Adam looked at her, saw the toughness in her. “If you think I’m trying to make everybody into someone’s bitch, guess again. My survival plan involves humanity’s lot improving, not being a permanent whipping boy. Or meatsicle.”
In a flash, Kathy’s famous perky smile returned. “Sorry, Boss, didn’t mean to be such a downer.”
Adam waved her comment away. “Don’t worry. I wanted your honesty. You have my word, you are not going to be anybody’s bitch. A nice squeeze maybe, but never a bitch.”
Kathy giggled. “Aye aye, sir. See you tonight.”
After she left, Adam sat down behind his desk. Life had just thrown him an unexpected curve ball. Kathy was just supposed to be a pinup with some excellent communication skills that would help the mission. He had fooled around with many women in the last few years. The closest he had ever come to the idea of having a long term relationship with was Major Grant, or Mary Lou. Even then, the spark wasn’t there that could distract him from his ultimate goal.
In one face-to-face meeting, Kathy, a former porn star, had him thinking more serious thoughts about his personal future than anyone had in five years. At least any human. He shook his head. He had to be careful. He needed an honest-to-God love affair like a submarine needed a screen door. He called Chief on his radio phone. “Chief, so far so good. Check with Mary Lou, see if she needs any help rounding up the last few newbies I planned to meet with.”
“Will do, Boss.” Kathy’s “boss” had a definite ring to it that the Chief’s did not.
Professor Joseph Fassbinder sat in a comfortable chair in the waiting room. Ten feet in front of him was Mary Lou’s desk. Although the chair definitely made his tired rear end feel rejuvenated, Professor Fassbinder was far from comfortable. He was as nervous as a high school Senior meeting his prom date’s hardass old man for the first time.
The only thing that helped take the mind off his tension was Mary Lou. She reminded him of some former celebrity beauty that he had seen in decades-old books or magazines his father had. Looking in those same books and magazines, Joseph had realized that he and his father both looked an awful lot like Charles Lindbergh, the famous pilot, skinny tallness and all. His father was long dead. Luckily, he had died just before the Invasion. His mother, however, wasn't so lucky. Don’t go there, he reminded himself. That memory would only serve to royally screw him up right now.
Suddenly, it dawned on him. Bettie Page. Mary Lou was the spitting image of long dead Bettie Page, the pinup and bondage queen. Mary Lou caught him staring at her, and hers eyes met his with a quizzical look.
“Sorry.” He mumbled and diverted his eyes.
“Just say it.” It took Joseph a moment to realize that Mary Lou had spoken to him.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘Just say it.’ I look just like Bettie Page.”
Joseph blushed a bright crimson.
“Oh come on now, Professor. Do you think you’re the first man who noticed that? Or who told me that? I take it as a compliment.”
Joseph was saved from further embarrassment by the loud ring of the telephone.
“Right, Director,” Mary Lou answered. She hung up the phone. “You’re up, Professor.”
As he unfolded his lanky frame from the chair, Mary Lou gave him a wry smile. “We can discuss your knowledge of pin up queens at a later date.”
That didn’t help his blush at all.
As the Professor walked into the Director’s office, Adam met Joseph with his hand extended before he was halfway toward the desk.
“Professor Fassbinder. It’s an honor. Glad you came.” Joseph shook the Director’s hand, stunned that he was being greeted like some long lost relative or celebrity. The Director acted as if he knew everything about Joseph that was important. “Please, have a seat in this incredible chair. Believe it or not, we make them around here.”
Joseph sat, and immediately appreciated the effect the chair had on him. It was so comfortable that it seemed to suck all of his fears and insecurities from him. Was alien technology involved? Who cared. He had been living on edge since the first rock came down. Somehow he and his wife, Professor Sarah Broadmore-Fassbinder, had survived in a small enclave in a state college town in California–a small community of intelligentsia, writers, professors, talking heads from the media, and a couple of former government officials that had bonded together and scraped enough food and supplies together to survive.
A week ago, out of the blue, Chief Hamilton had showed up on their doorstep. At first, it looked as if there was going to be a fight, as some believed they were about to be harvested. Although off the beaten track, everyone knew that the “eyes in the sky” could find most anyone if they wanted to. That, and the group had just started using the reconstructed internet the month before.
Chief Hamilton soon allayed their fears of being Cattle after all these years, though he had enough firepower, people, and a robocop that would have made any fight definitely one-sided. The Chief had specifically asked for Joseph and his wife to return with him, but Sarah did not want to leave. There was noticeable venom in her words when she told the Chief what she thought of quislings and anyone who talked to Squids. A Polysci professor, well-published before the first rock strike, she had been a central figure in many a controversial protest or movement to include television appearances. She had influence and when she spoke, people listened. Now, she had little, just enough to survive. But, she refused to give in on principle.
Joseph knew you cannot eat principle. Principle did not provide medical supplies for the few children in the group. When he realized that the Chief wanted him to come in the name of the Director, but was unwilling to force him, Joseph surprised himself with some hard-nosed wheeling and dealing. Before they left, a large amount of food, medical supplies, and fuel for their generators had been provided. Some toys and clothes appeared for the children. They were looked on as saints by those who stayed behind, principles or no. He somehow convinced Sarah that this was the chance to tell the Director to his face her opinion of him. Then, if still alive, they could leave. After living with death so long, the concept of it no longer scared him. After you are dead, being eaten or buried or cremated–macht nichts.
