Horizons: A collection of science fiction short stories

by Nolan Edrik

  The strategy proved effective. The True Church exploded from Caldwell’s one congregation to a sect covering the whole U.S. South. Then, in rapid succession, it absorbed the unaffiliated churches, the mainline Protestant congregations, and even many conservative Catholic parishes. Within one generation, it had won more than a billion followers. And the True Church was the third-largest U.S. business entity by revenue, even though Caldwell’s accountants, lawyers, and friends in Washington had managed to retain its tax-exempt status.

  So whatever doubts I may have had about Pytheas, I trusted the Shepherd would know how to respond. He was brilliant.

  *

  I kept the report on the probe as dry as possible. Every word was taken either directly from NASA records and press releases or paraphrased so lightly that nothing of me leaked into the document.

  The Pytheas probes had launched ten years ago, sent in sixty-four directions from Earth to study dark-matter currents and provide more data on interesting galactic structures. The machines also carried beacons broadcasting messages from Earth as well as sensors to detect communications from other planets.

  The program didn’t receive much attention when it commenced. The press treated it as a boring, drone-led mapping expedition and stayed focused on the construction of the Navy’s Moon Base. That endeavor involved geopolitical maneuvering, massive technical challenges, and the drama of human crews, all of which made it a much more interesting story.

  Since the Pytheas probes weren’t meant to return, they also included digital time capsules. These contained histories of Earth and the human race, code keys for the planet’s languages, and copies of mankind’s major literary, musical, and scientific works. They were essentially packets summarizing all of humanity. Even though Pytheas’ mission didn’t formally include contacting extraterrestrial intelligence, each probe’s time capsule fit on a drive the size of a thumb, so adding them to the crafts cost nothing in payload weight.

  As I was preparing the biographies of the people running the expedition, a photo of the chief project manager caught my eye. Her name was Alysia Nuestadt, which didn’t ring any bells, but her face looked familiar. She had a strong jawline and a cleft chin that projected a deep assertiveness. That effect was accentuated by a mane of regal blonde hair that tumbled down around her shoulders.

  Yet her eyes were what grabbed me. They were intense and blue, and even in her staid professional headshot, they bored into the camera so fiercely that I imagined the photographer snapping the picture as quickly as possible to escape their glare. I had seen those eyes before somewhere.

  I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. I watched excerpts of her lectures. Even when discussing topics as dry and obscure as optimizing personnel performance on large-scale engineering projects, she had the Shepherd’s same charisma. I began reading extracts of her scholarly papers, and it was then that I stumbled across a study she’d written in graduate school, before she’d married. Her maiden name: Caldwell.

  *

  The Pytheas report kept me at the office two hours late, which I didn’t mind. I’d decided not to call Laura that night, and the work gave me less time to sit around my apartment and worry. When I finally got home, I watched a few episodes of the Prayer Corps show, content to zone out and stare at the screen. Right before bed, I flipped on the news.

  Big mistake. The first image I saw was the clip of those supposed aliens’ faces staring into the camera. The news channel had blown the shot up to full screen, and the beings looked as if they were peering through my television at me.

  I studied them as they studied me. I still couldn’t tell whether they were real, or actors, or special effects. If they were real, how would we square them with our doctrine? Perhaps Caldwell would say we should consider them human and understand that our scriptures’ mentions of Earth were always meant to include any other Earth-like planets. That change still would constitute a major breach of doctrine, a wide-open invitation to doubt. If a maxim so foundational shifted under our adherents’ feet, what else would they call into question?

  I couldn’t think about that now. I shut off the TV, went to my room, and spread out on the floor in the space where my bed used to be. I nestled into the carpet, set my head on my rolled-up sweater, and pulled my blanket up over my shoulders.

  As soon as I closed my eyes, the aliens, Alysia, Laura, Caldwell, even Kara, all began tumbling around in my head. I couldn’t find a comfortable position, and I’d start sweating one minute, shivering the next. I was contemplating getting up and rummaging around the bathroom for sleeping pills when my phone rang.

  It was Hunter.

  “Hey, Glenn,” he said, worry strangling his usual forced nonchalance. “I thought you’d want to know we’re back in the hospital. Something’s not working right with the new lungs. They’re not taking, and nobody knows why.”

  “How is she doing?”

  “They’ve got her knocked out and hooked up to a bunch of machines, so she’s stable, but the doctors don’t know what’s going on. They’ve done hundreds of transplants and haven’t seen this reaction before. Then again, they’d never figured out exactly what her condition was, so…”

  His breath came out choked and staccato. He was crying and trying to stifle it.

  “You never see stuff like this coming,” he said, his voice croaking.

  Even though I couldn’t think of anything to say, I sensed he wanted me to stay on the line with him.

  Eventually, he asked, “Can you give me the number for that prayer drive again? The kids are over at my parents, so maybe I’ll drop it off when I pick them up.”

  My heart flopped over on itself. At first I worried that Laura’s condition had deteriorated so much that Hunter was now taking the Prayer Corps seriously. Then I felt relieved at the thought that I wouldn’t be alone in funding the effort to save her.

  I gave him the number and asked what else I could do. He sniffled a few times and thanked me.

