects, you idiots!”

  Argon frowned.

  “Oh, yes. The life signs of two of the gene-bearing subjects were lost. We believe it was due to the ammunition debris that they discharged in the air. Their fire power skills are primitive and dangerous to themselves.”

  “Wonderful. I send you on a simple medical mission, and you start a war.”

  “Sir, if they were not so spooked, expecting to be attacked by their own kind, everything would go as usual. Perhaps you should obtain a permission from the Council to perform a few extractions.”

  “You know damn well that the politics on the extractions has changed. Only in case of an emergency, remember? I doubt that I can present your incompetence as warranting an emergency action. Dismissed.”

  Argon sprayed a few puffs of colored powder in the air at the pilots, who shuffled to the exit. Argon waited until they left, got off his work station and walked towards the transparent energy shield that formed the barrier between the lab and the surrounding ocean. The abyss was haunting and luring. So many times he wished that the Earth environment was not lethal to the Unkari chemistry. Otherwise he would be taking long uncloaked swims in this ocean full of vibrant and simple life. Argon missed his home planet and the green methane oceans, where he loved to dive and splash as a child. This happy time had passed many galactic rotations ago. Now he was stuck on this carbon-oxygen saturated world, where a single breath would make his blood boil, and the low atmospheric pressure would make his insides burst.

  Besides all of that, his research subjects had entered a dangerous era in their evolution. Although Unkari helped humans to become more intelligent, to grow more knowledge in order to exercise their brains so that the effects of the oscillation genes could take hold, this had caused rapid technological advancement, perhaps so rapid as to significantly threaten their own safety. Now several human tribes possessed a very primitive and dangerous technique to split the atom which they used as a weapon of mass destruction. This did not fare well with the Unkari’s plans to grow the population sample and allow it to multiply the oscillation gene. No, instead of breeding and expanding, they were striving to self-destruct. This suicidal tendency had been written about by many Unkari xeno-anthropologists. Some had suggested that subconsciously humans rebelled against their existence as laboratory subjects. A lot of fancy words were wasted on this psychobabble, thought Argon. This was a popular topic among the so-called Unkari cultural elites. To them, this human experiment was one of the most popular live entertainments, a reality show of sorts. Many Unkari enjoyed observing humans as if they would observe Lenaurian worms in a jar striving to get outside the boundaries of their understanding.

  Argon was pragmatic. To him, all these psycho-existential trash talks were just that, trash, unsubstantiated, uneducated speculations about a subject they knew nothing about. On the other hand, he knew everything there was to know about humans. He witnessed their predecessor race, an advanced and even frighteningly respectable species, that could bend reality on a deep sub-atomic level, playing with the probabilities of existence and anchoring them to a four-dimensional reality of their choosing. The First Humans were fearless and powerful. They spent their lives, albeit short ones, in productive pursuits of knowledge and advanced their understanding of the Universe. Argon respected that about them. Any truly worthy enemy evoked feelings of respect in Argon. This nonetheless did not stop him from lobbying total annihilation of the species, as a purely preventative measure.

  The First Humans, however, had presented the Unkari with an ultimate puzzle. Their oscillation ability went against everything the Unkari knew about the nature of the universe. The ability was too tempting not to reverse-engineer it. As any reverse-engineering process goes, in order to understand the technology, you needed to build it from the ground up, from a single protein, and watch it assembling itself into a sentient, living, breathing being. This part was easy. The difficult part was in making the seemingly useless gene sequences work. Argon knew that the consciousness of the human civilization must be exercised, expanded, prepared as a vessel for the oscillation power to take root. This was the stumbling block of the project.

  Building a human being from a single protein molecule was easy. Making it oscillate without killing itself seemed to be nearly impossible. It was as if nature password-protected its secrets, preventing even the Unkari from getting their tentacles on its mysteries. Sometimes Argon felt as if he was standing behind a closed door with a pile of
keys at his disposal, but unable to find the right one. More than anything in the world, Argon hated to feel powerless.

  JULY 12, 1952.