Now, he was face to face with the Director.
“May I offer you a drink, Professor?”
“Why, yes. I would die for a cold beer.”
The Director laughed. “Well, that’s easy. But I didn’t ask you to come here to die for a beer. A cold one, coming up.”
Joseph was surprised when the Director walked over to the bar near the large picture window in the office and drew a pint of ice cold beer from a hidden keg. He thought for sure the Director would have servants, underlings to do this. But, other than Mary Lou controlling entry, there was no one near his office. The cold beer was divine. He closed his eyes and almost cried.
“That, Professor, is locally brewed Conch Republic beer. Don’t ask me how they make such good beer in such a humid climate, but they do. Here, while you enjoy your beer, let me show you something.”
The Director went to his large desk and retrieved something. He walked back over to Joseph with a rectangular object that seemed oddly familiar. “Here, Professor. Remember this?” It was a bound copy of his self-published dissertation: Star Trek, Star Wars, and Babylon Five: How Do We Really Get From Here to There at Greater than Light Speed. Joseph was astounded. He turned the dissertation over, and then opened it to find numerous notes written in the margins.
“Where did you get this? I didn't print that many, and every one of them should have been burned up by know. I’ve heard they make good kindling.”
Adam chuckled. “I found it at the University of Miami library, where it was probably on the road to a fireplace. It was said at the time of publishing this showed signs of becoming the next Einstein, or Michiro Kaku.”
Joseph smiled sheepishly. “Well, it did get me a government grant and a security clearance.”
“Even with the
wife and all?”
Joseph knew then and there that the Director did know almost everything about him. His wife’s political leanings had been a problem. A bigger problem was that she told him point blank that he was selling part of his soul if he took the money and position. But, positions in theoretical physics and space engineering did not come along every day. He soon found out he could apply for astronaut training as a civilian. So, even though his wife never really forgave him, he took the money and position.
Then the rocks hit. He and his wife hid out in a cabin in the Santa Fe mountains in California. The cabin belonged to a close friend who had come up with the plan that they would meet up at there should there ever be a large scale disaster that affected the social framework. Unfortunately, Joseph’s friend and family never showed.
The nuclear, or long winter, caused by all the crap thrown up into the atmosphere caused one of the coldest winters on record. They barely survived in the cabin, although his friend had it well stocked. When a half-assed summer rolled around, he and Sarah dug their way out and headed down out of the mountains. They managed to make it to a state college to where some of his wife’s friends lived, near an area she frequented in her travels for various causes. Hunkered down, they survived.
His wife and her friends spent an awful lot of time navel gazing, having grandiose discussions about political systems that no longer existed. They seemed to think that everything was temporary, that this was just a societal cycle like all the others. They failed to grasp the permanency of the Squids, as if they would suddenly disappear and humankind would argue politics again. Fat chance. He used his engineering background and some practical stuff he learned during summer jobs in school to keep things running and food on the table for the hundred plus adults and children. Then the Chief showed up. And now he was here. Joseph sipped his beer, then set it down.
“Director, I know you know all about me. And my wife. The chances of us ever agreeing on the path of humankind vis-à-vis the Tschaaa are slim to none.”
“Then why did you come here? Curiosity?”
Joseph paused, sipped his beer again, and answered. “I wanted to see just how organized you were and yes, I wanted to see why you were interested in me. I was able to bargain for some supplies for the people I just left. If I never see another day, at least I have done something for some fellow humans. Not a bad epitaph, considering I could have been hamburger myself six years ago.”
The Director surveyed him. It had not been a good six years. The Professor’s slender build was now in desperate need of fattening up to keep him from looking like a poster child for anorexia research. He also had the beginnings of the proverbial thousand yard stare.
Adam tossed him a thin folder. “Here. This is part of the answer to the ‘why me’ question everyone asks.”
Joseph opened the folder and examined two photos and a page of single-spaced type. “A flying saucer. So, the Squids have flying saucers. They also probably have unicorns for all I know. What does an alien flight system have to do with me?”
“Easy–they can’t get them to work. There are two of them. They are not Tschaaa technology. Apparently they are some kind of interstellar or interdimensional craft that uses a propulsion system that is alien to them. Sounds like an attempt at a joke, doesn't it? Alien to the aliens.”
“Oh come now, Director. How can I help a species that is light years ahead of us in technology? Why do they need some out-of-work Professor?”
“Now, look at this folder.” Adam tossed another one at Joseph.
“This, I understand. Looks like a variation of one of those commercial space planes, pre-strike and Invasion that is.”
“Well, Professor, you may not believe it, but The Tschaaa need help with both. And before you start pontificating on how much farther advanced the Tschaaa are than us; let me tell you a story.”
