3zekiel (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  Even though he can’t see, Garcia lowers his head, making as though he’s looking at his feet. He’s ashamed of what he’s about to say. “Russia/China.”

  “Fuck.”

  Pretzel marches away from him, striding, putting distance between the two of them. I’ve never seen him angry like this. He kicks at the rocks and stones, scuffing his boots against the ground, shaking his head.

  “I can’t believe this,” he says.

  Not more than fifteen feet away, he wheels, turning and charging back toward Garcia. “When were you going to tell us?” He points, holding his outstretched index finger barely an inch from the bandages wrapped around Garcia’s head. “We were it. We were the only UN sanctioned mission. The Security Council endorsed our mission—not theirs.”

  Pretzel’s hand falls away. He seems resigned to what’s happening but he’s clearly frustrated.

  Without any emotion, Garcia says, “We knew they had assets in the region. The Russians sent a task force through the Suez last week. We tracked them down through the Gulf of Aden and off the coast of Somalia. The Chinese deployed an aircraft carrier to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. Forty fighter craft in all, but no match for ours.”

  “No match for ours,” Pretzel says with sheer disbelief staining his words. “This is not a pissing competition.”

  “But it fell apart,” I say, pointing at the smoke rising from the wreckage scattered on the hillside.

  Garcia smiles. “I guess they gave them a bloody nose.”

  “This isn’t funny,” Pretzel says. “This isn’t a joke. What the hell is going on?”

  “You tell me, doc. They’re your people.”

  “What?” Mordecai says, stepping forward and addressing Pretzel. “What does he mean by that?”

  Garcia tilts his head. “Yeah, I’m not the only one keeping secrets.”

  “Pretzel?” I say. The quiver in my voice betrays my uncertainty.

  Pretzel holds his hands out, addressing us as a group, appealing for calm. “We trained for this day—on a global scale. NASA. ESA. CSNA. JAXA. RosCosmos.”

  I’m only familiar with the first two terms, the American and European space agencies. At a guess, C is for China, while anything with cosmos in it must be Russian. As for JAXA, I have no idea. Japan, maybe?

  “It was theoretical—hypothetical—what-if stuff. We never thought anything like this would actually happen. Space is too big. It takes too long for light to travel between stars, let alone anything else. Out of two hundred and fifty billion stars in our galaxy alone, barely a hundred lie within fifty light years of us. Most are so far away travel would be impractical—even for an advanced technological society.”

  He shakes his head. I think I understand. Neither he nor anyone else ever thought this day would come.

  He says, “We’re surrounded by such a small fraction of stars the number rounds to zero.”

  “And yet, here they are,” Mordecai says.

  “Here they are,” Pretzel replies, dropping his hands to his thighs in exasperation. “We put in place protocols for a variety of scenarios. What we would do if we received a signal from outer space, or detected an artificial object on another world, like Mars or Europa, stuff like that.”

  “And?” Jana asks, getting impatient.

  Pretzel shakes his head. “We were supposed to work together.”

  “But you didn’t,” Mordecai says.

  “No.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “There were… differences of opinion.”

  Garcia laughs. “Opinion? Pretzel went ape-shit in front of the United Nations General Assembly, ridiculing the Russians, calling their concerns childish. He demanded a direct approach, convincing the UN his team could manage First Contact.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. I’m sure Jana doesn’t get it either. “What difference does it make?”

  Jana asks, “Why did the Russians or the Chinese or whoever fly in here this morning after what happened yesterday?”

  Mordecai gestures to the valley. “You can ask them yourself.”

  We all turn. Even though the jungle has been flattened and is chaotic, with trees lying piled on top of each other, I catch the motion of someone following the stream. They’re on the other side of the river, coming up from the valley. For a moment, they disappear behind debris. Several more soldiers come into view, each walking along the same path.

  “How far away are they?” Garcia asks.

  “Ah, not far. Maybe a quarter mile,” I say. “Maybe less.”

  “Their uniforms. Are they wearing uniforms like mine?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Mordecai says, “But they know we’re here. They’re not heading for the wreckage, they’re coming straight for us.”

