Wherever Seeds May Fall (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  “Jim, get the State Department to have a quiet chat with our friends in Taiwan. Tell them we want to respond positively to China. Now’s the time to tread lightly.”

  “Understood,” McGuire says. “And the Chinese intelligence officer?”

  “Captain Hunan?” the President says. “Get him out of the country. Get Metro DC to turn him over to the CIA on whatever grounds you can find. I want him on a flight before dawn. I don’t care whether it’s through Canada or Europe, but nothing direct.”

  “You’re sending him back to China?” McGuire asks, surprised by the decision.

  “We need to communicate with clarity without uttering a single word. I want Beijing to know we got their message, and we expect them to live up to it.”

  “I like it,” McGuire says. “I can pull a few levers and bury this in the press. There are a couple of reporters over at the Post that owe me a favor. I’ll get them to paint this as a carjacking gone wrong. Switch a few names around.”

  McGuire reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a wallet, saying, “Oh. I almost forgot.” He tosses the wallet to Nolan. “You dropped this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you,” the President says, staring down Nolan. “Get your sweet ass to the hospital.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Orphanage

  Sunlight glistens off the ocean. Birds soar above the cliffs, riding thermals. Clouds dot the horizon. A storm is forming over the Gulf of Mexico.

  The Vera Cruz orphanage is next to the Mission Santa Rosa on a hill overlooking the beach. Jorge drives around to the front of the main building. Truck tires crunch on the rough stone driveway. Padre Jesus must have seen Jorge coming up the winding road as he stands by the door to greet him.

  “Good afternoon, my friend.”

  “Have your illegal aliens arrived yet?” Jorge says, smiling as he gets out of his truck.

  The padre points at the sky, saying, “Not yet. They’re still up there somewhere.”

  “Haha,” Jorge says, walking around and opening the back of his truck. “Well, you will have plenty of fish to feed them.”

  “Fishes and loaves,” the padre says. “We in the church have specialized in fish sandwiches for thousands of years.”

  Jorge likes that. He grabs a cardboard box and hands it to the padre, grabbing another box himself.

  “The children love your smoked fish,” the padre says.

  “Not many buyers today. What’s bad for me is good for you.”

  “Giving is like breathing,” the padre says. “You cannot get more without letting go of what you have.”

  “Well, I have eight boxes today.”

  The two men walk into the storeroom at the back of the kitchen and begin stacking boxes. Most days, Jorge sells all his catch. Sometimes, there’s a box or two left for the orphans, but the markets were unusually quiet today.

  One of the cooks helps, grabbing a box and saying, “This is wonderful. We will make a nice white sauce to go with this. Thank you.”

  After unloading the truck, the two men sit on a bench seat, looking out over the bay. Padre Jesus offers Jorge a glass of cucumber water.

  “When are they coming?” Jorge asks.

  “The aliens?”

  “Yes. Your new friends.”

  “Not until January—after the Festival for the Conversion of Saint Paul on the road to Damascus.”

  “So they have seen the light,” Jorge says. “Will it be like the movies?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Why are there no nice aliens in the movies?”

  “Oh, it’s us,” the padre says. “We are the problem. We project our own fear of death onto them.”

  “So we shouldn’t be afraid?”

  “No. We should never be afraid of the unknown as there’s no reason to fear that which is neither good nor bad.”

  Jorge likes the padre. Most preachers recite liturgy and take confession. Rarely do they offer personal insights into life. Padre Jesus is a thoughtful man. He inspires Jorge to be more compassionate. As a young, selfish man with a violent temper, Jorge spent time in prison for assault and robbery. It was there that he first found Jesus—the real Jesus—the one that lived two thousand years ago. Jorge struggled to find a church he could believe in. Oh, there were plenty of missions with devout souls, but Padre Jesus offered kindness. Against the advice of the cardinal, the padre opened an orphanage. Cardinal Pella demanded Padre Jesus run the orphanage on donations, not church funds. The cardinal thought that would force its closure, but that was twenty years ago. Padre Jesus is still offering refuge to children abandoned on the streets. Jorge respects that.

