Jury Duty (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  “Oh, damn,” he says as hot water cascades over his head and shoulders. Steam rises around him. When he finally drags himself from the shower, the bathroom is like a sauna.

  “Feels good, huh?” Dmitri says, drying himself.

  “That,” Nick replies, “is possibly the best shower in existence. I mean, like anywhere on the planet.”

  “Ha ha.”

  Nick rubs himself dry with a towel. “So you’re Russian special forces.”

  “Was,” Dmitri replies. “It’s a young man’s game. There’s only so much punishment the body can take. They like to say, it’s all in your mind, but that’s a lie. Oh, it’s a lie you believe when you’re twenty, but a lie nonetheless. Pride only goes so far. Stubborn determination takes you further, but the body—it isn’t fooled by bravado. Eventually, it catches up with you—catches up with me.”

  “Where did you serve?” Nick asks, getting dressed.

  “Did I fire on Americans?” Dmitri asks, answering what he assumes is Nick’s real question. “No. But I would have—such is the folly of loyalty. When you’re young, you do as you’re told. We weren’t trained to think. We were trained to obey.”

  Nick nods but doesn’t comment. For him, it’s strangely comforting to put on clean, warm clothing. He’s intrigued by Dmitri’s blunt attitude. Back in Puerto Rico, Jazz warned him about being manipulated by the Russians, and he gets it. International cooperation is only ever in the context of national interests. Dmitri, though, seems genuine.

  “You are in a unique position, Nick. In Russia, we have a saying: У каждой дороги два направления—Every road has two directions. You may have been dragged to Antarctica, but you get to choose where you go from here.”

  Nick sits on a wooden bench, getting dressed. He pulls on a pair of woolen socks.

  “You don’t trust me, do you?” Dmitri asks.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m supposed to trust you. You’re the enemy, right? Or has all that changed with this thing beneath the ice?”

  Dmitri pulls a t-shirt over his head and shoulders, working his muscular arms through the sleeves as he says, “We need each other. We always have, but we’ve been too busy fighting each other to see that.”

  “Is that another Russian saying?” Nick asks, humoring him. “You know, in South Carolina, we have a saying.”

  “Oh, you do?” Dmitri asks, joining in and joking with him. “You have sayings?”

  “We do. We say, the enemy of my enemy is probably still an asshole.”

  “Hah. I like that,” Dmitri says. He grins, adding, “It’s true.”

  They walk back out into the corridor to the sound of shouting from the lecture hall. Someone’s yelling, “Where is he? Where the fuck is he?”

  “Stay here,” Dmitri says, pushing Nick to one side as he rushes down the hallway. To hell with that. Nick is hard on Dmitri’s heels. They rush into the lecture hall to see a soldier dressed in fatigues. He has a thick winter jacket on with the hood pulled back. There’s a Glock in his outstretched arm. He’s pointing his gun at Adrianna, threatening to shoot her. Their eyes meet, and with the subtlest motion, Adrianna shakes her head. She wants Nick to flee, but he can’t. It isn’t a sense of bravery that keeps him there. He can’t abandon her. Nick’s still trying to process what the hell is happening and why.

  Dmitri has his arms out, appealing for calm. Initially, he blocks Nick’s view, hiding him from the shooter. Dmitri steps to one side, wanting to edge his way over to where his sidearm is resting on his jacket.

  “Easy,” he says, maintaining eye contact with the soldier. “What’s going on here? We’re all in this together. Let’s work together. Talk to me.”

  Adrianna is shaking. She grabs her trembling arms, trying to settle them as she wraps them around herself.

  “Is that him?” the soldier asks, gesturing at Nick with the barrel of his Glock. “Is he the new juror?”

  “Let’s slow things down,” Dmitri says, still facing the soldier as he works his way around to his jacket. He’s got his fingers splayed, appealing for calm.

  “Fucking Russians!”

  A single shot rings out.

  Nick flinches at the violence being unleashed before him. In the confines of the room, the shot breaks like thunder, assaulting his ears and rattling his bones.

  Dmitri clutches at his chest. He sinks to his knees, pausing for a second as he looks down at the blood staining his hands. The soldier has the gun trained on Dmitri’s head, ready for a second shot. Nick rushes to Dmitri, grabbing him by his shoulders. He turns him, laying him gently on the floor. Blood soaks into the carpet.