  WASHINGTON DC

  The Unkari pilot squad leader Berenbeck was approaching Washington DC from the Atlantic. Leading four medical relief vessels, he made sure all the instructions were followed to the letter. Chances were, humans would open fire this time as well, but this did not bother Berenbeck as long as they did not kill their own kind with friendly fire. This risk was always there when they needed to treat large urban populations from brain tumors, and Washington DC was one of the worst when it came to human’s paranoid security concerns.

  Livintau, who was piloting the second Shalosh in the formation, patched through on Berenbeck’s receiver. “Ok, so they actually suspect that we are here. What I don’t understand, why they can’t figure out we are not here to attack them?” Livintau was just transferred from the medical mission in the Intari Go quadrant, where the Unkari were attempting to uproot the local primitive life in an otherwise suitable for colonization planet. Livintau had placed his transfer request a long time ago, wishing to work on a mission that at least on the surface had its goal of saving lives, rather than destroying them.

  “They have tunnel vision, Livintau”, answered Berenbeck as best as he could. “They don’t live very long. And systemic knowledge does not transfer well from generation to generation.”

  “Perhaps. But I have read that intergalactic species are becoming popular in their mythology. And myths are very good at surviving generations.”

  “Livintau, let’s continue this discussion at a more appropriate time.” Although Livintau was a pilot working for the Unkari military, he was a civilian exo-physiologist. His interpretation of a protocol was rather liberal. “Livintau, Erondo, Gunkari, ready the laser net. Let’s do the job with as little exposure as possible. I really don’t want to have another treatment from Master Argon.”

  “That’s because he is getting old”, mumbled decorated fighter pilot Gunkari, commissioned to Earth to participate in each surface mission because of the rising security concerns. “But who am I to say that. I’m only a Kha-yal of the 3rd rank.”

  “Clear the air from non-mission critical discussion!” pressed Berenbeck only slightly firmly, more to follow protocol, rather than in disagreement. Argon was getting old, and living on this hardship post was not good for his mental health. But Argon was as stubborn as the Intarian pestilence. And he was well connected. This combination allowed him to pretty much write his own ticket until he retired or proceeded to eternity, whichever happened first.

  JULY 14, 1952.

  MASSACHUSETTS, 11TH CONGRESSIONAL DISTRICT

  For John Kennedy, some Mondays were worse than others. Although Congress was in recess, he had no time to rest. Dick Nixon was already running on the VP ticket, and nobody even liked Dick. Hey, even Ike didn’t like Dick! That year, beloved by all, Congressman John Kennedy had to campaign for the Senate. At 35, most would consider this a hell of an accomplishment. John considered it a minor annoyance, a detour from what he actually wanted to pursue – the commander in chief and leader of free world. That was his calibre!

  In all honesty, John felt as if his clock was ticking. Behind the public image of vigor and strength was a broken man, who could not even get off the bed without a mysterious concoction of drugs, the content of which he didn’t even want to know, as long as it helped him to get through the day. Speaking of drugs… thought John and picked up a phone. “Bobby, are you awake yet?”

  “I am now, John,” was the answer at the other end of the telephone. “For Christ’s sake, it’s five in the morning…”

  “I need it, Bobby.”

  “What, now?”

  “Now, Bobby. It hurts so much I may shit myself.”

  “Christ, we don’t want that,” a sleepy Bobby Kennedy uttered flatly. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I need Dr. Feel Good today.”

  “He was scheduled to fly in tomorrow, are you sure you can’t wait? Maybe I can send you a cute nurse or something…”

  “Bobby!”

  “To give you shots! Christ, John! I’m not your pimp.”

  “Ok, send your nurse now. And send the plane after Jacobson. Now. I can’t even get up to take a piss.”

  “Ok ok, John, I’m sorry. I’m awake now. I’m on it. Should I call you for some coffee and eggs?”

  “Alright. I suppose. Hurry up.” John hung up and kicked back in his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to disassociate himself from the excruciating pain in his back. Certainly it didn’t work, and he knew it wouldn’t work without Jacobson’s shorts: three in the back and two in each leg, just to get up. He reached out to his nightstand and turned on the radio. Vera Lynn’s hit ‘Auf Wiedersein, We’ll Meet Again Sweetheart’ burst in the room. For a moment, John’s pain was muffled by memories a particular German sweetheart who was bad news all together, but her legs could make him forget not even his pain, but his own name. The sweetheart he would not meet again. Dating someone who the FBI considered a German spy was bad for his career.

