Wherever Seeds May Fall (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  Kath leans forward with her elbows on the table, pushing her hands up through her hair. She doesn’t know. None of them do. They’re guessing. To be fair, they’re all basing their comments on decades of expertise in their various fields, but this has never happened before. No one has any relevant experience to guide them.

  Kath says, “I think we need to continue the two-pronged approach. We continue with the same strategy—throw water on the fire. We do everything we can to hose down any panic. Keep people calm.”

  “That’s going to take more than smooth words,” McGuire says. “We are way beyond that.”

  “No one is going to buy it,” the Secretary of Defense says. “Not anymore. We’ve already sold them that line. Repeating it is going to leave us looking like a bunch of liars. The public is going to assume we have something to hide.”

  “And we do,” Nolan says.

  McGuire adds. “This is going to get out. We have to accept that. There’s no way to contain something this big. We can keep these nuclear accidents quiet for a few days, but sooner or later, someone’s going to put all this together and realize the extent of what just happened—and the shit is going to hit the fan.”

  Nolan says, “Think about the UK, France, Russia, China, India, Israel, Pakistan, Iran, North Korea. They’re all dealing with this. As soon as someone breaks ranks and goes public, it’s going to be very obvious what just happened.”

  “I’m with SecDef on this,” McGuire says. “We can’t lie. As soon as we do, we lose all credibility. We need the trust of the people.”

  “So we’re agreed,” the President says. “We have been attacked.”

  From around the room, each of them nod in agreement—all except Kath.

  The President reiterates her position with, “This is an act of war.”

  Kath counters with, “If you say that, people are going to panic.”

  To which McGuire says, “Our supermarket shelves are already empty.”

  Nolan says, “We can avoid panic if we show we’re competent. We’ve fought wars before without hysteria. We have to treat this like any other war.”

  “Yes,” McGuire says, liking that point. “We mobilize industry. We show strength. Confidence.”

  Kath shakes her head in disagreement. She mumbles, “Not gonna work.”

  The Secretary of Defense doesn’t care for her assessment. He says, “We have to win the war of popular opinion. Yes, we need to avoid panic. The only way to do that is for our people to be convinced we’re going to win.”

  “But we’re not,” Kath says, feeling exasperated. “Because there is no war. If there was, and they wanted to win, they wouldn’t be skimming our atmosphere, they’d be hurling asteroids at us. And if they did that, there’s not a goddamn thing we could do about it.”

  The President is quiet, weighing the options before her.

  “Don’t give up on science,” Kath says, pleading with her. “Please.”

  The President puts her hand out, resting it on Kath’s arm as she says, “You have to understand—there are different levels of reality in this world. You may not like that. I know I don’t. But you have to accept it.”

  The President points at the door leading to the corridor. “Those people out there. They don’t have your composure. Your confidence. Your understanding or patience. They’re going to interpret this the only way they can—as an act of war.

  “And I’m not just talking about America. Everyone beyond that blast-proof fire-door will see this as a precursor to a bigger attack—if not an invasion. They’re going to call it Pearl Harbor. Now you may know that’s not the case, but try telling that to the Russians or the Israelis or the government of Indonesia.”

  Kath lowers her head.

  “It’s my job to steer America through this,” the President says. “It’s my job to ensure every contingency is covered and every possible measure is pursued. It’s my job to work with other nations to secure our future. We can’t ignore what just happened. We have to call it out for what it is.”

  Kath withdraws her hands from the table.

  “Okay,” the President says. “So we declare a state of emergency, activate FEMA, and initiate the Defense Production Act. What’s the focus? Where do we need our industrial resources?”

  Nolan says, “There’s no time to tool up. We need our existing defense industries to go into overdrive, but there’s no sense in getting automotive manufacturing plants to try to build missiles. Given we only have a month or so, it would hurt rather than help the effort.”

  McGuire says, “But there would be some value in transferring materials. The defense industry would benefit from additional labor.”

  “Yes,” the President says.

