He suddenly felt sorry for himself—like he was a crash victim, trying to learn how to walk all over again, struggling with every step, or trying to feed himself, and finding more and more things he couldn’t do. He saw the pity in their eyes as well. Art and Lane looked like they hadn’t quite realized that this, too, would be a shock to Kilmer. It just hadn’t occurred to them. Without even thinking about it, Silla started to move toward him, looking very much like she wanted to console him. But she stopped herself, as if it would be to defy God’s law if she so much as touched him.
Kilmer turned to Art. “All of the days since then… Those don’t exist for me. Is that it?”
“That’s right,” Art said quietly. “When Agents Silla and Lane came to your home earlier today, do you remember the circumstances? Do you remember where you had just been?”
“Of course. I had just returned from the hospital. I had—” Kilmer stopped short.
He had been at his office this morning, at the university, when he suddenly fainted and was rushed to a hospital in Cambridge. When he came around, the doctors assured him that it was nothing serious, and that they had given him some IV fluids to make sure he was properly hydrated. Then they sent him home. He had just entered his condo when Agents Silla and Lane came to see him.
None of that was real.
“Professor, do you know what the date is today?”
“It’s Friday. May 10th.”
The looks on the faces of the three agents made it clear that it was not, in fact, Friday, May 10.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Art said as gently as he could, “but May 10th was when Vice President Nielsen called you for help. That was what we refer to as Day 14. You arrived in DC late that night. It appears that the last thing you remember—waking up to your daily routine on May 10—is the point after which all of your memories have disappeared.”
Kilmer swallowed hard. “So… what is the date now?”
Art glanced at his colleagues, as if hoping someone else would volunteer to break the news. No one did.
“It’s June 21st, Professor Kilmer. It’s Day 56.”
~ 63 ~
Art explained to Professor Kilmer that he had never fainted at work on May 10. That was simply what the doctors told him when he regained consciousness. It was the only lie they needed to tell him. The rest of the illusion was created by all the things they did not tell him. For over four weeks, Kilmer had been in an induced coma—a treatment sometimes used for patients with traumatic brain injury or intractable seizures. He had been brought out of the coma only once during those weeks, very briefly, to check whether he might have regained any of his memories. Agent Silla had been in the room at the time, and Kilmer hadn’t recognized her. That was the first test. When he was asked the date, he said it was May 10. That was the second test. He failed the third, fourth, and fifth tests as well. The coma was induced again in order to facilitate his recovery. His daily regimen included nutritional supplements, extra protein, physical therapy, and the latest in neuromuscular electrical stimulation. All of this had taken place in a hospital in Washington, DC.
Finally, on Day 54—June 19—he was moved to a hospital in Cambridge, where he would have likely been taken if he really had fainted at work. On Day 56—today—the drugs used to induce his coma were gradually withdrawn. When he awoke, the doctors told him he had fainted, and that it was not abnormal for him to feel unsteady on his feet, or to be confused about what had happened immediately prior to his fainting. They assured him he would regain his strength over the next few days.
Art had devised the rest of the plan. Agents Silla and Lane were to approach Kilmer as soon as possible after he recovered, and they had to do so before he learned anything about the existence of aliens. That meant he could have no access to TV, radio, his cell phone, or to any strangers. All the TVs in the hospital lobby had been shut off. The path from his hospital bed, through the lobby, and to the exit, had been cleared of people, except for a handful who were instructed not to talk to him, nor to discuss anything other than hospital-related matters. His cell phone was drained of battery, rendering it unusable. He would not be able to check messages or connect to the internet, and he would not be able to call for a ride home, thereby eliminating another potential risk. The first taxi in the line outside was driven by a CIA agent who was under strict instructions not to turn on the radio or to engage in any conversation except for the minimum required to act the part of cab driver.
Agents Silla and Lane were already in Brookline, parked a block away from his condo, ready to knock on his door the moment he entered. They had to do it before he could try to plug in his phone or turn on the TV. As a precaution, just in case Silla and Lane mistimed their approach, the electricity to his home had been shut off. Once the agents engaged him, they were to convince him to come voluntarily, but without revealing anything of substance. And yes, if he had rejected the offer, they would have forced him to come along.
Now, sitting in Apate 3, Kilmer shook his head in disbelief. He remembered waking up this morning, knowing it was May 10—when in fact, it was June 21. He had awoken from his induced coma less than twelve hours ago.
Kilmer stood up to stretch his legs. “You’re right, Art. I’ve been sitting and listening for too long. I could use some coffee.”
“I’ll get it,” volunteered Lane, and headed for the door.
“Let’s all take a five-minute break,” Art said. “I’ll send a quick message to the White House about where we are in the conversation.” He left the room as well.
For the first time that day, Kilmer was alone with Agent Silla.
He was not usually at a loss for words, but he could think of absolutely nothing to say.
