I smell the diesel generator long before I hear it, such is the wall of noise coming from bugs and monkeys and various birds screaming within the jungle. Far from being quiet, night is when the jungle comes to life.
Lights flicker through the window of a mud hut. A large satellite dish sits precariously on a thatched roof, threatening to break through and crush anyone inside. The generator chugs away with a constant rhythm, blowing dark smoke into the air. We peer in through the window at a grainy image. There are a dozen people in the hut, mainly men. Chunks of static break up the image, while the audio is patchy, but there’s no doubt about what’s being discussed.
“...you can see are of the alien spacecraft. Contrary to what has been spread on social media, there is no reason to believe the capture of the asteroid Cruithne presents a threat to life on Earth. NASA and ESA have confirmed the asteroid is in a stable geosynchronous orbit roughly thirty-six thousand kilometers above the equator. To put this in perspective, the asteroid is orbiting almost a hundred times higher than the International Space Station, which is why the prospect of sending an Orion spacecraft to investigate this occurrence requires considerable logistics and planning. There’s no conspiracy. No intentional delays. It simply takes time to bring everything together for a launch, but we are on track for tomorrow.”
The image is in black and white, which is surprising. If anything, it adds to rather than detracts from the intrigue. Dark shadows hide most of the alien spacecraft. Smooth curves, wavy lines and various bulges and tubes dominate the vessel, which reminds me of an instrument from a brass band—perhaps a Tuba, or a French Horn. At the rear, there’s a cluster of spheres and several bell-shaped engines. The craft itself, though, is dwarfed by the asteroid. To my mind, it looks like a steampunk cruise ship docked beside a floating mountain.
“The light we see when we look up at the night sky is sunlight reflecting off Cruithne. The starship itself is not visible at this distance without the aid of a telescope.”
“Have we established what they want from us?” a news anchor asks from somewhere off-screen.
“No.”
“Why are they here?”
“Why did we go to the Moon?” The aging scientist asks in reply.
From the subtle rhythm in his accent, it’s clear the scientist speculating on the nature of the alien visitation is from the Indian subcontinent but has spent years, if not decades, in either England or the US. He speaks with a soft voice, almost in a whisper, but his words carry a sense of dignity. Were he not wearing a microphone, his comments would be lost, which seems to make their preservation all the more important. His hair is wispy, as though it’s bracken from a bush caught in a breeze. Rather than being white, his sideburns appear almost silver.
“Why did we land rovers on Mars?” He asks. “Why did we send probes to Jupiter, Saturn and beyond? It’s just a guess, but there’s good reason to believe they’re as curious about us as we are about them. From what we can see, the universe is a lifeless desert, and yet in the midst of the emptiness and desolation, there’s an oasis teaming with life here on Earth. If you were out there, wouldn’t that make you curious too?”
The anchor doesn’t sound convinced. “But how can you be sure they don’t mean us any harm?”
“I can’t. But there’s no reason to assume they’re hostile. That might be our fear—our natural assumption, but that doesn’t make our assumptions right.”
“But they haven’t responded to any of the messages we’ve sent.”
“Maybe they can’t hear us… Think about how hard it is for us to communicate with other animals right here on Earth. We can’t decipher a conversation between dolphins or whales, and yet they’re mammals just like us. Cuttlefish communicate using color. Dogs use scent to speak to each other.
“It sounds silly, almost comical, but bees speak using what we’d describe as interpretive dance.”
For a scientist, he’s somewhat unorthodox, gesturing with his hands and rocking his head, making as though he’s ready to get up from the table and dance before the cameras to reinforce his point. I get the feeling he’s ready to party, but he smiles, laughing at himself and continues.
“Spiders communicate via vibrations in a web. What we think of as obvious—sound and pictures—may be nothing but static to them, so we need to be patient.
