“...and I am proud to stand here today, surrounded by the next generation of Americans. The people who will lead the way into the future. The protectors of our legacy. No matter what the future brings, I know that our values, the core of what makes us American, will live on. And as a father myself, that’s all I can ask for.” The President gives a wave to the crowd of reporters.
“This way Mr. President.” A press aide takes him by the shoulder and guides him over to the ornate wood table that has been brought out onto the dais. He sits in a cushy chair and examines the bill one last time. To his right are twelve gold-plated pens, one for each letter in his name. As photographers snap pictures he picks up the first pen and makes an ‘A then a second ‘a’ with the second pen, and so on until his entire name, Aaron H. Talbot, is spelled out. He hates the way they make him sign these things. It looks like a child wrote it. It’s for posterity and he can’t sign his name properly because he has to create as many commemorative pens as he can to give out to supporters. “They’re probably mad that they didn’t elect someone with a longer name,” he thinks as he crosses the last ‘t.’ Once his arduous task is complete, he stands and shakes hands with the little man beside him. Alien skin is rather moist and slippery feeling, like a dolphin, and he has never really liked to touch them. The alien’s fingers are too long for a proper handshake, they curl around his wrist and make him feel like he’s shaking hands with a bony squid. But he would learn to live with it. It was just one of those things that a person has to get used to.
After the obligatory picture taking, the alien drops the President’s hand and moves the podium. Unlike the first time he spoke in Washington seven years ago, he is wearing an expensive and stylish suit created just for him by a known fashion designer. With no hair to speak of, his prep time for the cameras was kept to a minimum, but he still had grayish powder dabbed all over his face to look more presentable on television. He didn’t argue too much, the makeup artists knew what they were doing. They had even brought in a special Alien-American makeup artist who normally worked in Hollywood painting up the handful of alien stars who were on TV sitcoms.
He looked out over the crowd and smiled broadly. The audience was mixed, with several Alien-American journalists crowded in among the throng of people that had come here to see the signing ceremony. “The amount of attention being paid here today is what I’m the most thankful for,” he began. “It shows that my work these past seven years has not been unnoticed. Today is the culmination of my dream. It is a dream that many others have had. A dream that all people who come to America have– to be free. Just like the struggles of the Africans to sit at the front of the bus, the struggles of the feminists to guarantee women the vote, and the struggles of the homosexuals to be free to express their love without fear of reprisal, I too have dreamed of freedom. Seven years ago when I started JHADS I couldn’t walk the streets among you. I couldn’t go to restaurants and be served a meal. Even if I hadn’t been so young, I wouldn’t have been allowed to vote. But things have changed. I have followed the path of my predecessors like the Reverend Bentley, and I fought for what I believe in– Equality. Here today, with President Talbot’s help, I think that we have achieved it. The bill being signed into law today prevents discrimination on the basis of genetic factors. It will allow people like myself to be employed by the federal government, to be allowed to fight in the military, to be allowed to rent an apartment or apply for a job without fear of discrimination. And once and for all it closes the remaining Johnston Orphanages that kept us as virtual prisoners in the name of scientific research.”
“I would like to thank my Alien-American brothers for all the work they’ve done to bring this about. I can understand how humans might fear us, how they might not trust us. I credit each and every one of you for standing up and showing that you are just as red-blooded, just as normal, just as... American as everyone else in this country. That is what has turned the tide in our favor and made those who feared the unknown learn to cherish this new resource. And while we still maintain hope that a cure to this virus will be found, we, the Alien-American community, stand ready to take up the guard from our fathers and keep the values of America strong!” The crowd cheered.
“But this is not the end of our struggle. There are still those groups in America that hate us for the color of our skin and the length of our fingers. Even worse is the treatment we receive in other parts of the world. The infanticide and murder of innocent alien children is leading to a noticeable decline in world population. In many places we do not have the right to vote or even to be seen outside! In other places we are routinely rounded up and placed in what can only be called concentration camps. This must end! The U.S. must put pressure on the UN to force an end of these human rights abuses. None of us will be free until we are all free! So let’s celebrate this victory today and redouble or efforts towards building a better tomorrow. A tomorrow where all people, human and alien can live together in peace and harmony. Thank you.”
Jim stepped off the stage to allow the next speaker to talk. He walked backstage to a rousing congratulations by some of the staffers who had worked on the bill. Someone handed him an ornate wooden box tied with a ribbon. Inside was an expensive looking gold-plated pen.
UN HS-Vaccine Research Center, Republic of Niue. Three months after James Miller’s Rose Garden Speech.
“Is Stacy going to be all right?” The young alien was quite concerned. He wasn’t used to this much attention. For him, attention usually meant criticism. If someone was watching him closely he must have done something wrong.
“Everything is going to be just fine Mr. Lawson, they’re just prepping her. There’s nothing you can do right now. Let’s take a walk in the courtyard, it’ll steady your nerves,” replied Nancy.