Silla helped him out. “You don’t have to worry about what to say to me, Professor Kilmer. There’s also no reason for you to feel uncomfortable. Please feel free to treat me exactly as was natural for you about three hours ago. I know you’re somewhat aware that we… well, that we were…” She settled on a word that they both knew wouldn’t hold up in court. “… friends.” She had said it with some difficulty. “This is all new for you, but I’ve had a couple of weeks to come to terms with what happened. The awkwardness will pass.”
“Would you be willing to tell me about it, Agent Silla? About… us?”
“No, Professor. I would not. As brief as our time together was, it was still a part of my life that I shared with someone very special to me. I’ve made peace with the fact that he’s no longer with us. I think it’s best left where it is—with me. As a memory.”
“I’m sorry.” Kilmer wanted to tell her that he still felt something for her—that he just couldn’t describe it. But he could see no benefit in saying that. Whatever they had shared, she had decided to put it behind her. He would respect that. He didn’t want to complicate things for her.
“Don’t be sorry, Professor.”
“I wish I could remember, Agent Silla. I’m trying. I just… can’t.”
Silla attempted a smile, but it conveyed only regret. “I understand. I just wish I’d asked you to promise me that you would remember.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, Professor, as I very much learned the hard way, there was a time when you would have done anything to keep a promise to me.”
~ 64 ~
Art reopened the binder he had been using to brief Kilmer. “Any more questions, Professor, before we pick up where we left off?”
Kilmer took a sip of the coffee that Lane had just delivered. “Just one more, if you don’t mind. What happens after you catch me up? Are you taking me to DC? Are we off to Station Zero? Do I get to go home?”
“You’re free to decide for yourself,” Art said. “We prefer that you accompany us to Washington. The president will be waiting to meet you at the White House if you agree to come. But it’s entirely your choice.”
“Forgive me for being skeptical, but if this is so important—and if earlier today you were prepared to
drag me here kicking and screaming—why would you allow me to walk away now?”
It was Silla who answered. “President Whitman made it very clear to everyone that we’ve already asked too much of you, and that you have every right to say no more. But she didn’t want you to decide before you were fully briefed on the events that have brought us to today. If, after that, you decide that this is no longer your fight, or if you think you can no longer be of help, she will respect your decision.” She looked at her colleagues. “We would all respect your decision.”
Kilmer smiled. “You all seem to know me pretty well. And you’re right to assume, as I’m sure you have, that I’m not likely to walk away from this. Is that why you and the president feel comfortable giving me the choice?”
Art shook his head. “I can understand your skepticism. And you’re right, we do know you’re not the kind of person who would leave others to fend for themselves. But you haven’t heard the whole story yet. You might learn some things that will make you reconsider. You might very well decide to walk away.”
Kilmer thought about that. What would it take for me to say no to helping them? The list was short. If Kilmer thought that his perspective was going to be ignored anyway, or if he thought the president would abuse his advice, he would refuse to go along. That was obvious enough. But would Art reveal anything that might make Kilmer feel irrelevant or exploitable? No. So what could Art possibly say that would make him walk away?
Then he remembered the message from ET-1—and he knew the answer. Fear would drive him away.
“Do you think I’ll be scared away, Agent Capella?”
Art sighed. “To be honest, some people think exactly that. And not one of them would hold it against you.”
“And you? Do you agree with them? Do you think what you’re about to tell me will frighten me off?”
“It should, Professor. But I don’t think it will,” Art replied candidly. “I don’t think so at all.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
Art rose from his seat, walked over to Kilmer, and sat down next to him.
“I think it’s because I’ve seen a lot of everything in life. More of it bad than good, unfortunately. I’ve come across every type of character you can imagine, and many of them have been villains. But in all my life, Professor, apart from the soldiers we send into battle, I’ve only ever met one hero. His name was Kilmer.” Art paused. “And I would really like to have him back, Professor. Because I think we need him. And once he understands why that is, I know he won’t walk away—no matter what.”
Kilmer was speechless. Whatever Art saw in him, Kilmer was sure he did not see it in himself. The disparity was so great that he wondered whether Triad had picked up the wrong guy.
Art returned to his chair and eased himself into it. He put his hands on the binder in front of him and pulled it closer. “Okay, Professor. If you’re ready, let’s pick up from where we left off… on Day 20.”
~ 65 ~
Day 20. 1:30 p.m. The White House.
All was quiet in the Oval Office. A copy of ET-1’s message had been distributed to each person on the team, but Whitman asked everyone to sit quietly for the first ten minutes to reflect on its text. “I want independent and uncorrupted assessments of the situation before we put our heads together. No words. Just think.”
Large d.a.n.g.e.r for Earth. W.e. w.i.l.l. r.u.l.e.
Enter ET-1. Come two a.m.b.a.s.s.a.d.o.r.s.
M.u.s.t. come t.h.e. leader o.f. Earth.
M.u.s.t. come D. K.i.l.m.e.r.