“We’re preparing a mission to conduct a flyby of Cruithne and attempt contact using a variety of transmission along the electromagnetic spectrum. Perhaps they’ll respond to a direct presence in space. The mission parameters are to use an elongated orbit, one that allows us to inch closer with each pass, but one that gives plenty of room to abort if need be.”
“Could that be perceived as a threat?”
“It’s a risk.” He sounds almost melancholy. “But they already know we’re here. Remember, they arrived on our doorstep. They chose to visit us. They know life is flourishing down here.
“Some scientists have called for an automated flyby, but we’re human. I think we should own First Contact. I don’t think we should shy away from what is arguably the most significant encounter in the history of life on this planet.
“A flyby with a crew of three is a low risk option. The thing about orbits is they’re highly predictable. They’ll know exactly where we are and where we’re heading, probably with a degree of accuracy that’s greater than anything we can calculate. It will also tell them something about our intelligence and our level of technological sophistication, as well as our interest in them.”
The anchor asks, “But why Cruithne? Why did they capture an asteroid and bring it into orbit around Earth if they’re not intending to use it to attack us?”
I whisper to Jana. “And why here? Why above the Congo?”
“Shhh.”
“Cruithne is a resource. From what we can see of the alien craft, it appears they’re mining the asteroid in much the same way we once intended to with the Orion Deep Space missions.”
“So what are they building?”
“I don’t know. Nobody does. But not knowing is no cause for fear, it’s cause for further inquiry.”
“Why are they flying above Africa? Why not America, or Europe?”
He raises an eyebrow at the suggestion. “You really want them flying over America?” His point seems well taken by the reporter. “We have a few ideas about why they’re over Africa. For a start, the location chosen by the alien vessel is the closest equatorial point to the African pole of inaccessibility.”
“You’re going to have to explain that one.”
“Every continent has a point of inaccessibility, marking its most remote location, the furthest point from any coastline.”
“So it’s difficult to reach?” He sounds confused.
“For us. Not them. For them, it represents the most central location on a given land mass. For them, it provides the greatest access to any terrestrial continent, which may suggest they’re thinking about maximizing their opportunity for exploration.”
The anchor doesn’t sound convinced. “So they hate water?”
“Maybe. Or perhaps there’s some other reason. Perhaps they’re interested in some other aspect of Africa. Maybe they’ve chosen a location with a low population density. Or perhaps they’re interested in the diversity of life in the jungle. Or it may be entirely coincidental and we’re reading too much into their location. Perhaps they have calculated some other approach and are intending to move into a low earth orbit, and the current location is simply a convenient parking spot. We really don’t know, but we’re open to learn.”
One of the villagers turns, looking out the window. Both Jana and I drop from sight as she bellows, “Hey, you kids! You should be in bed.”
“Go,” Jana says and I dart away, followed closely by her. A shadow looms at the window, looking out into the night as we slip behind the huts. My heart pounds in my throat as we run through the darkness. Jana giggles, laughing at our adventure. There’s yelling from behind us. It’s
probably not related to our escapade, but it causes adrenaline to course through my veins regardless. Village life is loud. No Netflix and people find plenty of other things to do in the evening. Out of the hundred or so villagers, there were only fifteen people in Raka’s hut. It seems most of them simply don’t care.
We hide in the shadow of the church.
“Look.” Jana points up into the darkness. There, just beyond the steeple, is a single white star. There’s no shimmer, no sparkle or hint of any color. We lie on our backs in the long grass, staring up into the sky. “Do you think they can see us?”
“I don’t know,” is all I can say in reply. Seems everyone wants answers but there are none to be found.
“Is it a good thing or bad?”
I understand what Jana means. Life in the jungle is simple. One of the things my dad warned me about when we first came here was the high mortality rate among children. In the US, childhood deaths are rare. Death happens, but to older people, or sick people, or someone caught in an accident, and it’s rarely seen by anyone other than doctors and nurses. Here, death is an unwelcome guest at each home. People die all the time, especially kids. Old Raka had seven children. He has three. Jana’s sister Harma died last year. Death comes swiftly. Harma was fine one day—pale and languid the next—dead by the weekend. No one knew why.