  “That was probably a reconnaissance flight—a sacrificial pawn.” Garcia fiddles with his combat vest, unclipping the straps and working his way out of it. “Josh. Hide this.”

  Looking around, I can’t see anywhere to stuff his vest. As he’s blind, Garcia doesn’t realize I’m still standing there, confused as to what to do with the vest. If I throw it in the water, they’ll see. They might not know what I did, but there’s a good chance they’ll see the splash and realize I was trying to get rid of something.

  Garcia pulls his pistol from the holster on his hip and lifts his shirt, tucking the gun and a bunch of magazines into the small of his back and his pockets. He unclips the holster from his leg, handing that to me as well, saying, “This too.”

  I take it from him as Mordecai says, “Over here.”

  Brother Mordecai pulls at loose reeds flattened by the blast, lifting them up. I hand him the holster and then the vest. It’s not the best hiding spot, but the khaki material is muddy, blending in with the dirt. Jana pulls a couple of branches over, tossing them carelessly so they look naturally chaotic. I kick at stones, covering our bootprints in the soft mud.

  “What are you thinking?” Pretzel asks.

  “Not good,” Garcia replies. “Like us, their team will be a mixture of soldiers and scientists. It’s important they don’t realize I’m a Navy SEAL.”

  It’s clear from the way the two men are talking, they have a fair idea who’s coming up the track, which is something I find unsettling.

  “They’re going to play us,” Pretzel says.

  “I know,” Garcia replies.

  Mordecai picks up on their concerns. “We could run. Move out. Hide.”

  “They’ll find us,” Garcia says. “There are no clear tracks to follow—not any more. They’d quicken their pace and be on us within a few hundred yards. No. They’re fit, rested, well-trained, healthy, properly equipped—the advantage is all theirs.”

  Jana looks to me to see if I’m going to say something, but I’m bewildered by what’s happening. Within 24 hours, our world has been torn apart by a firestorm. I trust Pretzel and Garcia, but I have no reason to—none beyond simply liking them. They’re friendly, but I’ve known them for barely a day. If anything, I should be turning to Brother Mordecai as at least I’ve known him for several years. Pretzel and Garcia are strangers, but not to each other. They must know they’re being cryptic, not bringing us into their confidence. I want to say something, but I suspect they’re talking like this because they’re protecting us.

  Pretzel says, “We play it straight. Demand to be returned to US forces.”

  Garcia smiles, which given the state of the sores on his face and the bloody bandages wrapped around his head, looks creepy.“You really think that will work?”

  “What else can we do?” Pretzel turns to Jana and me, adding, “Listen, you’re just a couple of locals, you’ll be fine.”

  “They’re witnesses,” Garcia says, which to me is a distinctly unnerving term to use in this context. Witnesses to what?

  Garcia adds, “Maybe Brother Mordecai is right. He and the kids should make a run for it. We can stall the Russians. Buy them some time.”

  “I’m not leaving,” I say, watching as
the foreign soldiers approach to within a hundred yards.

  Pretzel takes me by the shoulders. “You and Jana should go. They don’t know about you two. They’re not after you. You could make it out of here.”

  “No,” Jana says. I love her determination. Pretzel probably thinks its stubbornness, but it’s not, it’s resilience.

  “It’s probably too late,” Garcia says. “If we can see them, they saw us long ago. They wouldn’t approach like this—out in the open—if they didn’t have contingencies setup, covering the angles. Run and they might open fire.”

  Brother Mordecai is strangely silent, leaning back on a nearby boulder. He’s listening intently but not contributing to the discussion. He’s got his hands in his jacket pockets, but there’s something else in there as well, something bulky, something he took from Garcia’s vest. I’m about to speak up and ask him about it when Pretzel mutters a handful of words that make the hair on my arms stand on end.

  “They… might not be the biggest problem we face.”

  I turn, looking to the cliff. The water trickling over the rocks, running down the side of the waterfall, has taken on a distinctly green color, only it’s unnatural, almost fluorescent. To me, it looks like antifreeze. Already, it’s staining the surface of the rock pool. It’s diluted by the dark water, but is slowly winning out, rippling across the surface, causing the pool to glow.