  Nolan nods. McGuire is madly making notes.

  “What about from a scientific perspective?” the President asks, offering Kath an olive branch. To Nolan’s mind, this is what makes Elizabeth Aston a great President. She’s inclusive, even of those she’s sidelined.

  Kath is sullen. She says, “Like the military, the scientific community doesn’t need things so much as organization. From my perspective, the focus should be on civilian needs, stuff like bottled water and non-perishable food. That’s where panic is going to set in. People also need to understand there are some things they shouldn’t stock up on.”

  “Like what?” the Secretary of Defense asks, genuinely intrigued by the notion.

  “Gasoline. Extra cylinders for a BBQ would be fine, but the more gas someone stores, the more dangerous it becomes. The temptation will be to store gas in whatever’s available, but you’ll get leaks. A build-up of fumes can lead to a fire, stuff like that. It’s just not smart. People will think it’s smart because they want to avoid shortages, but it’s not.

  “The same’s true of medicine. When summer rolls around and temperatures soar, the shelf-life of unrefrigerated medicine is short. At the moment, this will be a concern for countries in the Southern Hemisphere, but it’ll hit here too, eventually. We need to stop people from hoarding. They need to trust the system to deliver when needed or people will die. A lot of people will die. Things like insulin, asthma inhalers, heart medication. If there’s a run on those things, society will get ugly real fast.”

  The President nods. Like Nolan, she can see Kath is trying to help.

  “How do we stop people panicking?” Nolan asks.

  McGuire laughs. “You’re new to politics, aren’t you?”

  “It is a good question, though,” the President says.

  Kath says, “Give them a placebo. Something to distract them. Something to believe in.”

  “Like what?” the President asks.

  “I dunno. Could be anything. It’s not really important what it is, so long as they think it’s important. Give them something to do so they feel confident about what’s coming.”

  “What would you suggest?” McGuire asks.

  Nolan asks, “What about a faraday cage? You know, for shielding electronics.”

  “That might have worked a few hours ago,” Kath says dryly. “But it’s probably not relevant anymore as An̆duru isn’t likely to cause another pulse.”

  “We don’t know that for sure, though, do we?” McGuire says, clearly liking the idea. “And importantly, they don’t know that.”

  Nolan says, “We tell people to turn their garages into faraday cages so they have somewhere they can go to be safe. Line it with chicken wire and duct insulation.”

  Kath glares at him.

  “What?” he says in his defense. “Being busy is good, right? It will give people something to do. Keep them occupied.”

  The President says, “Well, it’s a bit too much like tinfoil hats for me, but yes, I can see things like this working. It’ll give people an outlet for their energy. Jim’s right. Keep them busy and they won’t panic.”

  Kath says, “We should continue preparing for peaceful contact. I know. I know. We’re at war and all that, but we should follow the advice of the UN First C
ontact Commission. We should try to make peaceful contact in orbit. If not there, then in the three locations identified as potential landing sites—the Sahara, the Mojave desert, and the Mongolian Steppes. If you want to drive down fear, you can do that by emphasizing contact in places that have low habitability, well away from cities.”

  The President is quiet.

  Kath continues with, “When people get scared, they internalize their fear. It becomes personal. We need them to frame things in a controlled manner—at arm’s length from themselves. If I think an alien warship is going to fly over my home, I’ll freak out. But if it’s happening somewhere over there—wherever there is—I’m going to feel a lot more comfortable.”

  McGuire says, “Good. Okay, so we’ve got some practical alternatives to suck the oxygen out of this fire.”

  “I like it,” the President says. “Distracting people is good. It allows us to get things done.”

  “And arm ourselves to the teeth,” the Secretary of Defense says.

  Kath hangs her head.

  Nolan, though, is enthusiastic.

  There’s nothing the military likes more than a plan.

  Helicopter

  Jorge rummages through the First Responder’s kit. Maria has stocked the pack with extra-strength painkillers, but it’s the appearance of the backpack itself that provides the most comfort. Seeing it unfold along with rows of neatly packed bandages and medical scissors, large tweezers, vials of saline solution, and ointment gives the kids hope.