  “What is the church saying?”

  “The Holy Father says God’s creation fills the entire universe. He says we should stand together and welcome our visitors from the stars.”

  “And you?” Jorge asks.

  “I think there is good in everyone, but sometimes people forget that.”

  “Most of the time,” Jorge says.

  “Everyone is interested in one thing and one thing alone,” the padre says. “Themselves. We all want a roof over our heads. A good meal in our belly. Money to buy the things we need from the markets. I think that is true for all people—billionaires and paupers alike. We think about ourselves first and foremost.”

  “And them?” Jorge asks.

  “They are getting us to think about someone else. And that’s a good thing. They are getting us to think about how we can get along with each other and with them.”

  “Maria thinks this is bad,” Jorge says. “She listens to the American TV. They say there’s a war coming.”

  “War is the refuge of a small mind,” the padre says. “When people cannot discuss, when they cannot reason, when they cannot barter or trade, they destroy each other. War never enriches. Regardless of who wins, both sides lose something. So no, I don’t think there will be a war.”

  “Hmm,” Jorge says.

  “Imagine you sailed to Cuba or Jamaica. Would you go all that way to destroy or to build? To fight or to trade?”

  Jorge nods in agreement.

  Padre Jesus says, “I think they come in peace—not because it is a cliché, but because it’s the only reason that makes sense.”

  Jorge gets to his feet, finishing his drink.

  “You’re a wise man, Padre.”

  Rendezvous Earth: January

  Uber Eats

  Kath is sick with nerves.

  An̆duru is two days out from reaching Earth.

  There’s no time.

  There’s never enough time.

  Kath has been working with the United Nations First Contact Commission, but she’s frustrated. Bureaucracy and politics hold more sway than science. Equality is the buzzword, but ensuring all nations have equal access to An̆duru is impossible. The discussions she’s had with them have been akin to a bunch of toddlers fighting over a toy.

  The phone rings, but Kath’s distracted. She’s mesmerized by the metrics coming in from An̆duru. As the alien craft approaches Earth, it has become the focus of almost every telescope in the world. Ordinarily, she’d consider that a blessing. The problem is she has to trawl through a tsunami of data and research papers being sent to her office. Needles are difficult to find in haystacks. Kath’s looking for clues. She wants to tease out features that might reveal the vessel’s design, but the spectroscopy isn’t helping. If anything, conflicting results from different observatories are confusing her, introducing doubt. As best she understands it, the craft is spinning, but not on one axis. To her mind, though, that makes no sense for an interstellar spacecraft. She has so many questions.

  The phone shakes as it continues to ring, finally getting her attention.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. McKenzie? This is the Executive Office security point on 17th Street.”

  “Oh,” she says, curious why they’re calling her.

  “I’ve got an Uber Eats delivery for you.”

&n
bsp; “Me?” she replies, wondering if there’s another Dr. McKenzie in the building.

  “Yes,” the security guard says. She can hear paper rustling. “The receipt’s got your name and phone number on it.” Kath can hear him rummaging in a paper bag. “Looks like Chinese.”

  “Oh, yes!” she yells, exploding out of her seat. From around the office, staff turn to look at her as her chair rockets out from beneath her. She signals an apology with one hand as she continues talking with the security guard on the phone. “It’s been a long day. Sorry for the confusion. I’ll be right there.”

  It’s all Kath can do not to run downstairs and along the main corridor. She hits a good stride, weaving in and out of the various executive staff wandering the hallways. Several soldiers stand on guard by the main entrance. Over to the right, one of them stands beside a brown paper bag set on the counter.

  “Hi,” she says cheerfully, flashing the ID tag hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “I’m Dr. McKenzie.”

  The guard has opened the bag. He lays out the contents on the counter. Kath can see the machinations of his mind. He’s determined not to miss any details and make a mistake that might jeopardize security. On this occasion, though, he’s a roadblock in her way.

