Overture (Earth Song)

by Mark Wandrey

  “You know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe it was necessary. In fact, I want you personally on the ground ASAP.”

  “Oh. Well, if that is your order-”

  “It is. Get there fast. My instincts have never been wrong, that’s why I’m where I am, and you are where you are.”

  “Yes, sir.” And now, seven hours later, he was riding a helicopter as it flew over the vast towers of New York with Central Park coming into view.

  “Set us down on the FBI landing pad just outside the cordon,” he instructed the pilot.

  “Sir, we’re being challenged by the FBI controlling agent over the radio. He says we are not to land or approach the cordon.”

  “Does he now? Well, tell him again who I am, and inform him I will be landing in…”

  “About two minutes,” the pilot offered, “sir, Roger that, I will inform him.”

  The helicopter swung around the park and in for a landing. As they descended Volant could see the huge crowd surrounding the FBI and NYPD cordon. “Great perimeter control,” he snorted as the helicopter pilot flared back and set them down to a smooth landing.

  Instantly a dozen FBI agents in body armor surrounded the helicopter holding their weapons at ready. Without concern, he opened the door and climbed out onto the temporary metal tarmac. Two other men climbed out to stand behind Volant's tall imposing figure and the helicopter revved up and lifted into the sky.

  The senior FBI field officer present came running up and pushed through the group of armed agents surrounding the helipad. He was an aging man in his late fifties carrying too many years of stress under his conservative black suit and tie, and too many spaghetti dinners under his belt. “Just who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded.

  “Mark L. Volant, NSA Sector Director for the North Eastern United States. Who are you?”

  “Senior Field Officer Chris Benson and I’m in charge here.”

  “Not any more, Benson.” The FBI man’s veins stood out on his neck and he growled. As he looked at Volant and the calm assurance in his demeanor the man’s eyes got wide and he began to stammer a complaint.

  “Just call your Bureau Chief. By now he’s gotten a call from the President and is being made aware of the situation here. These two men are my assistants and they will begin assessing the controls you have in effect in the area and start making changes. You will naturally afford them complete accommodations and follow their recommendations. Meanwhile, I want you to take me to this ‘Portal’ thing. I need to have a report ready for the SecDef by twenty-two hundred hours.”

  The man was stunned and taken aback, but he had risen in the hierarchy of the FBI by learning when to take an order, especially when someone in power gave one. Chris Benson, who only hours ago had stormed in and usurped control from the NYPD, turned and passively allowed Volant to assume control.

  The FBI had assembled a steel barricade around the Portal to keep prying eyes at bay. He examined the barricade as he was led through one of the four entrances, and made a mental note to consider raising the height or making it a complete dome to enclose the area if it proved necessary. Inside were dozens of lounging FBI agents, some eating and talking, others freely taking pictures of the object they were there to quarantine. He made another mental note to confiscate all the cameras and recording devices. A moment later they reached the Portal and he was stunned.

  “Shit,” was all he could finally manage on seeing the pearly construct. A meter tall, five meters wide and maybe three deep, it was a brilliant white in the brutal carbon filament lights, and looked like nothing more than a stage for a rock star or some sort of impressionist artwork carved out of pure alabaster. It certainly looked like a dais and even had low steps coming up both long sides. The grass around it was now trampled and worn. There was no other evidence of equipment that would have been needed to place such a huge structure, which no doubt weighed several tons.

  “I had a similar reaction myself the first time,” Benson said, “just wait until someone stands on the top step!”

  “What are they doing?” Volant asked and pointed to a group of people who appeared to be wearing space suits.

  “NASA, they’re here to figure out if this is some kind of ET thing, or just a refugee from the Guggenheim.” Volant walked over confidently a short distance from the brightly suited NASA men who were waving instruments over the shining dais and gesturing animatedly at the results.

  “I’ll deal with NASA, please pull your men back,” Volant told Benson.