The two walked out of the main hospital complex into the inner courtyard. The Project facility had been built much more ornately than it really needed to be, partially because they had to keep the researchers, who tended to be much more testy than regular people, happy out here in the middle of the Pacific; and partially because with such a high profile, the designers wanted to primp and preen as much as possible. With time being more of an issue than money, the Project administrators often had plenty of cash left for aesthetics.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen you know. I really didn’t,” he was still a bit embarrassed by the incident.
“I know Mr. Lawson, it’s ok, we’re not here to judge you. Actually,” she leaned in, “...as far as we’re concerned here on the island, we’re very glad this happened. We’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time.”
The two sat on a bench under a palm tree. Various men and women in white lab coats scurried back and forth along the stone paths. Some carried samples, others carried packets of papers, some just wandered aimlessly, lost in thought. A brightly plumed bird flew overhead. “Who would have thought,” said the boy, “that I’d ever be in a place like this. I mean I’ve never been outside London before you know. And now here I am on a tropical island halfway around the world.”
“Yes, this place does grow on you after a while.” In the courtyard, the stiff breeze was blocked and the warm, sunny air just made you feel happy.
“And I mean, you know, it’s all for a shag. I thought that my parents were going to hit the roof you know? I mean, I’m only 16. Stacy’s a year younger. Oh god, I was so embarrassed when I found out that we’d be the first, I mean, who wants that kind of publicity you know?” He spoke rapidly and nervously. He was wringing his hand together over and over. Nancy’s cell phone rang.
“Hello?” Benji Lawson couldn’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, but he knew what the call meant. It was beginning.
Meanwhile, in the gallery above the main operating room, Dr. Mensen and many of the department heads sat speculating about the upcoming event. Sonograms had given an indication, but you can’t really tell a lot, and of course x-rays were out of the question. On the operatin
g table lay a young alien woman. It was still hard to judge their ages, since none were over thirty, but something about her looked quite young. The large distended stomach was quite out of place. She was conscious and in some pain. They had given her the standard painkillers of course, but most drugs developed for humans had reduced effects on the alien metabolism. A section of the research staff here was busily developing new drugs targeted to alien populations, but that work was years from completion. Three of the best obstetricians in the world had been flown in for this procedure. No one knew what was going to happen here. As far as anyone could tell, this sort of birth had never occurred before. Complications would be inevitable.
“Remember Paul, we have $20 riding on this,” said Dr. Mensen.
“And you’re going to lose you old kook. I’m telling you, as Chief Virologist, I can almost guarantee that the HS virus doesn’t do its entire job in one stage. There’s no way a virus could have that much effect on genomic DNA. The child of an alien-alien mix is going to be some sort of different alien.”
“But there was no difference when the first human-alien mix occurred last year,” replied Dr. Malcolm, who ran the Microbiology department.
Dr. Mensen cut him off, “Shut up Hans, I’ll fight my own battles.” “As for you Paul, you seem to keep forgetting the fact that the aliens pulled from the Roswell wreck have the same genetic markers as the first generation HS kids. There’s no reason to assume that the second generation kids won’t have the same genes.”
Dr. Helena Raskolnikova broke in, “I’m just surprised that these HS kids aren’t all sterile. Hybrids are almost always sterile. In my department we have no idea how these kids even conceived.” Helena was a former VECTOR scientist who now ran the reproductive technologies laboratory.
The girl on the table screamed in labor-induced pain. The obstetricians were trying their best, but were working in very unfamiliar territory.
Dr. Mensen responded. “Well, I for one am glad that they aren’t sterile Helena. It means that life will go on. That our legacy will continue. Maybe in a different form, but the sentient population of this planet won’t die out in the next fifty years.”
“I wish I shared your enthusiasm Heinrich,” said Dr. Paul Willard. “I don’t think that our legacy is going anywhere. What’s going to happen when these aliens show up like they promised? Those kids are going to have to fight to protect our memory, and why should they care about us? They’re not like us at all.”
“I’m not so sure about that Paul.”
Dr. Malcolm got everyone’s attention. “Well, either way folks, the future is coming right now!” he pointed to the scene below. The doctor had just cut the umbilical cord and held the sticky child up by its legs. A soft pat on the behind and a cry echoed through the operating room.
Russia, in a place that doesn’t officially exist, near the border with Kazakhstan.
Snow is falling. This place used to be bustling with activity. It used to be bristling with guards, but no more. Now it is decaying, decrepit, and lonely. The fences, once ominous and foreboding, have mostly fallen down. The hundreds of guards that tended the gates have been reduced to a mere dozen people. One tramps through the knee-deep snow around the backside of the facility. The Russian government still denies their alien citizens the opportunity to serve in the armed forces. “It’s too much of a risk,” said a member of the Duma recently, “We don’t know where their loyalties lie.” So, the military dwindled as the percentage of alien births increased. There are very few eighteen year-old humans left to recruit, and even with stringent drafts, not a single unit has been able to maintain full strength for some time. With growing international cooperation in the face of a possible extraterrestrial threat, much of the mission that the troops had during the Soviet days has disappeared. Money has gone elsewhere, units have been stationed elsewhere. And here, out in southern Siberia, the depot lies almost forgotten– a relic of a war that never happened.