“But first, another beer. And maybe some popcorn.” The Director called Mary Lou on the intercom and requested some popcorn. Then he drew another beer for Joseph. By the time he handed the beer to Joseph, Mary Lou was walking in with a huge bowl of warm, fresh theater-style popcorn, butter and all. “Ah, the snack of champions. Beer and popcorn. Thank you, Mary Lou.”
Joseph couldn’t help but ogle Mary Lou a bit as she bent over with the popcorn. Damn, maybe she’s Bettie Page’s alien clone.
“Sir, how do you get fresh popcorn?” Joseph asked.
“Liberated a brand new machine from a brand new movie theater that was opening the day the first rock hit. Plus, a ton of makings. The theater opened and closed the same day. Hell of a spate of bad business luck.” Adam sat down as Mary Lou left, closing the door.
He sipped at his own beer as he fed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “One of my guilty pleasures. Now, where was I? Oh, that’s right. Imagine, if you will, traveling on the Mayflower en route to the New World. But this Mayflower is the size of a large ocean liner, and the voyage takes a thousand years.”
He took another sip of beer. “Now during this voyage, you have plenty of food, but it is rather boring. You have books, films, computers, libraries, theaters, sports. Not bad, so far. But the intellectual stimulation of the books, libraries, etc, is good for the first hundred years or so, as you eventually read, watch and enjoy what is available. Your fellow shipmates do create some new material, but there are thousands of people to share it with. Your scientific and educational studies are fine for the first hundred years, but, with limited resources, things become stagnant. And, in a closed society, no outside stimulation.
“We humans, about this time, would start trying to kill each other in competitive sports, limited war, etc. This might provide artificial stimulus for at least part of the population, so others would strive to come up with new ideas, equipment, and the such, to dominate the others, usually to obtain the best mate. After all, we are just nasty monkeys,” Adam continued.
“As long as we limited our violence, at least some of us would survive, and we would not be brain dead with boredom. Well, the Squids aren’t human. They do not war on each other. Their competition is limited so offspring have less of a chance of being injured. The breeding and birthing areas are large complexes along reefs and outcroppings in the ocean, so it would be simple to wipe out thousands if two Crèches went to war. That is an anathema to their culture.
Duels between individuals are few and limited in scope. They only become gravid every sixty days, and do not even think of having sex with a female that is not in the mood. They are as large as the male and just as nasty if they want to be. Breeding females have been selected through thousands of years of selection in each of the Crèches. Inferior females are sometimes sterilized. Young bucks compete in demonstrating accomplishments, in fighting other species, traditional predators, for a chance to mate with one of the breeders. Occasionally, a non-selected female is allowed to reproduce, just to keep a little biological diversity. But nowhere in their culture was a form of competitive warfare ever practiced.”
Adam grabbed some more popcorn, as did Joseph. The Professor had forgotten how good simple pleasures were. Adam noted his expression and commented, “I claim popcorn is as habit forming as crack cocaine is, but it can’t kill you. Well, unless your cholesterol gets so high that your heart explodes.” Joseph laughed at the image, and then stuffed more popcorn in his mouth.
“Anyway, about one hundred years from Earth, the Squid’s civilization started to become extremely stagnant. Intellectual development came to a near standstill. Young bucks took on very stylized form of competition, the equivalent of dance competitions or poetry readings. Some made a name by re-examining the work of some ancient brain, then memorizing it and reproducing by rote. They developed a bureaucracy along the lines of Ancient China, before the British came in and helped force opium on them. They managed to keep the breeders breeding, but only fifty percent of the offspring survived past the first year. Lord Neptune, who told me this, said it was as if the young never developed the will to live. Eve
n though the breeders normally give birth from two to very occasionally eight to a litter, some during this period were lucky to produce one viable offspring that lived past the first year.”
“Another beer, Professor?”
“I’m fine, Director. I have to watch it or I’ll be loopy. We didn’t get a lot of beer in California.”
“Point well taken. Well, not only did the Squids have their own problems, but they also had trouble with reproduction of their grays, the clones, and the robocops. The clones in the vat became only about fifteen percent viable; the robocops were producing only fifty percent viable offspring. The genetic material of these species seemed to be wearing out. Whether cosmic or background radiation was leaking through to the occupants of the ships, no one knew, or seemed to care.” Adam took another contemplative sip.
“Then, Our Lord reached majority. And, although some of the others think he is just this side of insane, a rare condition amongst Squids, he soon got a reputation for ‘getting things done’.” Adam looked at the clock. He still had time for the rest of the story.
“His Lordship monitored our TV and radio transmissions incessantly. This may be what helped keep an intellectual spark alive in him that was stagnant in others. He was the one who designed the Falcons, and the harvester robots–or robs. Hell, he basically developed the whole harvest ship system.
“Otherwise, the Squids would have just hit us, the young bucks slaughtering us the best they could in the first five years, then started getting ready to move on. At best, we would all be living in caves right now. Although Lords more senior than him got the plums, like Africa, everyone knew who was behind Cattle Country, and helping to organize large ocean breeding areas here on Earth. Most of the older Lords were afraid to let their breeders leave the ships.”
Joseph raised an eyebrow in Adam’s direction.
The Gathering Storm Page 6