  “Yes sir, I’ll do that right away.” Just then one of the technicians walked to the top step and the Portal burst into brilliant life.

  “Holy shit!” Volant blurted.

  “Yeah, that was my other reaction too,” Benson chuckled and walked off. As the former agent in charge went to pull back his men, Volant watched the NASA technicians at work. There were four suited technicians staggering around with huge backpacks full of instruments and gear. Two other NASA engineers were at a portable bench with wheels, its top covered with computers that were all displaying data. Behind those two technicians was a man who had to be a scientist. His unkempt gray suit had stains and a badly mended tear, he had a two day growth of beard and it was unlikely that he owned a comb. He was jabbering about unintelligible things and running back and forth between the computers.

  Volant cleared his throat. No one noticed so he did it again, only louder. The older scientist turned around and spotted him, then seemed to realize all the FBI agents were leaving. “What’s all this?” he asked the lone figure remaining. To the man’s credit he looked Volant up and down then quickly came to the correct conclusion, “CIA or NSA?”

  “NSA, and you would be?”

  “Dr. George Osgood, senior NASA materials engineer and fan of all things extra-terrestrial!” Volant made a face that caused some of Osgood’s smile to fade.

  “I am sector chief Mark Volant, NSA, and I’m in charge of this circus now. My boss sent me here because the unintelligible report you sent to NASA has quite a few important people worried. I need a level-headed assessment to present to the President by twenty-two hundred hours.”

  “Uhm, no can do. We’ve only just scratched the material’s surface,” he waved a hand in the direction of the Portal as he spoke, “do you have any idea of the kind of readings we’re getting from that thing? We can’t figure what it’s made out of. Its energy absorption profile is disturbing. I rather suspect a gigawatt laser wouldn’t make it warm! Look at the Portal hovering there. Is it a simple visual display, a hologram, or a physical construct that appears and disappears? We just don’t know. And, it’s giving off types of radiation we’ve never seen before!”

  “Radiation?” Volant said, taking a step backwards.

  “Oh, it’s not ionizing radiation. Mostly some sort of emissions in the terahertz band, the kinda stuff we’re experimenting with for medical imaging. I mean to say, I don’t have the proper equipment here yet. You must understand, I’ve requested a neutrino analyzer and a quantum detection array to be loaded on a C-150 from Texas and flown here at once.”

  “Why would you need that sort of thing to figure out where this comes from?”

  “We don’t,” he said with a decided air of righteous indignation. “But we need it to confirm my suspicions about the readings we’re getting.”

  “What difference do emissions and radiation make? I have a report due!”

  “What difference? You idiot, have you ever heard of a positron collider? No, I didn’t think so. It’s a huge loop of cables, several miles long, in which you allow particles, such as electrons or positrons, to race around in a circle until they smash together.”

  “Oh, you mean an atom smasher.”

  “No such thing; it’s a positron collider, or a magneto accelerator if you wish. The smallest that can get any noticeable results with is about a quarter mile across and is at the University of New York. It cost about eleven million dollars to build. When properly used it gen
erates a handful of tiny particles known as quarks and muons.”

  “While certainly fascinating to your colleagues and a few dozen other people in this country, what exactly does it have to do with anything?”

  “Well, that fascinating object over there seems to be leaking subatomic particles that haven’t been seen freely since the formation of our universe!”

  Volant looked at the scientist and blinked. “So, can you tell me by tonight where this thing came from?”

  “I can tell you right now where it didn’t come from. It most certainly did not come from Earth.”

  The district lockups in New York City were often described as Hell on Earth. Every form of human filth and predator moved through those jail cells on a daily basis. When he found himself in those cells, Victor had always been quick to find someone he had bought from or sold to. The bond of dealing was usually enough to keep him protected from the worst of the predators. This time inside, it was different.

