The Alien Creator

by Michael Miller

  "Yes, sir; before you go, how is Global Space coming along with finding this alien ship? I heard their cloaking technology works well. If we can't see them, we can't shoot them."

  "We'll let you know; no word yet on that part of the puzzle."

  "Ok, thank you; I'll look forward to that information. Good bye, sir."

  Top Guns

  Born to fly due to extensive military families, Joe Mettars and Ray Thompson were U.S. Navy brats following respective parents around the world from base to base, hot spot to hot spot, depending on America's need for experienced combat pilots providing surveillance and troop ground support. Overriding motherly concerns for their lone offspring, the boys worshipped fathers as the ultimate sacrificial warriors and heroes. All too soon graduating from high school, the tall, handsome, athletic young men, as cadets, earned coveted slots in the famed Naval Annapolis Academy where they shined in course work and leadership training. Following extensive training at the Navy's Fighter Weapons Schools at Miramar and Fallon, the confident Lieutenants were picked by the CIA as pioneers in a newly formed High Altitude Special Forces Division, thereby taking advantage of emerging technology thanks to hosts of defense contractors and tremendous engineering talent.

  Resolved not to experience live aerial combat against traditional foes like their fathers, the coveted pilots train to hunt and kill enemy satellites and ICBMs operating above fifty thousand feet. It became the focus to navigate the heavens, hunting and destroying, in live simulations, leapfrog weapons not imagined twenty years earlier. Operating in the final frontier, often for months at a time, the close friends studied and simulated destruction of futuristic technology that could tilt the balance of power.

  Arriving at a quiet military runway south of Groom Lake in the Nevada desert, the men are escorted by jeep and armed guards to an above ground air-conditioned building where they're photographed and fingerprinted. After retinal scans validate identities, the pair put on special anti-static shoes and clothing then given high clearance color of the day bright green ID tags. Taking a rustic mine shaft elevator down several levels, they stop almost a hundred feet below the surface and disembark. Next boarding an electric golf cart waiting their arrival, the elite pilots are taken by another set of armed guards to large steel-track doors. Behind the enormous hanging track doors, they find a large polished cement floor with dozens of engineers and scientists working on a radically different aircraft.

  "Holy cow!" Joe says to Ray. "What have we here?"

  "It's gotta be the new skunk works we've heard about. Isn't it amazing?"

  As the pilots chat and gawk at the large aircraft with odd bulges, retractable wings, and unknown attachments, a gray bearded scientist donning a soiled lab coat walks over."

  "I'm chief engineer and overall project leader, Dr. Richard Metz, gentlemen. Welcome to Area-51."

  "It's good meeting you, sir," Navy Lt. Joe Mettars answers shaking hands. "I'm Joe Mettars and this is Ray Thompson."

  After Lt. Ray Thompson shakes hands, he asks the scientist the most obvious questions. "Why are we here, sir, and what are you fellows building?"

  "This is a redesigned shuttle version of the X-37, more than three times larger than the original X-37 orbital test vehicle. It comes with major engine upgrades and other modifications I'll explain later. It's your new home for the foreseeable future."

  "Home, sir; what does that mean?" Ray follows, eyeing the long sleek dull black covering on hull. Watching as scientists and engineers test telescopic retractable wings and rudders, the pilots are stunned by size, bulk, complexity, and appearance. Looking more like flattened B1B Lancers than shuttles, the men speculate what special modifications Metz has in mind.

  "Let's go inside. I think you're about to discover a brave new world, gentlemen."

  "How long do you expect us to be here?" Joe asks as the trio walks around the long aircraft. "We were told there's a new mission but haven't gotten specifics."

  Metz stops walking and faces them. "I'm going to be up front with you. Our planet is under attack by Andromedans and you're going to take this baby up and stop them."

  The youthful pilots seem tickled by the news and chuckle as if the elderly scientist is yanking their chain. "I assume you're joking, sir. Who are Andromedans and what's really happening?"

  "I'm dead serious, fellows. We've lost several deep space assets the last couple weeks. Since then, we've seen and talked with the ship's commander, a nasty looking robot about 7-feet tall with unbelievable, flexible, pneumatic limbs. I'll show a short clip inside the spaceship, so you can see for yourself. Any explanation by me will fall short of explaining how these machines sound and look. The White House is scrambling as we develop offensive options."