Dad works with the World Health Organization and a number of other NGOs to provide vaccines and antibiotics to the villagers. If I get a fever, or even just a runny nose, Dad goes into a tailspin. Seeing that helps me to understand why he’s here, and why he’s so strict with me. He cares. For all his grumpy defiance, deep down it hurts him to see anyone die, especially children. When it comes to my life, he feels as though his discipline can keep evil at bay. I’m not so sure. I don’t know that microbes care about etiquette or protocol.
When Jana asks if the alien craft is good or bad, I know precisely what she means. Superstitions run rampant in the village. As crazy as some of them are, they’re a means of trying to reconcile cause and effect. People want explanations. For the tribe, that comes from the traditions of the elders. For my dad, it comes from the Scriptures. As for me... I’m not sure what I believe. A month ago, I would have been much more confident, but seeing an alien star above us is unsettling. There’s an intelligence there, but it’s not of this world. Like Brother Mordecai said, it’s neither an angel, nor a devil, but there’s no doubt about its intelligence. That brilliant light holds hidden intention, and that’s unsettling. Good or bad? Is life that simple? I hope so, but I doubt it.
I want to sound decisive for Jana, so I say, “Good.” She needs to hear that. We both do.
“I think so too.” Jana rolls over and props herself up on my chest. We kiss, although it does seem strange kissing in front of aliens—kinda like kissing in front of my dad. Now, there’s a thought I want to shake from my mind. My hand slips down to her waist and across her lower back. Suddenly, a red-hot poker stabs at my leg. I jump, pushing backwards in the grass. Jana swats at her thigh.
“Ants!”
I could never say this to my father, or even to Jana, but, goddamn you, Africa—you ruin everything.
Visitors
Breakfast is a quiet affair in our home as my dad reads a lot. Normally, just the Bible or an autobiography. He’s not much for fiction. Today, though, he’s moody. He storms into the dining room from the kitchen.
“I don’t want you hanging around with that girl.”
I stare at my mush, stirring it with a spoon. Ground millet and cornmeal wears thin after a few days. After a few years, it’s like eating glue. Someone told him about us last night. He hasn’t said as much, but it’s obvious. I want to protest, but I can’t. He’d shout me down.
“You have to understand. We’re different.” Dad tries to sympathize, but he’s not sympathetic at all. I’m not sure what he means by different. This isn’t the first time he’s been cryptic about subjects like sex and relationships. A biker gang member turned priest turned missionary—with a son in tow—isn’t exactly conventional and Dad keeps a lot bottled up inside.
“I’m seventeen, Dad. I can make my own decisions.”
“You will do as you’re told.”
I hate this. I hate him. I have no recourse. I want to argue, but there’s no argument to be had. Father wins. That is all. The anger must show on my face. Perhaps my body language is saying the words my mouth dares not speak.
“You need to realize. For you, this is puppy love. For her, it’s a ticket out of the jungle. She’s using you.”
My lips tighten. I stare at the wall, refusing to look at him.
“I forbid you, Joshua. You will have nothing to do with her. Is that understood?”
I clench my jaw, determined not to respond. If I cannot protest, I refuse to agree.
“Josh? Is that understood.”
Adrenaline surges through my body. I clench my fists beneath the table, doing all I can not to explode in anger. My knee bumps one of the legs of the table and my spoon clatters to the polished wooden surface, betraying my frustration.
“Do this for me, Josh. Joshua, I’m talking to you.”
All he’ll get from me is a slight nod, but no words.
“Say it.”
My blood seethes, boiling within me, threatening to erupt.
“SAY IT!”
I explode. Regrets be damned. “No,” I yell. “I won’t. You can’t make me.”
