“Good evening, gentlemen, sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said, gesturing to the two empty seats that were already placed in front of her desk. She turned to our guards. “Wait outside, please. You’ll be called if necessary.” They saluted and left, passing another, previously unseen man who was coming the other way. This guy was perhaps only a year or two older than myself, and dressed in civilian clothing: shirt and tie, black trousers and shoes, and the now-familiar laminated ID on a lanyard around his neck. His hair was slicked back, and that, combined with his old-fashioned glasses, made him appear more senior than he really was. The bags under his eyes looked dark, and his face was slightly red. This was clearly a man who had not slept properly for several days, and his breathing was slightly laboured. In his hand was a tablet PC.
“Doctor, grab a chair from over there please and join us,” said Straub, picking up and glancing at a piece of paper in front of her before turning back to us. The man she’d addressed as Doctor dragged over a metal office chair and placed it next to us on our side of the desk, sitting down without looking at either Paul or myself.
“This is Dr Boldfield, head of the civilian team dealing with the Caementum investigations, and also our top scientific adviser,” said Straub, nodding at the Doctor, who now looked at us and passed the nod on. We nodded back.
“He’ll be needing to interview you both thoroughly,” Straub continued, “and I expect you both to give your full cooperation. You will also be required to undergo some reasonably detailed examination and physical testing, although I can assure you that it will be nothing painful or damaging in any way. I won’t lie, this isn’t because we’re going easy on you—the situation is too important for that kind of restraint—but simply because the tests don’t need to be painful. However, this meeting right now is to bring you up to speed on what’s going to be happening in the next forty-eight hours, and how you’re going to be involved.”
Paul and I didn’t say anything in response, and waited for her to continue. Straub sat back in her chair, and held up the piece of paper she’d been examining.
“Here’s the official version of events, as prepped and approved by Her Majesty’s Government’s PR machine. You’ll both be getting a copy of this, and you’ll be expected to familiarise yourself with it thoroughly. Obviously, it goes without saying that the events you witnessed are now highly classified, and that any mention of this conversation—or your original expedition—will be classed as high treason, not to mention that we will use all of our influence to make your life, effectively, over. What I have here is just the synopsis; the longer version will have all the details.”
“What’s it saying? The short version, please,” said Paul, calmly.
“Pretty much what actually happened, with only a few key alterations,” said Straub, matter-of-factly. “There’s no point claiming that we know where Caementum came from, as anything we come up with could blow up in our faces if the thing comes back. Yes, that’s a possibility we’re fully prepared to accept,” she added, not knowing that we’d already assumed as much.
“So you two will still be as you were,” Straub continued, “two people who developed a genuine mental link to Caementum, except that you won’t have gone to Mr Marshall on your own. The truth will be that you came to us with proof of your link, and that we took it, and you, from there.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I scoffed, but noticing that she’d referred to an actual name rather than saying C.I. Four. “You actually expect people to believe that we had a psychic connection? The public will never swallow it, even if it is true. You’ll be a laughing stock.”
Straub smirked slightly in response, and shook her head.
“Not at all, Mr Pointer. After all, you convinced us. With the right scientific data, we can prove anything, but I don’t think even that will be necessary. Think about what the public has seen this week, what they’ve experienced. Online polls tell us that seventy-six percent of the UK already believes that Caementum was of extraterrestrial origin; do you really think they won’t believe that it had telepathic abilities? It’s not like we’re coming out of the blue and claiming that we’ve discovered the world’s first provably psychic man. Off the back of the last few days, it will be easily accepted, and our PR team’s research backs that theory up completely.” Her face was neutral again once she’d finished, and I have to say that I couldn’t disagree with her. I wasn’t going to say so though, and stayed silent. She took this as compliance, and carried on.
“We, in turn, then took you to where you believed Caementum was headed as quickly as possible. You’ll notice, Mr Pointer, that this version also avoids the rather unflattering fact that you went there of your own accord in hopes of breaking a story, and that you didn’t attempt to alert any authorities.”
“Hold on, how could I have possibly convinced—” I started, flushed, embarrassed and angry (she was totally correct, of course, but I still didn’t like it) but Straub held up a hand to cut me off.
“Of course, of course,” she said, patronisingly, “but some might not see it that way, and this version of events protects you from that.” Her poker face was working overtime now, but even so I thought that Straub was part of the group of people that she’d just mentioned. She carried on talking.
“And so you and the military arrived at Mr Marshall’s house, wherein you identified him as the target, something which he confessed to already suspecting. He then bravely offered to go to Caementum for the good of the country, knowing full well that to do so may result in his death. He will be presented to the world as a willing hero.”
There was silence in the room, and Straub sat quietly for a moment regarding us, almost as if she was daring us to argue against this plan. I continued to say nothing, and to my surprise, so did Paul. What could we say?