  "So you're telling us, Joe and I are going to fly this contraption into space and do what exactly?" Ray murmurs as images inside his brain swirl as the men notice blasts of air or gas spitting out sides of the lengthy ship.

  "Yes that right; every top scientist at Area-51 is in this work space or nearby working on other parts of this project, gentlemen. I'm afraid what you're about to learn and experience during the next few weeks is going to be nothing you've ever considered in job descriptions."

  "This enemy threat, Dr. Metz, is it coming to Earth?"

  "Yes, this robotic commander, a terrifying machine called Zote, claims it might take this planet for use by what's called Creators. They're what's left of a larger family dying off due to instability of their home planet in a nearby galaxy. Apparently, Earth is the first place found after decades of travel that can sustain these Creators. It's not certain they'll find Earth suitable, but we're assuming the worst and all indications are this planet fits their needs."

  "How can we learn to fly this in two weeks? It must be complicated," Ray murmurs, his voice trailing off as the serious nature of the role grabs him.

  "Most flight operations are computerized. What you fellows provide are combat tactics and decisions where computer decisions often fall short. You'll be given scenarios and choices by the computer, but you'll make the calls."

  "Wow, that's amazing. How did these aliens find Earth in this giant universe? That can't be easy," Joe surmises.

  "Best we can tell it was pure chance," Metz nods his head in disbelief. "They stumbled onto one of our most advanced deep space orbiters at the edge of the Milky Way and tracked it back to us. I suppose the communication system gave away location."

  "How did you speak to these aliens," Ray smiles. "Do they speak English?"

  "Matter of fact they do, Lieutenant. We suspect they've been studying us for a while and learned the language by hacking into satellite networks. They have linguistic machines that hook up to our orbiter and interpret our words then covert them into their native machine language. It's amazing technology that makes our voice-activated software seem rudimentary."

  "Why choose the States?" Ray presses. "Why not China or Russia?"

  "They picked us due to our sophisticated equipment in space, far as we know. The only other space vehicle they've tried snatching was a tiny Israeli satellite."

  "Tried, sir?" Joe questions the non-political scientist.

  "Yep, they tried plucking it from space but couldn’t manage to get close, so they blasted it instead. In fact, our first contact destroyed one of our deepest orbiters."

  "When you say they blasted it, sir, did they use cannons or what?"

  "Lasers appear to be their weapon of choice. When they uncloaked, the front end of their craft pulsated or throbbed right before a thick burst of energy released. It's incredible power."

  Ray coughs, "Sir, you said they uncloaked?"

  "Unfortunately, we can't find them most of the time until they stop to grab an asset or fire weapons. The tracking team at Global Space Company is supposed to come up with fixes for that issue," Metz explains with bits of doubt lingering in his tone.

  "Man, that's unbelievable," Joe sighs. "I always figured that was comic book malarkey. So we aren't alone afte
r all."

  "Sir, what do we have that can match laser power in space, if you don't mind me asking?" Ray presses the calm scientist ignoring Joe's rabbit trail.

  "Good question; let's climb aboard and give you a tour, gentlemen. You won't have an empty quiver," Metz smiles as the men ogle at three giant rear engines. Noting their interest, he pauses. "The engines functions independently burning cryogenic liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen propellants," Metz explains proudly. "When you put petal to the metal, it's like riding atop a bullet."

  "Why do we need three engines for zero gravity," Ray asks the scientist.

  "Good question. Ray. Normally, one or two would suffice but the X-37D carries a new rail gun that consumes a lot of energy. You'll see it soon but rest assured the third engine, based on mathematical calculations, makes this craft the most lethal object I know except for this alien ship."

  Moving to top of the rear gangplank of the large modified spacecraft, Metz summarizes unique features and explains Aerojet Rocketdyne's Kilo-Newton engines, pounds of vacuum thrust, and reliability. After painful instructive details, above their grasp for the engineering of internal revolutionary fuel and oxygen high-pressure turbo-pumps, the content scientist moves up the grated ramp and disappears inside while Joe and Ray check the other's reactions to the surprising news.