  “And you ordered this, right?” he asks.

  “Yep,” she says, trying to sound confident. Kath bites at her lip. He doesn’t look convinced so she adds, “Sorry, I’m new here.”

  “This is irregular,” he says. “We don’t accept personal deliveries. Hasn’t anyone told you that?”

  “Oh. Ah. No. Sorry,” she says, trying to work some charm into the equation.

  “Okay,” he says, repacking the bag and recounting the inventory. “So we’ve got spring rolls, fried rice, sweet and sour pork, and a couple of fortune cookies.”

  “Yes. That’s it. Thank you,” Kath says as he hands her the bag. She saunters away, retreating before any more questions are asked. Kath’s not sure why, but she feels a burst of emotional relief. As she heads back down the corridor, she mutters, “This is soooooo much better than standing in the cold beneath a rail bridge.”

  For a moment, she wonders if she should tell Nolan, but she instinctively heads back to her desk. Best to figure out precisely what to tell him.

  “Early dinner?” Sergeant Jacinta Andrews says as Kath sits down in front of her laptop.

  “Yep,” she says to the one genuine friend she’s made in Washington, DC.

  Jacinta followed Nolan from NORAD. She’s become their de-facto research coordinator. She’s particularly good at sifting through emails and correspondence. As Kath and Jacinta are both outsiders, they tend to hang together on weekends.

  “Smells good,” Jacinta says. Kath pulls out a plastic fork and begins rummaging through the fried rice, spilling some on her desk. Rather than eating, she’s prying at the rice, separating it, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

  “What are you doing?” Jacinta asks. Kath moves on to the sweet and sour pork. She scrapes the sides of the plastic dish, moving the food around, looking for clues. With the precision of a surgeon, she dissects the crusty, deep-fried meat, looking for some kind of secret message. Nothing. Maybe there really is another Dr. McKenzie in the building? Maybe that Dr. McKenzie is about to walk up to her desk and demand her dinner back. If so, she’s going to think Kath is insane.

  “There’s nothing here,” Kath says more to herself than to Jacinta.

  “What were you expecting?” Jacinta asks, having rolled her chair over beside her. She picks up one of the fortune cookies, asking, “May I?”

  “Sure,” Kath replies, confused by an ordinary-looking, entirely delicious Chinese takeout meal.

  Jacinta tears the plastic open and cracks a fortune cookie, splitting it in half. A fine roll of white paper appears.

  “What do you think?” Jacinta asks. “Am I going to meet my fair prince?”

  Kath shrugs. She bites into a piece of deep-fried pork from the sweet and sour, figuring, why not?

  “It’s not going to stop,” Jacinta says, reading from the tiny scroll. “That’s a strange fortune.”

  “What did you say?” Kath asks, feeling her heart start to race. She takes the thin strip of paper from Jacinta, looking at it carefully.

  “Damn it! No,” Kath says. She grabs the other fortune cookie and tears open the wrapping. Kath crushes the cookie, flicking fragments into a trash can as she unravels the thin roll of paper.

  “Look for love and you’ll find its path.”

  “Oh, that’s much better,” Jacinta says.

  “No, no, no. It’s worse,” Kath mutters, dumping the scraps of paper on her desk. She brings up an orbital simulation program on her laptop. “This can’t be right.”

  “What?” Jacinta asks, munching on her cookie.

  “It’s a message,” Kath says.

  “From who?”

  “The Chinese.”

  “Takeaway?”

  “Government.”

  “Ah,” Jacinta says, falling quiet and watching over Kath’s shoulder.

  Kath brings up a chat window.

  Anyone online?

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  Sup?

  Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

  Everything okay?

  Sara Hendi, JPL

  Just running sims.

  All good?

  Prof Alvarez, ESA

  An̆duru is still pulling almost 200km/s.

  No change in velocity.

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  There’s never been any change beyond gravity assist and aerobraking.

  I assume they were saving their fuel for a final burn.

  Sara Hendi, JPL

  I’m not sure it’s going to stop.