  Victor asked to be left alone, and on the strength of newfound determination and reborn character they did just that. Like the worst of the predators, he had an inner light in which the low lives could not stand to be exposed. For the first time, he found himself in a cell corner all alone. He sat on the filthy chair and thought. Hour upon hour he thought about what had happened, what it meant to him, and where he was to go from there.

  “You all right there, son?” asked a man some time later. “Need anything?” Victor looked up into the eyes of a black man like himself. Eyes that had seen many more years than his own. Unlike himself, this old brother had lived in the time when he couldn’t stand tall next to a white man, date a white woman, or even drink from a white man’s water fountain.

  “I’m fine pops, how about yourself?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “What are you in here for?”

  “Me? I’m here because I want to be. I’m here to help where I can help. And yourself?”

  “I’m here because I wanted to be, too.”

  “Well, then I guess we’re kindred spirits, you and me. But everyone here needs something, so again what do you need?”

  Victor shook his head and was about to say that he needed nothing when he had second thoughts. “You don’t have a bible, do you?”

  “In here, you would be crazy to be without the Good Book.”

  “May I borrow it?”

  “A bible is a personal thing,” the old brother said. Victor looked down and nodded his head. “That is why I carry more than one.” He reached into a shoulder bag and removed a shiny new bible and handed it to Victor.

  “Thanks, I’ll give it back to you tomorrow.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. As I said, a bible is a personal thing, and that one is yours now. Read His words, learn His ways, and grow.” Then the man did something unfamiliar to Victor. He offered him his hand. Somewhat awkwardly, Victor took it. The stranger smiled and moved on, without saying another word, to continue checking on each person in the crowded lock up. Victor looked up from the book some time later to see the old man being let out of the cell block. The man raised his hand in farewell and Victor returned the gesture, then he was gone.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read the Bible. Maybe during his childhood? He could remember Sunday school with his mother. Dad would go to the early service then come back and run the store while he and mom would go to church. There were hymns, a sermon which he seldom understood but his mother always enjoyed, then bible study where he learned about the books of the Bible and how wonderful Jesus was.

  He started reading with some difficulty. Not only had it been many years since he’d read the Bible, it had been many years since he’d read much of anything. The lighting in the cell was poor at best, and in only a few minutes his eyes were hurting from the strain. Maybe he might need glasses?

  Without thinking he got up and walked to a cot near the metal bars at the front of the lockup. The hall lighting was brighter and would make for easier reading. He wasn’t looking at the person as he asked for their cot. “Can I sit here? The light is much better.”

  “Yah, it’s better muthafucka’ because it’s the best seat in the slam!”

  Victor focused on the man, not more than a boy really, of the same type that chased him in the park yesterday. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, brother, I’m just trying to read,” he said, holding up the book.

  Fast as a flash, the punk snatched the Bible from Victor's hand and was standing in front of him, just inches from his nose. “Read? I’ll jack you up so bad you won’t be able to see!”

  “Please, I need that book.”

  “More than you need to breathe?”

  “I saw an angel. I think it picked me as its prophet. I need to learn, see if I can figure it all out.”

  “You need to learn some respect, bitch,” the boy said and backhanded Victor across the face. Victor’s head snapped back and his cheek blazed in white-hot pain. He’d been in a dozen fights, many for his life, others for profit. To his own surprise, he did nothing except look back at the kid.

  “I just wanted your seat,” Victor said evenly, “There are plenty of other ones. I’m asking you to please let me sit where-”

  The second blow came from the other side, nearly knocking him off his feet. Again, he just straightened up and faced his attacker. He took a quieting breath and smiled. “I’m not angry with you, I understand why you are, ugh!” the youth had snarled and punched him in the stomach, bringing him to his knees this time.

  With each blow, Victor could feel a small part of his soul shake free of the cobwebs it had been living under for so long. There was no desire to strike back, just a crystal clarity that was as terrifying as it was clear. A small laugh escaped his lips and this infuriated the punk who’d been trying to make him cry for mercy. This time the punk aimed a boot at Victor's head and prepared to do some real damage.