  Leaning out the gangplank door, Metz waves at the pilots to follow him inside. "Come on; I'll introduce you to Sidney."

  "They're putting a lot of faith in us," Joe murmurs. "I hope we can deliver."

  Ray chuckles, "Out of all the great pilots in this country, they chose us, Joe. Don't you think they understand what's needed better than us? Come on; let's meet Sidney. He's probably a pencil-neck geek wearing Converse tennis shoes."

  Chapter Five

  White House, East Wing Bunker

  resident Jack Wilford, along with Chief of Staff Charles Brody, Depart of Defense Chairman Bull Greer, CIA Director Robert Covelli, and two Joint Chief generals and their aides, listen as a phone call to Area-51 is patched through to pilots Lt. Ray Thompson, Lt. Joe Mettars, and program director Dr. Richard Metz. When Charles Brody comes on the video line, the three stop conferring as the White House Chief of Staff introduces attendees in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. As the pilots check out participants inside the Oval Office, they're struck by long faces and the serious nature of the meeting.

  Once introduction are complete, Wilford takes control of the meeting by explaining his position. "Gentlemen, I wanted to make an initial call giving you firsthand our latest intelligence and assure you of the importance of your pivotal role as we address this current threat. I'm told you fellows are on the X-37D kicking the tires as we speak. I've never seen it but am told it's radically different."

  "Yes, Mr. President," Lt. Joe Mettars speaks first, swiveled around in one of the cockpit's chairs. "It's definitely different. Dr. Metz is giving us the grand tour, sir. Ray and I are amazed at what we're seeing."

  "Ray," Wilford addresses the other pilot to break the ice, "I'm told both of your fathers were decorated combat pilots. I'm sure they're very proud of you."

  "Yes, sir," Lt. Ray Thompson follows, his voice cheerful and uplifting. "My dad, of course, isn't aware of what we're doing here, but if he knew I'm sure he'd be proud."

  "I'm thinking we should arrange for parents and close family members to be there when you depart. I can't imagine sending you into space without some type of send-off and this isn't a routine mission. Is that agreeable?"

  "Yes, sir; we'd like that," Ray nods looking at Joe. "Joe and I would appreciate seeing them one last time."

  Wilford notes the ominous wording. Rubbing eyes and face, he responds. "I'm not sure it'll be the last time, but all of us in the White House appreciate your sacrifice. You have my word that immediate families will be cared for in the event you don't make it back. I hope you fellows see that the generals and staff are nodding agreement about that particular aspect."

  "Thank you," Joe pipes. "What can you tell us about these aliens, sir? Dr. Metz told us what he knows. Anything new information you can share?"

  "Not a lot, but here's what I know in case Dr. Metz left out any details. So far, we've had two contacts with the Andromedan robot Zote, a large mechanical creature that's plenty intimidating. Somehow, they've figured out how to communicate in English using robotic translators, so that's made it easier. Finding a suitable planet to replace their home in early stages of becoming uninhabitable is their primary mission that began about fifty years ago. Providing safe haven for Creators, a declining family of five, apparently are the brains for this rogue outfit. There's also an organism, in cryogenic state, expected to be unfrozen once Earth is cleared by their science team. In that event, this organic creature, probably a classical Cyborg, will take charge of operations. No detail of what he looks like or what he can do. Reading between the lines however, I'm assuming we should expect major incursions to commence when it takes command."

  "Do we know anything about their weapon capabilities?" Dr. Metz adds to the exchange.

  "So far, we've witnessed laser technology blasting a couple assets in deep space. Most challenging and relevant is the fact that their spaceship disappears from radar after engagements. They must have deflective shields that work like stealth technology, though nobody can explain how that works. We think it could be unrelated to radiation-absorbent material but rather a clever device dispersing radio signal jamming. The telemetry team at Global Space Company is working on it. We should hear something soon and I'll patch you later into that update."

  Metz considers what he's heard. "Mr. President, I appreciate that particular news. We've dabbled with dispersing signals that confuse incoming ICBMs. The technology essentially puts rockets on new paths into deep space where they burn out, float away, or detonate. The last shuttle mission tested sweep and barge jamming on older orbiting satellites with reasonable success."