  Maria would be proud. Even though he barely knows what he’s doing, Jorge dons a pair of blue, disposable plastic gloves. He looks like a professional. This gives him an air of authenticity that helps calm the children. Veronica is his assistant. She tends to his every whim as he kneels in the dust. She finds various items when it feels as though his weary eyes are betraying him. Tomato stakes from the garden become splints. By the time Jorge’s finished with Padre Jesus and the injured children, the antibiotic cream and compression bandages are gone. Torn plastic packaging lies strewn across the ground.

  One of the older children salvages a few blankets and pillows from the wreckage of the orphanage. He gathers the kids together under the tree and helps them settle.

  Jorge wraps a blanket over Padre Jesus, keeping him warm against the night. He crushes painkillers, crumbling them into the padre’s mouth, but he doesn’t have any water he can give him.

  “Thank you, my friend,” the padre says as Jorge finishes tending to his wounds.

  Jorge is exhausted. Each blink of his eyes seems to take progressively longer. He leans on the backpack for a moment, resting his eyelids for a second.

  Tiny hands shake him.

  Sunlight blinds him.

  “Wake up,” Veronica says, grabbing at his arm as it rests across his chest.

  It’s dawn.

  A helicopter flies low over the ruins of Vera Cruz. Jorge gets up, fighting his weary muscles. Several of the kids are standing on the hillside in front of the decimated orphanage. They wave their arms, swinging them back and forth, but the distant pilot doesn’t see them.

  “We need a mirror,” Jorge says, walking over to the collapsed walls of the main building. Veronica never strays more than a few feet from him as he climbs up on the broken roof tiles and support beams.

  “There,” she says, pointing. Shattered glass surrounds the upturned remains of a ceramic bathroom basin.

  “Careful,” Jorge says, picking up a piece of broken drywall and tossing it aside. “Don’t cut your fingers.”

  Veronica crouches, which is something he finds difficult. Jorge bends from his waist, looking among the debris. Slowly, Veronica pulls at a piece of mirror the size of a book, edging it out of the rubble and handing it to him.

  They make their way back to the driveway, picking their way over the ruins. Jorge begins signaling with the mirror. He holds it so the silver surface catches the sun rising above the horizon. It’s guesswork, but Jorge directs the reflection at the helicopter. His movements are coarse as he’s playing with the angle, trying to cover as much area as he can. He can only hope a glint of light catches the eyes of the pilot. After a minute, the helicopter suddenly soars high in the air. It races up to an altitude of several thousand feet before turning toward them.

  Veronica knows. She begins jumping, waving her hands. Jorge flashes the mirror a few more times. The helicopter faces directly at them, accelerating toward the hillside. The kids cheer. Jorge rushes over to Padre Jesus.

  “They’re coming,” he says, pointing. The padre forces a smile, but he can’t speak. He’s in a horrific amount of pain.

  An army helicopter circles the ruins, flying around the hill before picking a landing spot. The skids touch down at the point the gravel driveway meets the road. Several soldiers get out. With heads down, they run in toward them, carrying packs with a red cross set on a white background.

  The rotor blades wind down but don’t stop. They slow to a leisurely pace, turning once every few seconds.

  The lead soldier runs up to Jorge, but he’s not Mexican. The flag on his shoulder is comprised of three horizontal bands—yellow, blue, and red.

  “How many of you are there?” the soldier asks, trying to conduct a headcount on the kids as they bounce around, excited at being rescued.

  “Two adults. Twelve children.”

  Veronica tugs on Jorge’s trouser leg, and he corrects himself.

  “Thirteen.”

  “Where have you come from?” Jorge asks, noticing the same flag on the side of the helicopter.

  “Ecuador. We’re part of the humanitarian search and rescue mission. We came up early this morning in the back of a C130.”