“The removal of body parts from Mr Marshall will not be mentioned,” continued Straub, satisfied again that compliance had been achieved. “That is, quite frankly, too graphic for the public, and they don’t need to know those details, but they will be told that Mr Marshall died in the presence of Caementum. However, our version will be that he suffered a fatal cardiac arrest, due to the stress of the situation. Our explanation for Caementum’s journey will be that we think it wanted to communicate with him specifically, for some reason. We don’t want people panicking about the possibility of a return, and stopping people from knowing that it came to harvest body parts will certainly help with that. I’m sure you agree.”
“What did it remove?” asked Paul. Straub blinked in response, as if she’d missed the question. She’d been prepared to move on, but Paul had taken her back a step unexpectedly, and she missed a beat while she mentally recalibrated.
“From Mr Marshall?” she asked. Paul nodded, and after a pause, Straub gestured to Dr Boldfield to respond. Boldfield adjusted his glasses and shifted in his seat to face us, suddenly put on the spot.
“Caementum somehow removed the upper portion of Mr Marshall’s spine and part of his brain stem, from just above the C1 vertebrae to the T5,” he said, sounding almost impatient. Clearly, Boldfield just wanted to get out of the room ASAP so that he could get on with things … possibly including our tests. Whilst I believed Straub when she said we had nothing to worry about with said tests, I was still happy to keep this guy waiting.
“This was obviously instantly fatal,” Boldfield continued. “Any pain he felt would have been brief, from the time his skin was punctured to the moment the spinal cord was severed. We think his reaction was—”
“It didn’t look too brief to me,” I said sharply, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was tired, and couldn’t decide if Boldfield was trying to make us feel better or himself. I thought it was the latter. It hadn’t been an overly slow death, but ‘brief’ was pushing it. I didn’t have time for half-truths, and they wouldn’t help me sleep better at night. “Has his family been informed?”
“Not much family to speak of,” said Straub, “but yes, they have. P
arents deceased, and he was unmarried. Immediate family consisted of one sister and two nephews. They were informed this morning, and have been debriefed in accordance with the official story. They’ll keep it quiet until the press conference tomorrow night.”
“Press conference?” asked Paul, suddenly sounding very concerned. Paul wanted nothing to do with any of that, it was clear. He just wanted it to be over.
“Don’t worry, Mr Winter,” said Straub, reassuringly, “the Prime Minister will be doing all the talking, and to be perfectly frank, if you don’t want to be a part of it, you don’t have to be. You’ll still be well compensated in return for your silence, as promised … although you will be expected to basically be on call for the rest of your life, or until we find a way to end the threat. We’ll sort you out an ongoing consultancy pay for as long as you’re in that role, don’t worry. But as for the press conference, we can wheel out anyone to display as our ‘psychic’ link, although I think Mr Pointer here would rather like that role, correct?” This last part was directed at me, and brought me nicely onto my current point of concern.
“So I get to give away the biggest story of my career—of anyone’s—for free? And lose all credibility as a journalist in the process?” I said, folding my arms. I didn’t like this at all. Yes, my hopes had been heavily dampened by our first meeting with Straub, but now I knew for a fact that I wasn’t going to break the story; instead I was going to be a chump player in it. I’d be famous, but not in the way I wanted. There’d be money, but I’d been promised that anyway, and now my dreams of joining the upper echelons of journalistic history were shattered. It just wasn’t the same. Had I been thinking straight at the time, I’d have been more focused on the millions I was doubtless going to make by being the guy at the heart of the biggest story in human history. But as I said, right then, sitting in that office, I was very tired, and more than a little petulant.
“After the press conference, Mr Pointer, you can sell your story to whichever news outlet pays the most, and I think you know that the fee will be astronomical,” said Straub, shrugging gently. “Of course, the manner in which you tell your story is entirely up to you, and therein lies your chance to grab the recognition, or whatever it is, that you want. Basically, as long as you submit your report to us for vetting, you can tell it your way. Present your own to-camera piece for Fox News, write your own exclusive for the New York Times, the Sun, whoever; the story is yours. You’re a professional, after all, and I think having a reporter that isn’t one of their own writing the story for them will be a very trivial matter indeed if it means they get the rights.” She raised her eyebrows at me, and the realisation slowly sank in. She was right. In a very short space of time, possibly even within the next forty-eight hours, I was going to be the reporter that everybody in the world knew … and I was going to be rich. I didn’t like the fact that I’d be giving a soft-soaped version, and that I’d effectively be a government lapdog, but hell, it meant I could then report on anything I wanted after this, surely! I could write my own ticket! I could finally do some real journalism, not to mention being a fucking millionaire!
I almost couldn’t take it in, and instead felt myself becoming slightly light-headed, the room suddenly seeming unreal. In a mild panic, I jammed my fingernails into my palms, and that brought me back to reality. That stuff can wait, I told myself. Now is the time to be keeping your head. You don’t know what she’s up to, after all, and she could be trying to blindside you. Focus, dickhead. She just wants you silent but onside. She thinks they still need you, and badly. I took in a slow breath, sat up straight, and looked at Straub.