  His tormentor yelled in surprise as something caught his foot and sent him tumbling to the ground. “What the fuck!” the punk barked and jumped up, coming face to face with the biggest meanest looking brother Victor had ever seen. “Why you getting into this, man?”

  “Maybe I just don’t want to see a brother get beat half to death for wanting to read his bible?” the newcomer replied.

  “Yah, so maybe you’re bitin’ off more than you can chew?” And with that, he swung a vicious punch at the big guy’s balls. The man just shifted his hips, allowing the blow to smack into a solid column of muscular thigh. The punk gave him a look like he had just been kidding, but fast as a coiled python an arm shot out and fingers wrapped around his neck. The punk grabbed at the hand and tried to pry it open. He’d have had more luck trying to bend hardened steel. The big man squeezed, making the muscles on his forearm stand out. The punk gave a strangled gasp and clawed desperately at his attacker’s hand.

  “Don’t kill him,” Victor asked his rescuer, “Please, don’t kill him. Not on my account. I am a simple prophet of God.”

  “If you’re a prophet of God, why didn’t He save you from this little punk?” asked the big man, still squeezing the life from the punk whose face was now looking ashen.

  Victor looked down at the book held in his hand and then at the big man who had saved him. “He did save me, He sent me you.”

  The big man’s head snapped around to look at Victor, something in his expression that wasn’t readable. He looked at the feebly struggling man he held and cocked his head to watch for a second as his struggles began to end. “Well, then God must have meant this motherfucka’ to die because I’m going to choke his worthless life out.”

  “No, God meant him to live, and sent someone to save him.” The big man looked around. No one in the crowded lockup was going to lift a finger to save the punk’s life; that was readily apparent. “He sent me to save him. I’m asking you to please not kill that man.”

  With no warning the punk fell to the floor like a rag doll. Victor was certain he was dead, then the
punk took a rough gasping breath and rolled onto his back. On the streets he was a predator without fear. This jail was nothing more than a minor setback; just a place to consider what he had done and how to avoid getting caught next time.

  “Go away,” Victor said as the punk crawled shakily, “and sin no more.”

  Victor’s savior watched the punk crawl away, obviously deep in thought, then spoke, “I came to help you because you weren’t doing anything wrong, not because your God sent me.”

  “You’re in here, so you’re either innocent and inside by mistake, or you’re not a very good man. Which is it?” The big man looked down, not wanting to meet Victor’s intense stare. “So we know you deserved to be in here. You probably have hurt people, maybe even killed the innocent.” Now the big man turned away, not wanting to even see Victor. “But when I was being beaten, not just an innocent, a chosen of God, you came to me. Why?”

  “It just didn’t seem right.”

  “You’ve probably seen people being beaten up a hundred times.”

  “More like a thousand times.”

  “So why didn’t you help any of them?”

  “I don’t know,” the man said, what sounded like a sob in his voice, “I just didn’t care about them.”

  “But you cared about me?”

  “Something about you, you didn’t try to defend yourself or beg him to stop. It was as if something was helping you…”

  “Almost like someone standing behind me? It was God, giving me the strength. And it was God, moving your hand to save me. My job is not done yet, and neither is yours.”

  “I can’t serve God.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am a bad person.” This time Victor was certain this ebony mountain of a man was crying. A cold-blooded thug and murderer was crying because of what he had done in the face of a tormentor. Victor felt his heart swell and the last of the fog that had once covered his mind for the last twenty years evaporated.

  “We’re all bad people in the beginning,” he said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder who turned around to look at Victor, tears glinting off his cheeks. “Through God we learn to love, to care, and to heal.” The big man’s chest heaved as he sobbed like a child, falling to his knees before Victor who moved his hand from the man’s shoulder to his head. “Your sins are washed clean in your tears of regret. Join me in doing His will.”