  “What?” Garcia asks. “What is it?”

  “Something’s coming down in the water,” Pretzel says, “Dying it fluro-green.”

  “And that’s bad, right?” Jana says.

  “I don’t know.”

  For once, I wish Pretzel would just guess. He reads the uncertainty on our faces and elaborates, “It’s not normal, that’s really all I can say. Whether it’s good or bad depends on what effect it has.”

  Yeah, still not good enough, Pretzel. I can almost read Jana’s mind. Good or bad. She just wants one option to hold to. Clarity. Aliens above us, soldiers below. Give us something to go on.

  I say, “Good.” I’m going out on a limb, wondering if Pretzel’s going to contradict me, but I feel something definitive needs to be said. “They know what they’re doing, right?” I’m using the same kind of logic Pretzel has shown me over the past day, talking through the details we know. “They captured that asteroid because they know what they’re doing. They built the space escalator—elevator. They knew how to do that. So this has to be the same, doesn’t it? It’s got to be deliberate.”

  Pretzel nods thoughtfully. After a few seconds, he says, “Okay. Good. Let’s go with good.” He smiles. I get the feeling he likes my reasoning, even if it’s unfounded. Poison is deliberate, so is bombing the jungle, but I block those thoughts, pushing them out of my mind.

  Arriving at some kind of conclusion, regardless of how frail it may be, has a calming effect on us, especially with the Russians or the Chinese or whoever about to reach us. I need certainty, as does Jana. My heart is beating out of my chest. I’ve got to cling to something, even if it is a lie. Perhaps lie is too strong a term, but a guess, a baseless assumption. I think Pretzel appreciates the resolution. We have enough to deal with without assuming that’s alien acid blood streaming over the waterfall.

  The approaching soldiers clamber over boulders in the stream with the agility of a herd of gazelles running across the savannah. The wind picks up, causing leaves to swirl through the air. With heavy packs and rifles, thick boots and camouflage baseball caps, the approaching soldiers jump from the rocks onto our side of the pool.

  Pretzel has his hands up, not so much in surrender as to show he’s unarmed. Rather than dropping down onto the beach, the soldiers take up positions around us, towering over us, standing on the surrounding rocks. Garcia notices. I’m not sure how as he can’t see and given the wind and the sound of alien water falling into the pool, there’s not much to hear, but the subtle motion of his head gives away his depth of perception. He twitches slightly to either side as the soldiers take up their positions, telling me he knows precisely where they are. He whispers, “How many?”

  Barely moving my lips, I reply, “Two on the left, one to the right. Two in front of us.”

  If Garcia heard me, he doesn’t acknowledge it, keeping his head facing forward. I get the feeling he’s being very deliberate about his bearings.

  A civilian drops down to the beach with one of the soldiers, landing with a thud on the rocks and stones.

  “Hello, father.”

  Father?

  The Russian standing before us is something like six foot a million inches tall with pale skin, short blonde hair and deep blue eyes, while Pretzel is five foot nothing with dark brown, wrinkled skin. They’ve got some serious history between them.

  “Sergei.”

  “Still picking up strays, I see,” the Russian says.

  “Leave them out of this,” Pretzel replies, stepping forward, positioning himself in front of us.

  “And who’s this?” I’m not sure how I know, but there’s something malicious in the words of this Russian, something beyond just his accent. Words that would be trivial in any other context sound menacing from him.

  Pretzel doesn’t hesitate. “Petty Officer Enrico Garcia, US Army Corps of Engineers. He’s helping us survey the land.”

  Damn, Pretzel is quick, offering an entirely plausible explanation for having a soldier accompanying us. Garcia shows no emotion, but he has his arms raised slightly, showing he’s compliant. If this was poker, I’d fold, but neither of them flinch.

  The Russian nods and in response the soldier beside him jogs over, frisking Garcia. As Garcia is blind, the sudden intrusion of hands pressing up under his armpits and down his side takes him by surprise. He cringes, wincing, bending forward with each pat against his clothing.

  “Leave him alone,” Pretzel says. “The man’s dying. Can’t you see that? He’s no threat to you.”