“Okay. Okay. Sounds appealing, I admit,” I said, and found myself impressed with how together I sounded, even though my stomach was doing backflips. A man has died, Andy, my inner monologue said, in an attempt to maintain my calm. Try to remember that when you’re thinking about free trips to the Playboy mansion. “So all I have to do at press conference time is stand there?”
“You may be asked to answer a few questions, but we’ll keep it brief and you’ll be fully prepared for any eventualities, don’t worry,” said Straub, but she was looking at Paul now. “Mr Winter, I take it that you don’t want to be part of this? You don’t have to be. We would just need you to stay quiet and out of the spotlight … where I think you’d rather be. Am I right?” Paul nodded slowly in response, looking straight back at Straub.
“Yeah,” he said, drawing out the syllable. “For my wife, you know. She wouldn’t … Plus, I know there’s a lot of money potentially involved, but … I saw … the man died right in front of me.” He paused for a moment, paling slightly as he saw it again, but then seemed to realise something. He turned to me and held up his hands; I could see that he looked as tired as I felt. “Sorry … no offence, Andy. It’s your job and someone’s got to tell it I suppose, so you might as well make your money. But me … I’m getting paid by you lot anyway, right? For being on call, and all that? Good money?” said Paul, turning to Straub.
“You’ll be looked after, certainly,” said Straub. I noticed she used a slightly warmer tone towards Paul than she did towards me. It annoyed me slightly, but not too much. I was still trying not to think about the incredible changes that were about to come my way, in case I started doing a naked dance on the desk.
“Then I’m fine,” said Paul. “I don’t want to do it.”
Straub marked something on a notepad to her right in response to this, then looked at us both.
“All right then,” she said, and rested her hands on the desk. “In that case, I think we’re done here. Mr Winter, you’ll be taken home to your wife. Try to get a good night’s sleep, as we’ll be picking you up in the morning at 9:00 a.m. for your examinations. The press conference is scheduled for tomorrow night, Mr Pointer, and we’ll be taking you to a hotel for now, due to your current housing situation. We thought you might appreciate something other than a bunk bed. Your wake-up call is at seven; you have a long day of prep before we put you in front of the cameras. We’ll sort you out some clothes, as you’ll be meeting with the Prime Minister, after all.” Before I could respond, Paul spoke.
“Can I tell my wife the truth?” asked Paul, slightly defensively.
“I can tell you no, Mr Winter, but let’s be honest, what’s said in your bedroom at night will be hard for us to hear about,” said Straub, sternly. “However, if she can keep a secret then whatever you choose to tell her in private should stay that way, and we won’t have a problem. I trust you remember the severity of the response should you choose to break our agreement; I would advise you not to forget it, and to remember that we may—we may—choose to monitor you from time to time. I did say it would be hard for us to hear about … but not impossible. Plus, when you’re deciding what you wish to tell her, bear in mind that the … incentive we used to ensure your silence would apply to her also in the event of the truth getting out. I would think long and hard about putting her in that kind of position.” She let this hang in the air for a moment, and the room was silent as both Paul and I absorbed the statement.
“Right then,” said Straub briskly, wrapping things up, “Unless there are any questions …?”
I forced my mind to focus more sharply than ever upon hearing this opening, as I didn’t know if it would be Boldfield himself conducting the tests and examinations or his lackeys. If I was going to ask Stone Man questions, I wanted to do it whilst I had the top guy. This wasn’t to do with the story—I’d be told what they wanted the world to know—as this was for my own curiosity.
“Actually, yes,” I said, looking back and forth between Straub and Boldfield. “I have three. Don’t worry, I think these are questions that the media are going to ask anyway, so it’s nothing you’re not going to have answers for. But I’d appreciate the real ones, if they’re different. You might as well be honest, based on what I already know.”
“Okay,” said Straub. “Number one?”
“The most important one, the one that’
s always first. Why?”
“You mean our theories as to why it came?” asked Straub. I nodded, and she gestured to Boldfield.
“Well, other than the obvious,” he said, barely disguising a stressed-sounding sigh and looking at his watch, “meaning the idea that it came to acquire a specific genetic sample from an individual with a specific genetic makeup, or at least one who fit within specific parameters, we don’t have any one theory that’s more solid than the others, frankly. Personally, I go with the study argument; that it was here to collect and return said sample for examination, but even that breaks down. Why not take the brain itself, for example, rather than the stem?”
“So you think it’s extraterrestrial as well then?” Paul asked, intrigued. Boldfield looked at Straub, and she gestured for him to carry on.
“It really is the only conclusion,” Boldfield said, removing his glasses and wiping them. There was fresh sweat on his brow. “Teleportation, increasing its own density and mass at will, instantaneous and directed metamorphosis of solid matter on command … all of these things are light years beyond even the most cutting-edge work being carried out by the finest scientific minds in the world. Our best work is at a Stone Age level compared to this. It also explains why it may have procured that area of the spine; perhaps that is where the brain or control centre of their species lies.”
“So you think the Stone Man is an alien itself?” I asked, leaning forward. Paul was doing the same.
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