by Nancy Kress
“How long?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. SkyPower is really a bad thing, you know. All the nuclear reactors are. They damage genes.”
She looked, sounded, felt like Lillie. She was Lillie. But the words were not. For the first time, something deep inside Keith recoiled from her.
Keith called SkyPower Corporation. But he was a secondary legal counsel, and the CEO and her staff had no time for him. They were “in meeting,” an assistant informed him neutrally.
“Oliver Wendell, turn the TV on to NewsNet.”
” — no more than a silly hoax,” someone was saying, a wizened man with an indignant expression. “Elaborately organized, yes. But for a major transnational like SkyPower to listen to a bunch of children would be ridiculous. Nor is SkyPower going to ‘damage genes’ — anybody’s genes. Safety records show—”
Lillie said, “Aren’t they going to send the people back to Earth?” She looked troubled. Was that her talking … or them?
Did he believe there was a them?
He stayed riveted to the TV, canceling all his meetings. No one disturbed him; evidently the media still did not have Lillie’s name. Lillie went back to her computer games. At noon she looked up, frowning.
“Uncle Keith—they mean it about correcting SkyPower. Why are those people still on it?”
He could only shake his head.
“—NASA reporting that, like the Hubble, the Artemis II probe has detected no alien craft anywhere near Earth orbit—”
“Lillie … where are the pribir? In a space ship?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Where is the ship?”
“I don’t know,” she said, not looking up from her game.
At 4:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, SkyPower blew up. The corporation had not removed its personnel.
Hysteria broke out on the Net. Terrorist acts, international provocation, cleverly obfuscated industrial sabotage … theories flew like bullets.
Half an hour later, Keith’s secretary stuck a frightened face into his office. “Mr. Anderson … the White House is on the phone channel!”
He picked up his phone, already knowing. They wanted Lillie, wanted all of them. As soon as possible, as anonymously as possible. In Washington. Highest national security. FBI agents on the way to his apartment.
Lillie turned off her computer game. “Let’s go, Uncle Keith. I need to pack some stuff at home. Where’s that red suitcase I took to Kendra’s for my last sleep over?”
No one spoke to them as they walked through the office. Everyone stared. Keith put an arm around Lillie.
“It’s okay,” she told him. “They just don’t understand yet. About the right way, I mean. But it’s okay. The pribir can explain everything.”
NASA announced the position of the spacecraft. Perhaps they’d just located it, perhaps they’d known all along. Keith knew he’d never find out which. The White House press secretary held a tense, almost belligerent session with the press in which he said, essentially, that he wasn’t going to say anything. He repeated only that the president would address the nation the following night. Condolences had gone out to the families of the seventy-three SkyPower employees killed in the explosion.
Two FBI agents, male and female, waited at Keith’s apartment. Within twenty minutes he and Lillie had packed and been escorted by car to La Guardia. They were shown to a heavily guarded private room in the airport terminal, and for the first time Keith saw some of the other kids that the press was already calling “the pribir puppets.”
They looked like any eighth grade class on a field trip.
Seventeen of them had been collected at La Guardia. They were white, black, Hispanic, Asian. The girls appeared about two years older than the boys, although in fact the sexes were distributed evenly throughout ages eleven, twelve, and barely thirteen. Newly pubescent, which had triggered the latent engineered genes. Some of the girls, like Lillie, had lush figures and wore make-up. The boys’ voices cracked when they called out to each other. At one side of the room, the parents sat looking shell shocked.
Lillie walked up to a dark-haired girl carrying an e-book. “Hi. I’m Lillie Anderson.”
“I’m Theresa Romero. You in eighth grade?”
‘Yes. At St. Anselm’s in Manhattan. I like your sweater.”
“Thanks. I got it at—hey, damn it! Keep away!”
A boy had bounced a basketball off her back. He grinned at her and she scowled. He shrugged and moved away.
“That’s Kenny,” she said with enormous disgust. “A real bonus. All the brains of a bucket of hair.”
“I know some like that,” Lillie said, and the two girls moved off, chattering. Lillie gave a little wave back over her shoulder at Keith.
He was drowning in normalcy.
They were loaded, kids and parents both, onto a military plane. Keith recognized the distinctive blue-and-white aircraft of the 89th Operations Group and guessed they were heading for Andrews Air Force Base. That made sense. Close to Washington, easily restricted and guarded, and containing Malcolm Grow Medical Center, the largest Air Force medical facility on the East Coast. Not to mention elite communications for connecting with everything from the White House to the Airforce Space Warfare Center in Colorado. Andrews was the entry point for all Air Force communications satellites, classified and not.
“I demand to know where you’re taking us!” a mother said to the Air Force major who, from the moment he appeared, was clearly in charge.
“Of course,” the major answered. “We’re going to Washington, D.C. If you’ll all get comfortable aboard, I’ll do a full briefing then.”
The woman hesitated, scowled, but shepherded her son aboard the plane. Probably, Keith thought, others had refused. There were no legal grounds for detention of these people. On the other hand, the military (or the president, or whoever) didn’t need all of the kids. They all said the same thing at the same time. That there were so many seemed to be merely deliberate backup.