  Already, one of the medics is tending to Padre Jesus. Another examines the children with splints and slings. The loadmaster brings a stretcher over, laying it next to Padre Jesus.

  The lead soldier says, “Okay. We’re going to take you to a field hospital further up the coast in Xalapa.”

  “No, no,” Jorge says. “We need to go inland. My daughter. She’s an emergency nurse. She evacuated to Cordoba.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Maria Rosa Ramírez.”

  “Okay, let me talk to command. Come on, let’s get you on board.”

  Jorge rounds up the kids. At first, he’s worried they might be afraid of climbing onto a helicopter, but they’re thrilled. Even those that are injured get caught up in the excitement. Padre Jesus is carried on a stretcher. The loadmaster positions him at the back of the helicopter. The children are seated on the floor of the cargo hold.

  The pilot prepares to take off. The loadmaster closes both doors. He stands, holding onto a handle near the ceiling. Jorge joins him. Veronica is irrepressible. She kneels on the bench seat separating the cockpit from the hold, chatting with the pilot.

  “I saw the alien.”

  The pilot isn’t sure what to make of that comment. He replies, “Ah, huh,” turning and looking sideways at her cheerful smile. To be fair, Jorge’s not sure what the hell he saw either. Veronica bubbles with excitement.

  “It breathes fire like a dragon!”

  Jorge reaches out and gently pats her shoulder. Veronica takes his hand and sits down, ready for flight, squeezing his fingers. The rotors wind up to speed and the helicopter lifts smoothly into the sky, leaving the ground far behind.

  From the air, the devastation is heartbreaking. The wave washed inland for miles, swamping homes, buildings, bridges, and farms.

  Although the water has receded, debris lies scattered across the countryside. The beachfront is gone. It’s not merely that the pier and his house have been swept away. The shoreline itself has shifted over a hundred yards inland. Sunken rooftops are visible beneath the waves. The bridge Jorge drove over marks the start of the new beach. The creek running under the bridge is easily three times the size it was last night. One end of the concrete bridge has collapsed. Everything Jorge’s ever known is gone, having slipped beneath the ocean.
His life has disappeared into the Gulf of Mexico, but not Maria, not Padre Jesus, not young Veronica. As much as it hurts to see his livelihood destroyed, he’s still got his family and friends.

  The helicopter flies over the ruins of the slums.

  Telephone poles and trees lie strewn along muddy roads. Roofs have become detached from dwellings, allowing Jorge to see inside hundreds of decimated homes. Occasionally, a roof is visible in a crop field or on the side of a railway bridge. Boats appear randomly in the middle of an otherwise pristine forest or perched on the medium strip of a freeway. Upturned cars littered the roads. There are bodies, but from this height, they look like rag dolls. Jorge doubts the children peering out at their devastated homeland realize what they’re looking at. They seem more in awe of the helicopter than the heartache below.

  The flight time to Cordoba is just a matter of minutes. A makeshift shantytown has popped up outside the city, about ten miles beyond the reach of the wave. The helicopter descends toward a field hospital. A large Red Cross dominates the canvas on the roof of the main tent. A helipad has been marked out with stones weighing down strips of fabric, giving the pilot a designated landing area.

  A medical team awaits the chopper. They stand on the edge of the field with a couple of hospital gurneys. It’s not until the helicopter lands and the engine winds down that Jorge sees Maria rushing in toward him. He hops down from the helicopter and onto the muddy grass, helping lower each of the children to the ground. Nurses lead them away. It’s no surprise that Veronica is the last one to leave the chopper. Rather than jumping down like the others, she grabs hold of Jorge’s neck and swings into his arms.

  Maria comes up to him, yelling over the whine of the engines.

  “Oh, Papa. You had me so worried. I thought I’d lost you.”

  “This one,” Jorge says, smiling as he looks at Veronica. “She’s a wild one like you. She took good care of me.”

  Maria smiles, leaning in and kissing him on the rough stubble that’s formed on his cheeks.

  NATO

  Three days have passed since An̆duru buzzed the Gulf of Mexico.