  "Is this jamming technology on the X-37D, Dr. Metz?" Wilford replies.

  "Yes, it's part of the defensive package since we originally intended to use it against Russian, Chinese, Iranian, and North Korean nuclear missiles. I suppose it could work against any spacecraft if we confuse guidance systems."

  "All right, Ray and Joe will have to come up to speed for that technology. How's the plasma rail gun coming along? Have Joe and Ray seen it yet?"

  Ray and Joe take notice as Metz's eye light up, the simple description enough to grab attention. "No, they haven't seen it yet, but we expect operation status in a couple days. We're planning to have a 24-pack of fire-and-forget projectiles loaded along with pre-programmed coordinates for rendezvous in the event we need more ammo," Metz cautions.

  "I see; all right, I suppose you fellows need to get off the phone and back to work," Wilford responds. "Any questions for the team here before hanging up?"

  "I do, sir," Ray speaks up. "What kind of army do they have on board that can take over Earth? That seems almost impossible considering the millions of soldiers and cops, not to mention Air Force and Navy."

  "Good question, Ray. All we know is Zote explained that four basic combat units along with this semi-organic creature take control. I have no idea of their capability but it sounds like war isn't new business for them. These four tactical war-bots must be unbelievably powerful in ways we can only imagine. It appears they've improved our focus on smaller, more lethal, combat teams to the ultimate using robots."

  "Thanks for being honest, sir. I suppose we should get back at it, but rest assured Joe and I are in all the way."

  "We appreciate your spirit, Lieutenants. Carry on, gentlemen; we'll talk again soon; White House out."

  Andromedan Spaceship

  Zote listens, records, and analyzes as the dedicated science team provides thorough analysis of oxygen content, temperature variation, tilting axis, seasons, and review of hacked records from satellites and space station. Finding a plethora of weather tracking history over many decades, the science minions as
sure the commander this planet is an ideal body up to this point. Next, they will prepare the same kind of assessment for land mass, water supplies, plant life, and terrain once the ship is closer. Advising that while the mesosphere is ideal for studying variations in surface topography, they prefer being closer for deep intrusive analysis of plant life that's key to the regeneration of Creator food supplies. Adequate moisture, sunshine, and high-grade soil are keys.

  Although pleased his part of the mission is close to being successfully finished, he understands his existence will end. Being turned off or discarded like dozens of minions over time never enters data registers. Hypocrisy isn't part of the Andromedan culture or experience. Matters of necessity and survival of Creators is the end game that matters above all else.

  "Do-ta-can," Zote agrees to the lower elevation since this alien planet hasn't done anything aggressive to impede them. "Puh-de-ve-no-ga," he urges minions to be thorough, a warning taken seriously. "Ve-tu-si-bas-i-ma," Zote advises minions that Supreme hybrids will not accept the slightest technical error. "Os-i-be-mi-la," he ends with sobering reminders that all machines are expendable.

  "Ah-sa-da-va-mooka?" a timid minion manages, the question meant to challenge Zote's understanding of the alien threat including weapons and cunning.

  Pausing for a long, uncomfortable time, Zote finally responds as the team of science minions worry about angry outbursts and fierce punishments doled out on the spot. "Wu-sa-taki-dom," a reply meaning it's none of their concern. "Tu-da-ma," he barks telling them to get back to work.

  Taking a private open translucent platform down three levels then stepping into a cold, quiet, eerie, and foggy room hosting two tall cryogenic cylinders, Zote looks at one of the stiff Supreme hybrids thinking about the human's proposal. Why should he give up his life? Is the life of machines less valuable than lives of hybrids? I've taken us this far without help. What do these frozen objects bring he cannot deliver? Why do they deserve to end my life after half a centon looking for the perfect sphere? Is this an example of human cleverness? Is this question minions figure could undermine my decision-making? How can I be sure instructions are not in place to restore a Supreme hybrid if I fail unfreezing them when the time comes to take the planet? Are science minions programmed to circumvent my authority if that happens? What type of failsafe did Creators provide? Assuredly, my death is inevitable in that scenario; although it's pre-determined by Creators.