There was a lot to think about, but Kilmer couldn’t help but start with the last statement. How had he ended up in ET-1’s message? He tallied the possibilities and came up with only three. The first was that the aliens had somehow found him on the internet and decided he was important. This was highly unlikely. Even if they had found him online, they would have quickly learned that he was insignificant. The second possibility was much more realistic. The cat shooter had delivered his book, Heirs of Herodotus, in one of its launches. Had they taken that as a signal that Kilmer was important, or somehow relevant to the scenario that was unfolding? Whitman had just been having a bit of fun when she added his book to the list—a small gesture of gratitude toward Kilmer—but the aliens might have thought there was greater significance to the choice. For all they knew, he was a powerful leader—or the high priest of planet Earth. The third possibility was the most concerning. Had ET-1 or the reserves found some way to listen in on their conversations at the White House? Did they know he was advising the president? Even then, why would they think he was the second-most important person to meet?
“Okay,” said Whitman, as she walked over to the group. “Let’s get started. You go first, Zack.”
After twenty minutes of discussion, it was obvious that almost everything in the message was open to debate. The most obvious interpretation, everyone agreed, was as follows. The first two sentences suggested that the aliens intended to rule over mankind, and that resistance by humans would endanger the planet. They were inviting two representatives of Earth to enter the spacecraft—presumably to discuss terms of surrender, cohabitation, or whatever was deemed negotiable from the alien perspective. The next sentence insisted that someone capable of speaking for all of Earth be sent as one of the two ambassadors. The last sentence insisted that the second representative, for whatever reason, had to be Professor Kilmer.
If accurate, it was the worst possible scenario short of war itself. The aliens were demanding surrender and subservience—at gunpoint. Whitman made clear that slavery would never be acceptable. “It would have to mean war. No matter the consequences.”
But not everyone was convinced that the obvious interpretation was correct. Enter ET-1 could simply mean that the spacecraft had arrived, not that they wanted anyone to come inside. Come two ambassadors could mean that two of their ambassadors would be coming to meet Earth’s people. Must come the leader of Earth might simply be an acknowledgment that Earth did not have a leader—and that the aliens intend to change that. Large danger for Earth might be a warning that the planet faced some other threat, having nothing to do with the aliens.
“We keep coming back to the same problem with every part of the message,” Nielsen concluded. “Too much ambiguity. Too little clarity. Why don’t we stop trying to guess what they mean and just ask them?”
Art explained why that was easier said than done. “Project Hermes has worked better than expected in many ways. The aliens are using words for which we haven’t even created a Hermes signature—those are the ones they’re spelling out with letters. But we’re not equipped for the subtlety of what’s required in asking them to clarify their intentions. How do we convey something like What do you mean by that? We’re wanting to look inside their minds, but we haven’t even figured out how to ask a question yet—any question. We’ve been working on it, but interrogatives have proven difficult.”
Look inside their minds.
Art had been trying to curb expectations, but for Silla, his words had the opposite effect. “I think there’s a way to figure out what they really mean—even if we can’t ask them,” she interjected enthusiastically. “In all this talk about their message, I think we’ve lost sight of something more basic. We don’t really care what their words mean. What we care about is the meaning they intended to convey with those words.”
She looked around at the faces in the room. There were only blank expressions.
“In other words, we should be focusing on what they were thinking about saying, not on what they actually said.”
“And how do we do that?” Garcia asked. “We’re having a hard-enough time with their words—and the words are right in front of us. We have zero visibility on their thoughts.”
“I’m not so sure, Ms. Garcia. I think we can observe their thinking. Let me explain.”
Silla turned to Kilmer. “Professor Kilmer, if you fell sick and wanted to figure out what kind of disease you might have,
how would you go about doing that?”
“I’d probably talk to my doctor.”
“And if there was no doctor available? Then what?”
“I’d probably go to Google, or to a medical website. I’d type in my symptoms and see what options it generates.”
Silla turned back to the group. “Art said that the aliens are spelling words that we haven’t even taught them. How do you suppose they’re coming up with those words in the first place? It must be from the books we sent them, or from the internet. Now, if you were struggling to find a word that perfectly captured a complex sentiment you wanted to convey to me, what might you do? We know what Professor Kilmer would do. He’d go online, describe that sentiment, see what options pop up, and then choose one of those words. All I would ever hear is the word he chose—not the meaning he intended. If he chose poorly, or if the word didn’t quite capture the complexity of his thoughts, I would be left with an inaccurate or ambiguous sense of the message he was trying to convey. I could ask him to clarify, but if that weren’t possible, what would be another option?”
The CIA director couldn’t resist the easy layup. “Well, since you work for me, Agent Silla, you could probably find some excuse to stumble across his internet search history.” Whitman gave Druckman a dirty look, prompting him to issue a swift clarification. “With the appropriate legal authorizations, of course.”
“Exactly,” Silla said. “We know the aliens have been scouring the internet. If we look at what they’ve searched for—the words and phrases they typed, the options they saw, and the definitions and use cases they examined—we might get a better sense of what they were trying to convey.”
Art embraced the idea immediately. “The amount of searching and browsing they’ve done—it’s already a big data problem. I mean that in a good way. There’s a lot to play with here.”
Whitman interjected. “Art, how fast would you say they’re progressing? How soon do you think they’ll grasp the English language enough to be capable of having a real conversation—a substantive back-and-forth?”
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