  Then there was Jackie… He had met her just two months ago, and she was getting into his head like a young wine. Perhaps too proper, but perfect for a First Lady. Charming, good upbringing, good pedigree… Like her horses… A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A maid walked in with his breakfast on a tray and a stack of morning newspapers. She placed the tray on his bed and courteously left. Jack made an effort to sit upright, but only managed to spill hot coffee all over the sheets. After knocking the wind out of the mattress, John shoved the coffee-stained comforter to the side and pulled out the newspaper from its folds. Between the coffee stains, the front page read:

  Washington DC Under Attack

  “What in the world…” John kept reading.

  Apparently over the weekend, sightings of multiple aircraft had been reported all over Capitol Hill, the airport, and other strategic locations. The newspaper recounted the most incredible race that involved the Andrews Air Force base jets in the air, chasing invincible illuminated objects that had either hovered absolutely still or had accelerated at a rate that defied logic. Fighting off excruciating pain, he reached out to the phone and dialed.

  “Dick, you awake? It’s John.”

  “John… Oh wait, let me guess, you partied all night and haven’t gone to bed yet…”

  Nixon was grumpy not without a reason.

  “Dick, what the hell happened in DC over the weekend?”

  “You mean, the star wars?”

  “The star wars is right!”

  “I don’t know if I can tell you anything that wasn’t in the newspapers… Except… I saw it with my own eyes. The Andrews guys chased these things all night. Hell, it was not only me. Thousands saw it.”

  “Is it… credible?”

  “Well… They are blaming it on the weather. Hell if I know. I just don’t know what kind of weather shows up on multiple radars, John.”

  “Dick, I can’t tell you in details, but I saw this before. Ten years ago.”

  “Let me guess. L.A.”

  “You said it. So what the hell did we get ourselves into?”

  “Well, don’t help Stevenson with the race. Ike and I win, and we will find out!”

  “Aren’t you a genius, Dick,” John retorted sarcastically. “But who do I call about it? Come on, Dick. This is something major.”

  “Try LBJ. Just a guess. But for heaven’s sake, wait until the sun is up.”

  “Alright Dick. Go back to sleep. Give my regards to Pat.”

  (Muffled) ‘John says hi to you, Pat.’

  (Muffled) ‘Oh that’s nice, Dick, tell him to go back to sleep.’ John laughed.

  (Into the phone) “She says hi to you too, John. And when am I going to give my regards to your significant other?
”

  “Perhaps sooner than you think, Dick. I may just have found the one.”

  “You always say that, John.”

  “This time it’s real. I just need her to break off her engagement!”

  “John!”

  “What?”

  “John, I don’t want to know.”

  JANUARY 23, 1961.

  JFK’S FIRST DAY IN THE OFFICE

  The inauguration ceremony was held on Friday. John’s entire weekend turned into a euphoric blur. That was why Monday started off late. At around noon, John descended to the Oval Office to receive a line-up of security briefings, but the first order of business was to have some coffee and talk to Bobby. Bobby walked in minutes after John himself had shown up, still technically hung over, but thanks to Jacobson’s concoctions, as clear-headed as ever.

  “Did you know, Bobby, that the closest an Irishman came to the White House prior to this moment was to design its architecture?”

  “Oh really? It was designed by an Irishman?”

  “Yes indeed, it was. And now an Irish family will design its policies. And according to Jackie, some renovations to the interior are coming up as well.”

  “I’m sure she’ll do a fine job, John. So will you, with the policies that is, Mr. President!”

  “Thanks, Bobby. It would be impossible without you, brother.”

  “I am worried about you, John. About your health.”

  “I heard that before. And you are not helping.”

  “That’s all I ever do but help, John!”

  “Oh you know what I mean. It is not helpful hearing you nagging at me all the time.”

  “You cannot be constantly on speed.”

  “Amphetamines, Bobby. Sounds almost like vitamins!” John laughed heartily, but Bobby shook his head.

  “You can’t go eight more years like this.”

  “You sound like a broken record.”

  “Alright. I’ll shut up for now. There is a battery of generals outside your door. I probably should be going, Mr. President.”