  The Russian soldier pauses at Garcia’s waist as he recoils yet again from being touched. The Russian looks back at Sergei, wanting to know whether he should continue. Sergei signals with his head and the soldier retreats, but without turning his back on us. He keeps his gun on Garcia. For his part, Garcia has lowered his head. I’m not sure if he’s genuinely sore or play acting, but he appears to be holding back considerable pain, moving slowly.

  “And the others?” Sergei asks.

  Without lowering his hands, Pretzel says, “Brother Mordecai, a local missionary, and two kids from the village.”

  The tension is as unbearable as the humidity building toward a storm.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Pretzel says, apparently reading something in Sergei’s face, a slight smirk on his lips. “You did this, not them—not the aliens.”

  Sergei’s thin lips widen into a wicked smile.

  Pretzel marches up to him. The anger on his face hardens his features. If we weren’t surrounded by armed soldiers, I get the feeling Pretzel would lash out at him. Given the weight/size difference between the two men, I’d still put my money on Pretzel. The way his shoulders flex and his chest moves, he looks like he could rip apart a giant.

  “Are you stark raving mad?” Pretzel yells at him. “You dropped a nuke on the LZ? Cruithne’s a goddamn planet killer. If they threw that thing at us we’d go the way of the dinosaurs!”

  Sergei replies, “Oh, it was nothing so crude. What do you think we are? Barbarians? No, that was thermobaric—an air/fuel fire bomb with a yield in the kiloton range.”

  I can’t remain quiet. I know it’s not smart, but I have to say something. “You bombed the aliens? That’s stupid.”

  “My, my… the young one has some spunk. No. We detonated while the elevator was still over 50,000 feet. They would have seen fireworks clearing the forest, nothing more. The prevailing winds blew the cloud away.”

  Pretzel says, “You have no idea how they could react to such violence.”

  Sergei is angry. He counters with, “They took out eighteen of our satellites—th
ose used for military communication and GPS. Eighteen of them, Pretzel. Crippling our command-and-control assets in this region. In any other context, that’s an act of war!”

  “But you know,” Pretzel says. “You of all people understand that wasn’t their intent.”

  “Do I?” Sergei asks.

  I’m bursting with questions. I have to speak. “Why did you bomb the jungle?”

  “Ask him,” Sergei says, pointing. “Pretzel knows better than anyone… Indigenous species are fragile, vulnerable.”

  Pretzel purses his lips as Sergei continues.

  “Everywhere on Earth, in absolutely every isolated habitat, the microbes that come with migration have caused death and destruction.

  “The Mongol hordes brought the Black Death to an unprepared European continent. At least twenty million Indians were killed by Smallpox when the British arrived in North America. The Spanish brought measles and tuberculosis to Latin America, wiping out 90% of the population. We couldn’t risk that here. Pretzel understands. He wrote the paper.”

  Pretzel shakes his head as Sergei adds, “You look at me as though I’m somehow evil, like I’m the monster, but you’re the traitor. You’re the one that turned his back on decades of his own research.”

  “What does he mean?” Jana asks, looking at Pretzel in alarm.

  “He hasn’t told you, has he? Pretzel wrote the book on the biology of First Contact. He’s the one that pointed out that, regardless of where it arises in the universe, life cannot employ highly volatile chemical reactions—they’re simply too destructive. No, life needs subtle pathways, slight imbalances, just enough to provide energy, not enough to be damaging or corrosive. Life has to be contained. Tell them, Pretzel. Tell them your theory.”

  Pretzel is sullen. His lips clench tight as his eyes narrow.

  Sergei explains. “Life on Earth converges on common designs. Dolphins and sharks are unrelated, but they share dorsal fins. Eyes evolved independently over forty times. The wings of birds, bats and insects are astonishingly different and yet they share the same characteristics of flight.

  “What was your conclusion again?” Sergei asks, pretending he’s forgotten. He turns his head, lowering his gaze, trying to get Pretzel to respond, but the aging Indian scientist is quiet. “That we should expect the same kind of convergence at a celestial level, that life will exploit largely the same chemical pathways. They may not look like us, but at a cellular level, the chances are there will be striking similarities.”