The President interrupts, asking, “So this is definitely not hostile? You’re sure of that?”
“Put yourself in their shoes, Mr. President. Can you imagine how difficult it would be to fund such a mission, to sustain public interest and support over multiple administrations, to divert resources and dedicate scientific institutions to figuring out the sheer logistics of such an endeavor? All because you want to watch another planet burn? It’s far more likely they’re driven by a desire to explore and understand—not invade. There would be tens of millions of other nearby planets and moons they could choose from if they wanted land. No, they’re not here to take over. They’re reaching out like Magellan and Darwin, sailing among the stars, looking for life.”
Pretzel pauses. There’s murmuring in the background along with someone madly typing. Pretzel takes their silence as a license to continue.
“Given it would take hundreds, perhaps even as much as a thousand years for messages from the first probe to reach their home world, then some time for them to design and deploy a follow-up mission and another thousand years for that mission to get here, traveling at a reasonable proportion of the speed of light, we’re probably talking about a total elapsed time of two-and-a-half thousand years. They’ve been watching us, working toward this moment for a very long time, so—at a minimum—we should be looking at least eight hundred to a thousand light years away in all directions.”
My head is swinging.
“What about the Orion?” Pretzel asks. “What have we learned from that approach? Were the astronauts able to establish communication or get any kind of response from the ship?”
“We sent it up without a crew,” General McCallister replies.
“What? Why?”
“We’re fighting wars on multiple fronts down here,” the general says. “It’s not just the Russians that want to attack. We’re fighting public opinion, with 48% of the US population thinking this is an invasion and we’re fools not to strike while we still can. We simply couldn’t afford casualties, so we sent it up under remote control from Houston.”
“And?”
“And they intercepted it—no comms. All our sensors cut out at the point they brought the Orion into their craft.
“There’s a helluva lot of fear over here, Pratul. People are saying this is the end of the world.”
“It’s not.”
Someone else within the room asks, “Why haven’t they made any meaningful contact with us?”
“They probably don’t know we exist—not in our current form. It’ll be at least another seven to eight hundred years before anyone on their home world sees any kind of industrialization in our atmosphere or detects us harnessing the electromagnetic spectrum for communication.
“They know they’re probing a planet with life, but they probably don’t recognize it as one with advanced intelligent life. When they first encountered Earth, we were entangled in superstition, barely able to master the rudiments of metallurgy, scrapping over patches of dirt in the desert. To them, we’re like pigmies in the jungle—or we were.”
“But they’re here now,” a woman says. “They’re right here—in orbit. Right above us.”
“Are they?”
I don’t know quite what Pretzel means and I doubt anyone else does either as no one interrupts him.
“I do not believe we have been visited by aliens but rather by their ambassadors—their machines.”
Garcia can’t contain himself, “What the hell?” But he’s cut off by the radio.
“Wait,” the President says. “So there are no aliens, just machines?”
“I don’t know that for certain,” Pretzel replies. “But that would explain the lack of communication, the lack of variation in their actions. When the Russians bombed the jungle the aliens made no attempt to shift their landing zone. They stuck with the plan, releasing their walkers and simply sending them out further, which doesn’t make sense unless they were following a prescribed program of action.”
“But you don’t know that for sure?” some other nameless voice several thousand miles removed from us asks. “They could be sitting up there with an army of invaders just waiting to send them down.”
“Waiting for what?” Pretzel asks. “Why would they do that? Every action is driven by motive. Why would they want to wage war? What have we got that can’t be found anywhere else in absurd abundance? Water? Gold? Platinum? You can get all of that from the asteroid belt. No, they have nothing to gain by destroying our world.”
He pauses before continuing.
“I need more time. If there is an alien crew up there, I need time to establish comms with them. You’ve got to keep the Russians out of this.”
“We’re doing all we can,” the President says.
General McCallister says, “On a practical note: we know of at least one Russian team that made it through the cordon, so be careful.”