Maybe. Who knew how these “pribir” thought?
Once everyone was settled, the kids talking or playing handheld games or gazing out the window at clouds, the major stood erect in the center aisle.
“Welcome aboard, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Major Gerald Connington. As some of you already know, our destination is Andrews Air Force Base, just outside Washington, D.C. Let me say right off that the president of the United States personally thankf each and every one of you for your willingness to travel to Washington and assist him in this emergency. It’s through working together that this unprecedented situation can be handled most effectively.”
Military PR, Keith thought. The major didn’t even look uncomfortable.
A mother called out, ” ‘Unprecedented situation’ is quite a euphemism, major. Is blowing up SkyPower going to be seen as an act of war? Are our kids in danger?”
“If war is the result, all of you will be in no more danger at Andrews than in New York,” Major Connington said, and Keith’s estimate of him rose. Keeping the bullshit to a minimum.
“But are we at war?” the mother persisted.
“Madam, I cannot personally declare war all by myself,” Connington said, and a few people smiled faintly. “Like everyone else, I have to wait and see what the president and Congress wish to do.”
“War is silly! The pribir are helping us!” a boy called out indignantly.
Half the planeload of adults turned to stare at the boy. The other half gazed at their own children, who nodded in agreement, those who were listening, anyway. Keith saw the problem with any in-depth briefing. Parents and children had widely differing perspectives on the pribir. How could you talk war strategy with the enemy’s delegates present?
The others seemed to realize this, too. A hush fell over the parents. Into it, Major Connington said, “More parents and children will be joining us at Andrews, coming from different cities in the Northeast. All of you will be housed in on-base military housing that is cur
rently being prepared for you. These are temporary lodging facilities equipped for temporary housekeeping. Each facility will lodge two children plus their parents or guardians. After you are shown to your lodgings, buses will take you all to the Officer’s Club for meetings with Pentagon and White House officials.”
A boy called, “Will the president be there?”
Connington smiled. “Not this time. Maybe later on.”
“Aawwww,” the boy whined, and went back to his computer game.
“We cannot, at this time, say exactly how long your stay will be,” Connington continued, “but we will do everything in our power to make it a pleasant one. Andrews is equipped with a movie theater, library, bowling alley, picnic area, and a brand-new Youth Center with a full-size gym, dance room, VR lab, and many activities for teens.”
“He makes it sound like a fucking resort,” a man said loudly somewhere behind Keith, “instead of a lockup.”
“Be quiet,” someone else hissed. “You’ll upset the kids!”
Keith looked at Lillie, sitting across the aisle with Theresa Romero. Both girls had thrown off their light jackets and were combing their hair, sharing a portable lighted mirror. Lillie said something and Theresa rolled her eyes and then giggled.
It wasn’t chemically possible to upset the kids.
———
At Andrews Air Force Base, Lillie and Theresa pleaded to stay together. A harassed housing officer was trying heroically to honor the children’s requests about pairing off. Keith introduced himself to the Romeros, a bewildered Hispanic couple. Carlo Romero, who spoke without an accent, was clearly American born, articulate and intelligent. His wife Rosalita, much younger, spoke little English. She was one of the most beautiful women Keith had ever seen, with liquid black eyes, cafe au lait skin and rippling black hair. She had passed the hair on to Theresa, but not the beauty.
The temporary housing had a living room, a tiny kitchenette, two baths, and three bedrooms, each with twin beds. Theresa and Lillie dumped their stuff into one bedroom. Carlo said to Keith, “Flimsy housing but substantial protection. I think those are Army troops from Fort Meade or Fort Bragg. They’re everywhere.”
“I noticed,” Keith said.
“I’m glad they’re here. Your daughter get any death threats?”
“Lillie is my niece; her parents are dead. No, the press hadn’t found her yet.”
“Lucky you. Those parents who refused to bring their kids here are going to regret it, I think.”
“A lot of angry nuts out there,” Keith agreed.
Rosalita Romero said something energetic in Spanish. Her husband put his arm around her and drew her close. “She’s afraid because Theresa doesn’t seem afraid. Rosalita fears … well, that Theresa is possessed.”
She is, Keith thought. But what did Rosalita mean by “possessed”? Demons? Satan? Was this gorgeous, worried woman going to go in some night and knife Theresa and Lillie in their sleep to set them free from some imagined bargain with the devil?
He glanced at the girls’ door. It came with a lock. He would tell Lillie to use it.
He smiled at Carlo and Rosalita. “We’re all concerned about our kids.”
‘Yes,” Carlo said neutrally. So he’d seen Keith’s glance at the bedroom lock. Wonderful. A bungalowful of mutual suspicion.
Sixty kids and ninety parents thronged the Officer’s Club. The kids were divided, seemingly randomly, into five groups and shunted off into five different rooms. All the parents were ushered into the lounge, now set up with rows of gilt chairs. Keith glimpsed the e-board, which apparently no one had thought to change: April 30, 6:00 p.m., DUBOIS/CARTER WEDDING, CONGRATULATIONS SUSAN AND TOM!