  I laid back down, fear and hope wrestling in my head.

  *

  The year after mom died, Laura and I moved in with our aunt outside Minneapolis. One day, soon after we’d gotten home from school, the tornado sirens started blaring. Our aunt was still at work, and, not knowing what else to do, we huddled together in the bathtub. The wind crashed through the trees and battered the house like ocean waves. A few minutes later, we heard the freight-train drone of the funnel cloud nearby. Laura trembled.

  “I don’t want to die,” she said.

  “You won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

  I had no right to say that. But I had to.

  *

  The next morning at the office, I wearily searched for any non-Pytheas news to add to the daily report. That proved hard to find. The whole world slowed down as it watched the developments. The wars ebbed in intensity. Diplomatic disputes were suspended. Even the weather, the story every media outlet turns to on slow news days, grew mild and uneventful.

  With little to add to the report and a legitimate fear that I’d fall asleep at my desk, I went to Caldwell’s office at 6:54 a.m.

  Barb checked the clock when I arrived, surprised by my early appearance, but greeted me as usual and resumed typing. After a minute, she motioned me over to her with one finger.

  “Is it true what they’re saying about Pytheas?” she whispered.

  I never would have guessed Barb was the kind of person who would be so quick to believe such a blasphemous story. Now I knew the mania had spread too far. Barb had served as Caldwell’s personal assistant for twenty years, and if she believed in Pytheas, how many of our executives, our pastors, our congregants, believed it too?

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.”

  She seemed disappointed by my answer but smiled and went back to her work.

  I saw the clock tick to 7 a.m. and looked at Barb to buzz me in. She gave me a puzzled look and pointed at the unlit bulb.

  The minut
es crawled by until the light flashed at 7:04 a.m.

  When I entered the office, Caldwell was hunched over his desk with his fingertips slid under his glasses and rubbing his eyes. His Bible already was closed, and his pen rested on his notebook. The day’s sermon, only three lines long, was torn from the pad and resting on the desk in front of my chair.

  We greeted each other, and I sat down and started. I hadn’t even finished the first sentence about the first item – a smooth grand opening of our new parish for expats in Indonesia – when he held up a hand to stop me.

  “Can we cut to the chase and start with Pytheas from now on?” he said. I noticed wrinkles on the sleeves of his dress shirt, and his tie was the same one he’d worn yesterday.

  “Sure,” I said. Might as well get the worst part out of the way early.

  The main development was that Pytheas’ cultural data had been accessed, and the beings were sending messages through the probe back to Earth. CIA and NSA cryptologists were making progress decoding and analyzing the transmissions and would begin reporting their findings today.

  “Has NASA made any definitive statement yet on who took the probe?” Caldwell asked.

  “Let me check.”

  I remembered seeing a quote from a NASA guy, but my eyes and mind were bleary with fatigue. As I flipped through the printouts, I found myself annoyed with the Shepherd for not allowing me to bring my tablet in. I could have simply searched for the guy’s name and been done with it. Or maybe he could learn to use the Internet and read the news himself. Then I remembered what a busy man he was and how important it was to have a filter between him and the world. Also, if he learned to use the Internet, I’d be out of a job. That was a scenario I was trying to avoid. Soon enough, I found the passage.

  “OK, here it is. This guy, Winslow, NASA’s press secretary, basically says that aliens took the probe,” I said. Then, to cover myself, I added, “Can you believe that?”

  “What exactly did he say?” Caldwell asked, his eyes narrowing.

  I took a deep breath. “He said, quote, ‘I don’t think there can be any doubt at this point that the human race has contacted intelligent, extraterrestrial life,’ end quote.”

  Caldwell leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin.

  “This was at a press conference that he said this?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the reaction?”

  I hadn’t watched the video, so I had to rely on the press conference transcript.

  “It says there were multiple questions shouted afterward. Winslow responded that he would have no further comment.”

  Caldwell swiveled around and gazed out of the window. The image of his face, drawn and pale, floated on the glass.

  “Who else was at the press conference?”

  “Winslow was the only speaker, but all of the project managers and mission scientists were there, too.”

  “Give me names.”

  “Benson, Kirby, Salgado, Nuestadt,” I said, my voice tightening. “As well as Mader, Kaiser, Hanson.”

  “Nuestadt, huh?” Caldwell repeated. “Is that name interesting to you?”

  The reflection of his eyes in the window focused on me, and I could feel them tunneling into my soul. I flipped through my report for a few seconds as if I needed to look up her position.

  “She’s the chief project manager,” I said as matter-of-factly as possible. I could tell he wasn’t buying my act. “That’s all in the report.”

  Caldwell spun back around from the window, and I handed him the binder. He opened it, glanced at the cover page, then dropped it on the table. He stared at the document for what felt like forever. The only sound was the clicking of Barb’s typing outside the door.

  “You know that the work you do for me is confidential, right?” Caldwell said, without looking up.

  “Yes, my Shepherd.”

  “It’s sacred. Like the confessional.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you know what the penalty is for violating that confidentiality?”