Before Pretzel can reply, the President asks, “Dr. Khatri-Lagharin, could you clarify your point—point—point—p—p—point.”
“We’re losing you, say again?”
Garcia shakes his head softly. I think he was surprised any contact could be made at all, let alone a conversation.
“—by the Russians.”
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” Pretzel asks, becoming frustrated.
The radio fades in and out. At times it’s clear, but then becomes vague and muddy.
“The Russians are the wildcard,” the President says. “They’re insisting this is an invasion. They want to launch a counter-offensive. Throw everything we’ve got at these things.”
“Mr. President,” Pretzel says. “We can’t let that happen. Their fear would be a disaster for life on this planet.”
I’m not entirely sure if the President can hear Pretzel as he keeps talking over the top of him.
“They’re calling this Stalingrad.”
“This is not an invasion.”
“How can you be sure this is not an invasion?”
“This is not an invasion,” Pretzel says again, repeating himself, trying to sound confident, wanting to convey certainty, knowing we could lose contact at any moment. He speaks swiftly. “There’s no military objective. No geographic importance. No strategic value.”
He pauses. The radio is silent.
“Mr. President? General McCallister?”
There’s no reply.
Capture
Garcia and Pretzel tinker with the radio but it’s dead.
I try to coax Lady out of the helicopter, but she won’t leave. She mulls around in the back of the fuselage, trying to stay out of sight. Sheet metal groans as her weight shifts. She rocks on her backside, fiddling with her hands. As the sun rises through the trees, casting shadows around us, she becomes agitated.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Leathery fingers grip the edge of the open metal door. Intelligent eyes stare out from the darkness, but she’s nervous. Her world has been devastated—the once mighty jungle shielding her from the outside world has been scorched and leveled. Trees that appeared unmovable have been uprooted and tossed aside like twigs. Her family is dead, leaving her alone.
“We need to keep moving,” Pretzel says, which surprises me as normally it’s Garcia cracking the whip. Pretzel climbs over the center console, gathering a bunch of things he’s salvaged and stuffing them in a day pack. He drops to the dirt, grimacing slightly on his sore leg.
Garcia says, “We should make for Obekote.”
“You heard Josh,” Pretzel replies, checking the bandage around his thigh. “It’s at least fifty miles away across the swollen Congo river.”
Garcia is pragmatic. “Once we clear the blast zone, we’ll find tracks, trails, possibly roads. We may encounter other villages—other humans. They’ll have medicine, canoes, boats. We can do this.”
I take Lady’s hand, gently tugging, urging her out of the fuselage. Although her fingers are large, they’re
soft, hanging limp in mine, but she remains where she is, unable to leave the safety of the crashed helicopter. I wonder how she sees this metallic bird. Jana said the gorillas were scared of the noise made by the rotors. She must have seen the helicopters flying low over the jungle with a bunch of crazy, hairless apes all neatly dressed in clothes, sitting in the cockpit or hanging out the open sides. To see such a mechanical beast humbled must be unnerving. I doubt she hid here willingly, perhaps more out of necessity.
What goes through the mind of a primate when looking at humans? We think of them as animals, but do they see us as fakes, frauds pretending to be something we’re not, something other than Homo sapiens? They must marvel at how we chatter like birds in the trees, squawking and jostling. For all the diversity of our language, we have highly repetitive elements that must make them think we’re mad, like laughing—repeating the same sound over and over while convulsing. We smile, revealing our teeth when we’re full of joy, but to them it’s a sign of anger—that must be confusing. The only time I’ve seen Lady smile and mean it the way humans do is when she grins, but she makes sure her teeth are hidden. Imagine that, having to translate body language between species.
As she walks on her knuckles, taking her by the hand isn’t as practical as it seems, but I’m at a loss on how else to coax her from the crumpled remains of the helicopter.
Pretzel reaches into the cockpit, leaning through the broken Perspex front window. He grabs the tattered Bible from where it sits nestled on the flight controls of the helicopter, saying, “We need to get to that elevator.”