  Dmitri looks up into his eyes. “I—I.”

  Nick takes his hand and squeezes his fingers, trying to provide some comfort, but it’s futile. Pathetic. Deep red blood sticks to his palm. Tears well up in his eyes. What the hell just happened? They were laughing just moments ago. How can death be so cruel?

  “You,” the soldier yells. “You’re coming with me.”

  Before Nick can turn to face him, the soldier grabs Nick by his still-damp hair. Gloved fingers tear at his roots, threatening to rip clumps of hair from his head as Nick’s dragged away. He has no choice. Nick can’t pull himself free without losing part of his scalp. He grabs the soldier’s wrist with both hands, but it’s all he can do to crouch and follow along as he’s dragged out into the corridor and through the entranceway with its double doors.

  The soldier kicks the bar on the external door and it flies open, scraping across the snow on the landing. He grabs Nick’s collar, dragging him behind him. Boots crunch on the ice. The wind whips around them. The sudden burst of an icy chill shocks Nick’s body. The cold seeps into his bones. Already, his fingers are numb. Nick kicks with his feet, desperate to keep up with the soldier as he’s dragged through the snow. He’s expecting to be dumped out on the ice with a bullet in his head.

  “Stop! Stop,” he yells against the roar of the gale tearing across the frozen plateau. Spotlights break through the night, casting long shadows. Nick slips on the ice, scrambling, trying to break free. The soldier doesn’t care, dragging him on by his torn shirt. He throws Nick in front of him, forcing him to keep up.

  The soldier opens a door and swings Nick inside, sending him colliding with one of the bench seats lining the ready room. The air is knocked out of his lungs. Pain shoots through his ribs.

  The soldier grabs Nick by his hair again, forcing his head back. For his part, Nick’s doing all he can to avoid having his scalp ripped from his skull. He grabs the soldier’s wrist. He can barely think through the pain wracking his head. He slides on the icy floor as he’s shoved toward the internal door, only now realizing the soldier has let go.

  The external door closes behind them. The soldier plants his boot in the center of Nick’s back and shoves him forward, not allowing him to get back to his feet. Nick falls against the crash-bar on the internal door and stumbles through. He collapses on the linoleum floor of the operations center.

  “Ah, there you are,” a voice says. “I’m Colonel John Augustus Buckley, US Marines. It’s nice to meet you, Nick. I see you’re already acquainted with Sergeant Hillenbrand.”

  Colonel Buckley

  Nick is on his hands and knees, cradling his head, unsure whether the blood dripping on the floor is Dmitri’s or his. He cries. Tears fall from his eyes as he rocks back and forth, trying to catch up with reality.

  Colonel Buckley grabs him by the nape of his neck, jerking his head back and forcing him to look up.

  “It’s not polite to ignore basic pleasantries. What’s your name, son? Your full name?”

  The colonel’s voice is deceptive. He’s from one of the southern states. His accent is relaxed, making his words sound soft and warm. At a guess, Nick would think he’s from Mississippi or Louisiana. Buckley smiles from behind a thin mustache, encouraging him to speak.

  “Nick. Nicholas. Nicholas James Ferrin.”

  Nick
stares at the overhead fluorescent lights, still trying to comprehend what’s happening. Now that he’s upright on his knees, the colonel lets go.

  Buckley strides around in front of him, speaking with a voice as bitter as the storm outside.

  “Do you know why you’re here, Nicholas?”

  “N—No.”

  “You’re here to do your duty. You have a solemn duty to the people of God’s sacred Earth, Mr. Ferrin. Do you understand me?”

  Nick nods. He looks around. Computer monitors line the walls, displaying dozens of graphs along with video images from throughout the base. Most of the shots are of the lights above an external door somewhere, revealing frozen stairs leading down to the ice. There are a few internal shots, but they’re of empty corridors. On one screen, he sees Adrianna kneeling next to a body sprawled out on the floor. The images are monochrome. The blood seeping from Dmitri’s chest is as black as coal.

  “W—Why? Why did you kill him?”