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  What? Really?

  I was expecting a suicide burn.

  Like a Falcon 9 coming in hot and hard.

  This can’t be a flyby.

  This isn’t New Horizons buzzing Pluto.

  Why would they go to the effort of slowing at Saturn and Jupiter only to sail past Earth taking pictures?

  Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

  I don’t know.

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  Not sure why you’re worried.

  I wasn’t expecting a braking maneuver until they reach Earth’s gravitational sphere of influence.

  It doesn’t make sense to slow until they’re close enough to be captured by our gravity.

  Prof Alvarez, ESA

  The problem is our gravity sphere is ~1.5 million kilometers.

  At 200 km/s, that’s barely two hour’s travel time!

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  Damn that’s tight!

  Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

  No shit!

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  No time to react.

  Sara Hendi, JPL

  Yep.

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  You’re worried about the late braking?

  Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

  We’ve assumed they’re conserving fuel.

  What if they don’t intend on firing their engines at all?

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  You think they’re going to try aerobraking here as well?

  Prof Alvarez, ESA

  Our gravity well isn’t deep enough.

  We’re not a gas giant.

  They couldn’t shed that much speed in our shallow atmosphere.

  Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

  We’ve assumed they’re coming directly here.

  But they haven’t done anything direct.

  They’ve always used planets to slow down.

  What if they still intend on that strategy?

  What if this is what we’d think of as a VEJGA?

  Only in reverse.

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  So braking at Saturn, Jupiter, Earth AND Venus?

  Only to swing back here once they’ve
slowed down?

  That would be bad.

  Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

  Very bad.

  Prof Alvarez, ESA

  Just brought up the orbital paths.

  If A. veers by just over 11 degrees at E., it’ll be on course for V.

  A subsequent slingshot around V. is doable, bringing it back here in 4 to 6 weeks.

  Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

  Damn it.

  I don’t know why we didn’t think of this sooner.

  It actually makes a lot more sense.

  An̆duru couldn’t lose 200 km/s in Earth’s atmosphere, but it could strip off a helluva lot of its velocity within the thicker Venusian atmosphere.

  The clouds of Venus are more analogous to those of a gas giant.

  The initial flyby of Earth, though, that will be ugly.

  Sara Hendi, JPL

  Fuck.

  Kath McKenzie, NASA

  Kath hits print on a bunch of files. Her science team continue chatting, but her avatar is already showing offline, letting them know she’s no longer participating. Kath will catch up on the conversation later. For now, she needs to get in front of the President.

  She spins around in her chair, facing Jacinta and asking, “Can you get hold of Dr. Phillip Matzer at Los Alamos? I need an estimate on the effect of high-altitude nuclear detonations.”

  “Okay, sure,” Jacinta replies, but it’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the seriousness of the problem.

  “I need to know the effect of airburst nuclear explosions at altitudes between 40,000 and 60,000 meters.”

  Jacinta takes notes.

  Kath adds. “The yield will be between one hundred and five hundred megatons.”

  That last point gets Jacinta to pause, swallowing a lump in her throat. Yeah, she gets it. This is bad, really bad.

  Kath grabs her printouts and laptop, saying, “Email me the estimates as soon as you can,” as she rushes out of the office.

  Stairs fly by beneath her feet. Her fingers barely touch the railing. Her eyes are focused on the next landing, ignoring the staff coming up, dodging her. She gets stares and mutters, but she doesn’t care. For a moment, she forgets where she is. Kath rushes through a security checkpoint and out onto the parking lot separating the Executive Office from the White House.

  Snow flurries sweep across the ground, curling around the handful of parked cars. Two Marines stationed on either side of the covered entranceway eye her with curiosity. They maintain their stance, keeping their heads facing forward. Her boots slip on the ice. It’s all she can do not to fall flat on the concrete. Somehow Kath stays on her feet, with her legs darting around like those of a newborn foal. Regardless, she’s not letting go of the paper sheets clutched in her right hand or her laptop tucked under her arm.