From what I can tell, picking up the Bible is a calculated act. Pretzel knows Garcia can’t see him and doesn’t realize I’m watching. I want to ask him about it, but Garcia is annoyed, perhaps angry about the idea of going to the space elevator.
“And why should we do that, Dr. Pratul Arjun Khatri-Lagharin? What the hell could that possibly accomplish? Look at us. What? You think we’re somehow going to fix all this?”
That’s the first time I’ve heard Petty Officer Garcia refer to Pretzel by his full name, but he’s being facetious. Pretzel tries to speak, but Garcia isn’t finished. There’s spittle on his cracked lips, anguish in his words.
“We can’t fix shit.”
“We have to try,” Pretzel says, discretely tucking the Bible into the small of his back, under his belt. I ignore them, not wanting to leave Lady. Whatever we do, she should come with us.
“Come on,” I whisper, letting go of her fingers, beckoning to her, trying to get her to follow me.
Lady rocks her head, neither nodding in agreement, nor shaking in disagreement—if she even understands those motions. With short hair surrounding her dark, leathery face, she seems pensive, unsure whether she can trust me. Her thin lips move as if trying to articulate a word so I speak for her, telling her what she needs to hear. She won’t understand the terms, but she’ll grasp the meaning from my tone and tempo.
“It’s okay. Come with me.”
Were it not for the blast, it would be a beautiful day in Africa—hot, but I’ve learned to love the sauna-like atmosphere here in the Congo. Sure beats freezing to death in a blizzard.
Looking around, the handful of trees still standing sway in a light breeze. Birds dance between the branches, flittering as they chase insects, calling to each other with passion, reassuring each other that life has returned to the jungle. Flies buzz through the air. Ants form lines on fallen branches, carting leaves and twigs back to their nest, moving with almost military precision. An eagle soars high in the sky, riding thermals with its feathers splayed at the end of its broad wings. No aliens.
The space rope or elevator or whatever is visible as a thin line reaching straight up, disappearing into the blue yonder, but I haven’t seen any machines since I first crawled up into the cockpit this morning. Somewhere over the next hill there’s an alien base, I guess, but they’ve left us alone. We’re safe. I hope. In the back of my mind, I wonder if that’s a dangerous assumption.
“What about you, kid?”
Ah, I really didn’t want to be drawn into this, but Garcia isn’t content to simply follow Pretzel. Being blind, he doesn’t have a lot of choice. He clambers out of the helicopter, feeling his way out through the open side door, stepping on the skid and then down onto the rocky ground. Twigs break under his boots.
“We all get a say in this.” Garcia is adamant. “You don’t have to blindly follow along, Josh.”
I really haven’t thought about that until now. I just assumed we were all in this together, that we would all stick together, that we should stay together because… I’m not sure why I think that, but it seems like the right thing to do.
“What do you say, Josh?” Garcia asks. “We’ve made contact with the outside world. We’ve done all we can. We should make a run for safety, make for Obekote. We need medical care.”
I look to Pretzel, but he doesn’t say anything. His eyes cast down at the debris around us, refusing to meet mine.
Garcia’s oblivious to the body language passing between us, but he seems to sense something is going on. He says, “You and me, Josh. We can make it out of here. If Pretzel wants to continue on, let him. We should get out while we still can.”
“I—”
I feel conflicted. I like and respect both men. I’m not sure who’s right. At this point, I don’t think there is a right or wrong decision—just a bunch of shitty decisions we need to make together. Africa be damned, with its gross over-simplifications of good and bad, black and white, righteous and evil. I agree with Pretzel. Maybe the aliens are just alien, and our notions of right and wrong are all messed up. For once, I want a decision to just be—and not have the pressure of being one thing or the other. Chocolate ice cream or vanilla? Soft gummy bears or hard candy? Mets ball cap or Seahawks jersey? It doesn’t matter so why should this?