  “I would never—”

  “Firing and excommunication, for starters,” he said, looking into my eyes. He leaned forward, his head halfway across the desk. “And censure. You’d be declared an enemy, too.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded to show I understood.

  “OK, good,” he said. “That’s all for the day.”

  *

  I walked back to my desk on wobbly legs. Someone else would soon discover that the manager of the most heretical scientific mission in history was Caldwell’s sister. When they did, Caldwell would assume I had leaked the information. Then I would be banned from the True Church. And not just banned, I’d be untouchable.

  Frankly, I was shocked no one else had noticed Nuestadt’s maiden name yet. While Caldwell had always admitted to having a sister, saying only that she “worked in government,” he’d kept his personal life as walled off from the press as possible. Whenever the media had managed to pry into his life, they were always more interested in other stories, like his son’s drug addiction or the rumors that he and his wife were separated. No one thought to keep track of his sister because she simply wasn’t that interesting.

  Still, one of the conspiracy theorists was bound to investigate Pytheas’ managers and notice the resemblance. Not much further digging would be needed to link her to Caldwell. Then he’d have to either denounce her or admit to a major fault in Church doctrine, and I didn’t see that last scenario happening. Too much was at stake.

  *

  Thankfully, if Caldwell decided to can me, payday had already arrived. So at least I would have my most recent check to donate before Laura’s test. As soon as I got back to my desk, I opened my bank account to make sure it had been deposited. To my relief, the money was there.

  On my other screen, I logged into the Prayer Corps drive site. The home page showed a crowd of hooded, red-robed figures with their heads bowed and faces hidden. Each figure represented a professional prayer warrior that my donations were funding. Every month, the crowd dwindled as the funds were used up. There were eight people there. Normally, only three people would be there at this point in the month, meaning Hunter or his parents must have donated. I couldn’t help but smile.

  That brief gust of encouragement dissipated quickly. Five extra prayer warriors weren’t enough.

  My bank balance read 10,000. Normally, I donated 7,000, kept 2,500 for rent and 500 for spending. I typed my usual 7,000 into the donation box on the Prayer Corps site. A crowd of thirty-five hooded prayers materialized on the screen, but they were grayed out because I hadn’t completed the donation. The site was only showing me what the donation would buy.

  That group of thirty-five warriors was the force I had funded throughout Laura’s ordeal. And what had they accomplished? The doctors had never settled on a diagnosis, then the first few rounds of treatment failed, and now her transplanted lungs were breaking down.

  I typed in 7,500, which was 500 more than usual. Two more spectral figures appeared behind the crowd. Only two more.

  Could I go a month without paying rent? I could say our payment system malfunctioned. I could say I planned to move out and that they should use the last month’s rent that I’d paid when I moved in. If it came down to it, I could try to win lenience by appealing to my rank in the church, while I still had it.

  No matter what, I had to make a bigger sacrifice. These next few weeks were critical for Laura. Could I live with myself if I’d failed to do everything I could?

  I typed in 10,000, my whole bank balance. The crowd swelled to fifty, filling the screen.

  How would I afford that? I had enough food at home to last a few weeks. Lots of the secretaries here kept fruit baskets or baked goods at their desks, and I could rotate among them, conjure up a reason to speak to each one, then grab an apple here or a banana there. I could sell my TV. There was nothing on there but Pytheas news anyway. I could do this.

  I pressed “Enter,” and th
e grayed-out figures filled in a deep crimson. The speakers released a tone that was part exhalation, part gong vibration. I loved that sound. For a few moments, the ropes that bound my chest loosened and I breathed with ease. I had done all I could. It wasn’t up to me now.

  For a few minutes, I sat doing nothing other than riding the feeling of release. Then I realized with a jolt that I hadn’t sent Caldwell’s daily message.

  At a quick glance, it looked short, so it wouldn’t take long to type or edit. I could still publish it by the deadline if I hurried.

  I opened the message program and looked at the piece of paper.

  It read: “‘If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.’ 1 Corinthians 13:2.”

  I stared at the passage. Since the first day he became a pastor thirty years ago, Caldwell had sent a message to his flock every single morning without fail. I had read and studied all of them, and not a single one had been only a Bible verse without commentary. In fact, his dispatches always read like the first draft of a new book of the Bible, like Paul’s letters comforting the Thessalonians during a turbulent, confusing time.

  Anyway, I had to trust that he knew what he was doing. I typed it up and pressed send.

  *

  The day slipped by in a haze. I watched the wires and recognized words that seemed important. I wrote words about those words. If I still had my job in the morning, I’d read those words to Caldwell. He’d say some words, too.

  All the while, I ducked and dodged around the flood of Pytheas headlines. I told myself to ignore them and wait until the morning to add the latest, biggest story during my pre-dawn news sweep. Still, tidbits slipped through my defenses. The aliens’ cultural data was sorted. Sociologists and anthropologists around the world were interpreting and analyzing the findings. An early draft of a compendium was scheduled for release by late evening.

  Even if Pytheas had interested me, I wouldn’t have been able to focus on the stories. The serenity after my donation was fading, giving way to worry about Laura’s health, how soon someone would discover Caldwell’s sister, how I’d negotiate with my landlord.