  The colonel ignores Nick.

  “You have been called upon to serve your country, Nicholas. That is a noble endeavor.”

  Jazz is down on her knees not more than ten feet from Nick. Her hands have been bound behind her back with a plastic zip-tie. Blood drips from her chin, running in a steady stream from a cut on her forehead. Bruises have formed on her cheeks. Their eyes meet. She mouths the word, ‘Don’t.’

  Bear is beside her, kneeling on the linoleum floor with his hands bound behind his back. His face is black and blue. Large welts have formed on his cheeks.

  “You’re here to serve on the jury, Nick. Can I call you that, Nicholas? Nick is much more informal and relaxed. It’s more appropriate, don’t you think?”

  Nick nods, still trying to focus through the haze of pain surging through his scalp.

  There’s a rhythm to Colonel Buckley’s words. He speaks with deliberation. Every sentence is precise. Each word is pronounced with vigor.

  “There’s something I need you to do, Nick. As a member of the jury, I need you to authorize our response to the alien attack. Father has been disabled. We’ve got his core functions back online, but he needs your approval to proceed with our response. Do you understand me?”

  Reluctantly, Nick nods.

  Buckley walks over to Jazz. He places the barrel of his pistol under her chin, raising her gaze as he speaks. “You wouldn’t lie to me now would you, Nick? Jasmine here, she lied. She told me you were dead. She said she lost you in the storm.”

  He rolls the barrel of the gun around her face, pushing it against her temple. Jazz doesn’t flinch. Her head rocks as Buckley drills the barrel against her skull.

  “Do you know what the punishment is for disobeying a lawful order, Nick? Dereliction of duty while in conflict? Do you know what the military does when a subordinate refuses a direct order in times of war?”

  Jazz bows her head. Tears run down her cheeks, but she tightens her lips. She shakes her head, signaling Nick shouldn’t respond.

  “We’re at war,” Buckley says, pulling his gun away and turning on Nick. “We’ve been attacked. But we can stop them. You can stop them, Nick. You can be the hero.”

  He holsters his gun and offers Nick his hand. “Get up, son.”

  A thin trickle of blood runs down the side of Nick’s head, curling around his ear and down his neck. Nick takes the colonel’s hand and gets to his feet. He’s unsteady, on the verge of falling.

  “Easy,” Buckley says, grabbing him by his shoulder. “Don’t worry, boy. This will all be over soon.”

  “I—I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “You will soon enough.”

  Buckley leads Nick around the side of an old-style computer console. A rickety keyboard and a green-screen monitor have been incorporated into a single, solid plastic case the size of a study desk. A trackball has been built into the surface, acting as a computer mouse. There’s a woman seated in front of the console. She’s hurt. Her left eye socket is swollen, closing over her eye. The skin on her forehead is purple with bruising. She looks dazed.

  “Are you ready, Julia?”

  She nods. Colonel Buckley pushes a large green button next to the trackball. Sergeant Hillenbrand stands at ease by the door. He has holstered his gun. He’s got his hands clasped behind him. Rather than looking relaxed, it’s as though he’s waiting to die, accepting his fate.

  A long metal stalk protrudes from the plastic casing. Buckley speaks into the microphone.

  “Father, we have a quorum of the surviving jurors. I am requesting the execution of UN Emergency Contingency 57A.”

  Hundreds of lines of code scroll down the screen as a program starts. There’s no graphical interface, just seemingly meaningless commands appearing automatically on each line. It’s as though someone’s typing in the background, entering text into a command prompt at an astonishing rate.

  An electronic voice says, “The detonation of the nuclear contingency requires the consent of the majority of jurors.”

  “I have two of the three remaining jurors with me,” Buckley says, nudging Julia.

  Before she can speak, a feeble voice comes over the radio. “Don’t do it, Julia.”

  Colonel Buckley ignores that comment. “Go ahead, Julia. Do—your—duty.”

  Julia puts her trembling hand on the computer monitor, steadying herself.

  “Julia Duffie. United Kingdom. I vote yes.”

  No sooner has she spoken than the radio crackles with, “This is Anni Azizi, China. I vote no.”