He wondered where Susan and Tom were now holding their wedding.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Base Commander Brigadier General Harry Richerson.” He looked like Keith’s idea of a general: tall, sun-beaten, no-nonsense. Not PR.
“I know you’re leery about being here, and nervous about what will happen to your children. I don’t blame you. Right now they’re simply being questioned in groups to see to what extent their experiences are similar. Tomorrow we want to talk to them, and you, individually. We have all the available medical records for each child, but our staff at Malcolm Grow Medical Center would also like to run their own tests. All tests will be with parental permission only, non-invasive, and confidential. Our people will be obtaining permission forms at your individual conferences tomorrow.
“I can’t tell you how long you’ll be here. Anybody can leave who wants to, but I advise against it. An hour ago one of the so-called ‘pribir children’ was murdered in Boston by an unknown assailant. Your children and you are much safer here. You are also performing a vital patriotic service. Any questions?”
There was a stunned silence. Murdered. Had it been a boy or a girl?
The same mother who’d asked on the plane now called out, “Are we going to war with these aliens?”
“Unknown at this time. The president, his advisors, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff are crafting an appropriate response to the alien act of aggression. Your children’s briefing will supply one source of data for that response.”
“Have the kids been taken over by some sort of brainwashing? How?”
“Unknown at this time. The best medical guess is that communication occurs by very sophisticated pheromones. USAMRIID, the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases, is involved in determining what molecules have been released into our air. Also involved are the Centers for Disease Control and the Federal Emergency Management Agency, which has responsibility for bioweapon attacks within the United States borders.”
“How could they get these so-called molecules into the air?”
“Unknown at this time.”
“How in heaven’s name could smelling a molecule tell the kids what the aliens want them to say?”
“Unknown at this time.”
“Is the alien ship in a place where we can shoot it down?”
“Classified. Sorry.”
“What if they start blowing up other things of ours, in space or on the ground? What will we do?”
“Unknown at this time.”
It went on like that, everything unknown or classified. Keith could see the frustration mounting around him. It was expressed at dinner, a catered buffet served to the parents without their kids. However, everyone was reunited in a large ballroom to watch the president address the nation on TV.
The president essentially said that everything was unknown at this time.
Lillie was sleepy by the time they were bussed back to their temporary housing. Neither she nor Theresa would say much about their briefing.
“What did they ask you?” Carlo Romero said.
Theresa said, “Oh, you know, who the pribir are and why they’re here.”
“Who are they and why are they here?”
Lillie spoke as if the answer should be obvious but she was being polite anyway. “They’re people from another star system who are here to help us with our genes.”
“By blowing us up?”
To Keith’s surprise, both Lillie’s and Theresa’s eyes filled with tears. Theresa said, “They didn’t want to do that. But you guys wouldn’t listen and get the people off! And the genetic good of everybody is more important than a few lives.”
Lillie nodded. Keith felt suddenly chilled. He had a sudden vivid memory: Lillie at ten years old, sitting with him under a tree while patriotic fireworks exploded overhead:
“Uncle Keith, you said that two people died on your energy case … Was it worth it? Two people dead, and everybody else gets lots of energy?”
“We don’t look at it like that. Although unfortunately new technologies always seem to cost lives at first. Railroads, air travel, heart transplants, probably even the first discovery of fire.”
“I think two deaths is worth it.”
Was that Lillie saying now that the pribir were justified in b
lowing up SkyPower, or was it the pribir?
Was Lillie herself still in there somewhere?
“Good night, Uncle Keith. Mr. Romero, Mrs. Romero.”
“Good night, honey.”
The three adults looked at each other. Carlo said suddenly, fiercely, “She’s still our daughter!”
Keith nodded. To his own surprise, the nod was genuine. She was still Lillie. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.
And he would do anything to keep her safe.
Life settled, incredibly, into a routine. A schedule was set up for the kids to meet, separately, with both doctors and politicians/military types. Between appointments, youth counselors organized basketball tournaments, library trips, educational software, video-games contests, movies, dances. No child ever left the base and no child was ever unaccompanied outside of the temporary-housing area. The parents went places with their kids, vaguely embarrassing and unwanted presences on the sidelines, or met with “counselors” that Keith suspected were CIA agents.
There was talk of organizing a proper school, but the kids spanned three different grades and forty school systems. Also, no one wanted to admit they would be here long enough to create a separate school. Schooling on base along with the resident “military brats” was not even mentioned.
The pribir did not choose to communicate anything.
The president did not try to shoot down the alien spaceship, assuming that was possible.
Lillie reported to Keith that there was this boy she sort of liked, Alex, and he told his friend Sean who told Donald who told Theresa that Alex sort of liked Lillie, too, but Lillie didn’t know that for sure and did Uncle Keith think she should ask him to dance on Friday night or would she look like a fungal bonus?
Hysteria, fanned by the press, mounted throughout the country.
An additional Army unit appeared on base, which now had a totally sealed perimeter.
The pribir did not choose to communicate anything.
Lillie said she was missing too much algebra and would get too far behind and so would Uncle Keith download an algebra program for her at the library, since no kids were allowed at the terminals?