“You will do as you’re told.” He slams his fist on the table and a butter knife falls to the floor, but I’m too big to hit. He may threaten violence, but he dares not strike me as he knows I’ll fight back. I wouldn’t win. We both know that. Physically, he’s far stronger, but it would damage his perception of himself—man of peace and all that crap. “Josh—”
Our argument is drowned out by the sound of helicopters rushing in across the jungle canopy. We’ve had helo-drops before, but never this close or this low, and only ever in response to a medical emergency. The beating of the rotors shakes the house, causing the roof to flex with the changing air pressure. It’s as though a storm has descended on our home. Outside, dust kicks up off the ground, swirling in a cloud. Although unseen, the position of the chopper is clear from the thumping above the roof and the shaking of the windows. A military helicopter circles from one side of our home to the other. Dad runs outside. I follow close behind. There are four helicopters hovering over the village, beating the grass roofs of the various mud huts flat. Straw, twigs, sticks and branches swirl through the air. Villagers stop what they’re doing, shielding their eyes as they look into the sky.
Thick, heavy, dark ropes fall from the open sides of several helicopters, trailing from the doorways and landing with a thud in the grass. Soldiers abseil into the grounds of the church, which, even to me, seems sacrilegious.
Our village doesn’t have a helipad. There’s no room. The forest canopy is too thick to clear. As it is, most of the huts are set between trees. Keeping the jungle from growing back takes considerable work by the women while the men are out hunting, and our village is little more than a spotted clearing in the dense canopy.
My father marches over to the closest soldier as he unclips from his rope and secures his rifle. Several large packs glide down other ropes, with only the friction on their carabiners slowing their descent. They land with a thump in the dust.
Soldiers are common in the jungle, but never from choppers. Normally, we have one or two patrols pass through a week—either on training exercises, while searching for poachers, or out tracking rebels. These particular soldiers, though, aren’t African. I spot an American flag on the shoulder of the closest soldier, only the red, white and blue of the star-spangled banner has been replaced with khaki, beige and a deep winter green.
My father is protective, standing between me and the soldier, demanding answers. “What is going on?”
The soldier looks at him with indifference, speaking into a microphone slung over his shoulder.
/> “Jacob Chambers?” the soldier yells over the thumping of the rotor blades. “Father Chambers?”
“Yes.”
“Petty Officer Enrico Garcia, SEAL team two. Lieutenant Jackson is looking for you, sir.” Garcia points, but his movements are robotic. The deliberation he has with even the simplest of hand motions is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He seems more mechanical than human. His gloved fingers are stiff, as though they’re reinforced with steel rods, while the muscles on his arm are sharply defined. He could be directing traffic.
Lieutenant Jackson sees us talking and jogs over with a hand outstretched in friendship. He yells, “Father Chambers, right?”
Over the sound of the rotors, I hear chainsaws starting up. Several of the SEALs begin cutting into the trees behind the church. Sawdust flies to one side, spraying through the air as the whirling blades eat into the trunks. The SEALs are methodical, brandishing their chainsaws with the precision of a samurai warrior working with a thin metal sword. Broad stance. Muscles flexed. Sweat dripping. Within a minute, the first of the massive trees is groaning, then cracking, and then falling, crashing into the jungle with the sound of thunder.
“What is going on?” My father points at the falling trees, but with far less vigor than Garcia. The Lieutenant looks relaxed. Garcia, though, stands to attention. He has his hands clasped behind his back. His chest is as thick and imposing as any of the trees. Everything about the SEALs screams of determination. Black military boots. Thick cotton trousers with disruptive patterns. Combat vest over a singlet. Camouflage paint on their bare arms. I have no doubt Petty Officer Garcia could whip his rifle down from his shoulder in less time than I could blink.
“We need to secure an LZ for the choppers.” Lieutenant Jackson sweeps his hand out, pointing at the jungle, making as though a mere gesture is enough to fell the mighty trees before him. Unlike the other soldiers, who are wearing what equates to bicycle helmets with camouflage markings, the lieutenant is wearing a baseball cap. His hair is straggly and not a typical military buzz cut.
3zekiel (First Contact) Page 2