  Colonel Buckley forces Nick’s head down next to the microphone. He’s deceptively strong, forcing Nick to bend at the waist. Nick puts his hands out, smearing blood over the computer as he steadies himself.

  “Say it, Nicholas. Vote. Say your goddamn name.”

  “No,” Nick says. He surprises himself with a surge of strength that leaves him staggering away from the colonel. Nick might not be the most capable guy on the planet. He’s not the sharpest or the smartest, the strongest or the bravest, but there’s one thing Nick is good at—being as stubborn as a Sorrel pack mule.

  “You will do this,” Buckley says, lowering his head and glaring at him. “You will end this. Now.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Oh,” Buckley says, grinning as he addresses Hillenbrand. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a bona fide all-American hero. Goddamn, I am going to enjoy this.”

  Hillenbrand repositions himself, standing with his back to the door, blocking any chance of escape. Nick crouches, trying to assess his options. Jazz looks up at him with pity in her eyes. Yeah, he’s totally fucked, but he’s not going to die without a fight. Nick launches himself at Buckley. The colonel simply bats at Nick’s head with the heel of his pistol, smacking him across the temple and sending him reeling.

  Buckley uses the Glock like a pair of knuckledusters, with his fist wrapped around the pistol grip. He could shoot Nick if he wanted to, but he keeps his fingers clear of the trigger, using the butt of the magazine like a cold, hard hammer.

  “What are you doing, Nicholas? Don’t you know? You have a duty to perform, son. You’re here to protect not only the US but humanity as a whole. Authorize that goddamn nuke!”

  “Why are you doing this?” Nick asks, still reeling from being hit.

  “Don’t you get it? We have to stop them. We can’t let these things escape. We get one chance to stop this. One chance before tens of thousands of goddamn aliens come crawling out of that hole in the ice.”

  “You don’t know that,” Nick says.

  Out of nowhere, he’s struck again by the heel of the pistol, only this time, it rakes across his jaw, rattling his teeth. Blood swells within his mouth. He spits. Bloody mucus hangs from his lips, dripping to the floor.

  “You think I’m the bad guy?” Buckley says, momentarily pointing the gun at his own chest. “What? You think I’m the devil?” He points his gun at the floor, saying, “I have seen the devil. The devil is down there beneath the ice. The devil hath no form
but that like a man. The devil hath come here but for to deceive us. There is no other reason, Nicholas.”

  “You’re not thinking straight,” Nick says, staggering over near Jazz, trying to keep his distance from Buckley. “We need to understand what we’re dealing with.”

  The colonel says, “Do you know what your problem is? Your problem is, you want to play by the rules. The devil also likes to play, but not by the rules. That’s why he always wins. Is that what you want, Nicholas? Do you want the devil to win?”

  Hillenbrand is enjoying this. He’s smiling. Julia has slumped in her seat. It’s not difficult for Nick to see that, given time, Buckley will beat him down. He’ll end up like her, willing to surrender just to get it over with.

  “This isn’t right,” Nick says, trying to appeal to reason. “You must see that. This isn’t what was intended. You don’t strong-arm a jury.”

  Buckley laughs. “You don’t get it, do you?” he says, grinning. “You’re white trash! The Russians didn’t pick you because you represent the average American. They chose you because you’re a chump. They chose you because they knew they could manipulate you. They think you’re dumb. They think you’re stupid, Nicholas. To them, you’re a joke.”

  The blank look on Nick’s face gets Buckley’s attention.

  “Oh, you really didn’t know,” he says, laughing. “Boy, you really are a fool.”

  The colonel turns his attention to Jazz. He points at her with his gun. “She knew, but she never told you, did she? Do you know why? Because she thought she could use you as well.”

  Jazz swallows a lump in her throat. Again, tears flow, but this time they’re not shed out of pain. She’s ashamed of herself. She struggles to make eye contact with Nick, mouthing the words, I’m sorry.

  “How does it feel, Nick? How does it feel to be betrayed? Thirty pieces of silver. That’s all it took to sway Judas. But these guys. These guys fucked you over for sport. For them, it was fun.”

  Nick falls to his knees, devastated by what he’s hearing. Buckley reads him like a freeway billboard. The colonel crouches in front of him, sitting down on his haunches and looking him in the eye.