It isn’t totally forgotten. The men that work here certainly remember. The villagers in the town several miles away sit by their fires and curse the Muscovites for taking away their source of jobs. A lone figure approaches the front gate by foot, clad head to toe in a thick fur coat. It is cold out here, and winter is coming. The figure approaches the front gate where a bored soldier waits inside the guard shack. Guarding this gate is all that he has ever known. He’s been doing the job for almost fifteen years now. The way the system works out here, no one gets promoted, no one gets new assignments. Some months he doesn’t even get paid. Of course he makes ends meet with some odd jobs in town. Scraping and saving for the day when he can move his family out of this god-forsaken wasteland and to someplace more vibrant, someplace where life still exists. He smiles sleepily as the figure passes through the gate unmolested. Today is his last day on the job.
The figure, not even five feet in height, is carrying two bags with him. As he ducks under the gate he quietly lays the larger, fuller bag on the stoop of the guardhouse. He then proceeds inside. The buildings here are all made of metal sheeting. It’s just a storage facility after all. No one really lives here. The figure passes two guards huddling around a fire burning in an old oil drum. They should be patrolling the grounds as well, but it is cold, and they have patrolled the grounds here for many years without seeing anything more suspicious than some errant deer and curious village children hoping to catch a glimpse of a tank. They don’t even look up as the lone figure slides past them. They don’t really care. All morning they have been discussing where they will go tomorrow. One intends to get to America, although he doesn’t know how. The other is heading towards the oil fields of the Caspian, where there is work and opportunity. Today is their last day at the base.
The figure knows exactly were to go. He has been given a map. The signs are all in Russian, but he can tell the building he needs to visit just by looking at it. There is a second guard shack, and a double-fenced perimeter surrounding it. There are security devices all along the fence that in days long ago used to detect intruders by the vibrations of their footsteps, but they no longer work. There are security cameras that perpetually scan the front gate, but the tapes broke long ago, and no fresh ones have been sent from the supply depot, even though multiple requests have been made. The three guards that should be protecting this final barrier are inside playing cards. They don’t even see the slim man walk past. They are busy gambling away their fortunes, making bets that are far larger than their monthly salaries. They laugh heartily when they lose, knowing that there is plenty more.
Not ten minutes after entering the main storage facility, the figure returns to view. This time, the empty bag is full. Something heavy is inside, and the small man has a hard time carrying it. None of the guards help though. That would be wrong somehow. Plus it would involve doing work, which they all despise. Somehow the little man manages and is soon passing the front gate and headed back towards the town where his compatriots await him. He notices that the bag he left on the stoop is now gone. It is inside with the first guard, who is busy rubbing the contents all over his face. He has never in his life seen this much money before. He wonders to himself if he must share it with his co-workers, or if he can skim some from the top before they arrive to collect their cuts. He laughs out loud.
A few hours after the Alien-American Rights Act was signed. The White House, Washington, DC
Jim was sitting by the secretary’s desk just outside of the Oval Office. He was actually sitting in the same chair that Ray Johnston once sat in many years ago, although he had no way of knowing that. The alien had been sitting there for some time. He had examined his commemorative pen as much as one possibly could, he had sampled two candies from the jar on the secretary’s desk, and he had paged through the pile of last month’s magazines. Several men in business suits walked rapidly through the antechamber, and occasionally someone would stick a head out of the door and ask the secretary for something or other. Every time Jim heard the latch turn, a level
of excitement pushed itself up into his throat. He had been told by the Press Secretary to come to a private meeting with the President after the signing, but he had found himself rather unceremoniously dumped in the waiting room.
Jim risked a short call to his office. He wasn’t sure that he should be making long-distance calls without permission, but he figured that no one would really care and he didn’t want to seem like a rube for asking the secretary. He phoned the main office of the JHADS in Dallas and spoke to Jordan who was holding down the fort while Jim was in DC. Jim really didn’t have any specific reason for calling, but being on the phone made him feel less awkward and out of place than just sitting there.
Almost forty-five minutes after being asked to wait, the door finally opened and a whole gaggle of people rushed noisily out into the hallway. The Press Secretary waved him in, and Jim followed. Inside sat President Talbot, who was on the phone. The Secretary guided Jim to a chair opposite the President’s ornate wooden desk and then closed the door. The President hung up the phone, stood up, and then extended his hand to the young alien.
“Jim Miller, glad to finally meet you, I apologize for keeping you so long.” Despite the nice words that President Talbot had said about Jim a few hours ago, and the handshake they had performed for the cameras, the two had never met before. Jim had been guided to the ceremony by staffers, and only got to see the President for the first time when he stepped onto the dais and shook Jim’s hand like they were old friends.
“That’s ok Mr. President. I know that you’ve got a lot of important stuff to deal with, Alien-American rights is only one small issue.”
The President sat back down in his chair. “Yes, one small issue. You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I told you Phil, this guy’s on the ball.” The Press Secretary nodded in acknowledgement. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you see. This is an issue, it’s a big issue, it’s an important issue, but you’re absolutely right, I can only spend a small part of my time dealing with it. That’s why I told Phil here to send you on over after the ceremony. Isn’t that right Phil?” The Press Secretary, who was standing uncomfortably close behind Jim once again nodded.
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