This is what I hate about my dad. Everything’s sacred. The hand of the Lord guided our every step in coming to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, but I don’t believe that—not any more. We came to Africa because that’s what dad wanted, not God or Jesus or anyone else. Certainly not the church. Our bishop back in Boston did all he could to talk dad out of coming here, but dad had heard his calling. Well, I don’t hear anything. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want to hear or there’s nothing to be heard, but for once, I just want to be. No more grandiose motives.
Pretzel is more like my dad than I’d like to admit. There’s a gulf between them in terms of science and religion, and yet beyond that, they’re both driven by conviction. The source of those convictions may differ, but not the sincerity or the passion.
“Josh?” Garcia asks, wanting my input. I look up into Lady’s dark eyes, noticing the bushy prominent cranial bump at the back of her head, the thick dark brow on her forehead, her wrinkled skin, broad nose and soft lips. The irony of our contrasting positions isn’t lost on me. Physically, she’s far stronger than me and yet she knows she’s more vulnerable because she’s alone, separated from her troop, most of whom are dead. Her eyes dart between mine, looking for a sign, wanting to believe me. I think she knows we’re leaving. I don’t think she wants to stay, but she feels conflicted. She feels safe here, but out there the unknown scares us all.
Finally, I say, “There’s what we want to do and what we should do.”
Neither man responds, allowing me to continue. Without facing either of them, looking Lady in each eye and seeing her intelligence longing, desperate to span the void between us, I say the only thing I can. “We should leave.”
Garcia nods. Pretzel hangs his head. This isn’t a democracy. He could go on alone, but he won’t.
My shoulder aches. Garcia’s skin is becoming red and inflamed. Pretzel hobbles when he walks. Honestly, I don’t think it makes too much difference what we do. We’re probably going to die long before we reach Obekote, but Garcia’s right. We’ll run into villages along the way and hopefully will get some help.
“Come on,” I say to Lady. She looks up at the sky and then around at the piles of debris lying scattered throughout the village before stepping down out of the helicopter, walking on her hands and feet. The long hair on her arms sways with her motion, giving elegance and grace to what would be a clumsy, cumbersome movement for me. She presses her knuckles into the soft mud, leaning forward as she walks on all fours, sniffing at the air.
Before I know what’s happening, she’s raised off the ground. Her shadow shifts, rippling across the broken branches. Tendrils wrap themselves around her waist, coiling over her arms and shoulders, holding her tight as she’s hoisted into the sky. An alien machine rises from where it was lying in wait, hiding on the far side of the helicopter. Its silvery dome reflects the wreckage back at us along with the clear blue of the sky. I see myself in its reflection—small and insignificant.
“No!” I yell as Lady is drawn up toward an opening in the base of this strange, celestial vessel. Without making any noise, its legs puncture the ruins of the church, pushing through to the ground beneath, propelling the machine on. Each leg is segmented, being made up of hundreds, probably thousands of joints, almost like the bones surrounding the spinal cord. They flex and sway, supporting the weight of the machine as Lady is dragged into its hull by dozens of mechanical tentacles. She’s fighting, screaming, bellowing, panicking, grabbing at the metal arms, trying to peel them from her body.
I run after the machine, leaping over boulders, jumping from the crushed remains of fallen roofs and collapsed mud walls. Swinging my arm causes it to throb as though it were struck by a red-hot poker, but I push through the pain.
“LADY!”
Pretzel’s running too, yelling at the top of his lungs, but the alien machine continues to rise, unfurling its legs as it reaches its full height, towering above us.
I grab a metal pipe lying on the ground, part of the plumbing that once allowed water to flow through the taps in my home, and I swing at one of the legs, striking at the gap between joints as the machine pivots, shifting its weight from one leg to another. Dozens of dangling tentacles swing beneath the alien vessel now that Lady is inside the mirrored dome. They fall toward me, unraveling as they descend hundreds of feet toward the jungle floor.
3zekiel (First Contact) Page 20
