Nolan’s barely slept, catching brief naps whenever he can. There’s just too much to get across. He’s not sure how long he can go on like this.
“Thank you for attending this virtual NATO meeting,” the President says. She’s seated within the Situation Room, talking to a camera, watching responses on a wall-mounted screen.
The President is flanked by the Secretary of Defense and Admiral Jacobsen, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Nolan is seated next to the admiral. The seat on the far side of SecDef is empty. It doesn’t go unnoticed by those on the video call. That seat could be for any member of the US Cabinet, but given Nolan’s been included, there’s a deeper meaning at play.
“Dr. McKenzie is not joining us?” the President of the French Republic asks.
“No,” the US President replies, drawing her lips tight. For a moment, it seems that’s all she’s going to offer but the strained silence demands more. “At this point, our focus is on political cohesion and military coordination, not scientific inquiry.”
It’s a brutal slap down. Nolan holds a steely gaze, but he’s fighting a lump rising in his throat. Kath knows about this meeting. She knows she wasn’t invited. He saw the anguish in her eyes as he left the Executive Office for the West Wing. It hurts, but she’s a loose cannon. The President cannot afford any more liabilities. The world needs certainty. Nolan understands that. It seems Kath accepts that too, although he’s sure it stings. As for him, he feels as though this conversation is missing depth, but he knows the President’s right. NATO’s nuclear forces have been crippled. Earth is defenseless.
“We need to talk about containment and cleanup,” Chancellor Müller says, highjacking the agenda. “There’s been torrential rain in the Rhineland, causing flooding in Büchel. We know this is hampering US efforts to deal with spilled nuclear material. You have to give us access to the base. We can help. We need to prevent leaks from contaminating the environment.”
The Secretary of Defense flicks through a pile of papers. “Ah, we have a NEST team onsite coordinating recovery.”
“It should not be like this.” Chancellor Müller taps the desk in front of him. “We should not have to escalate to the highest levels of the US government to get cooperation on a local matter.”
President Aston raises her hand, interrupting SecDef as she says, “Chancellor Müller is right. I know nuclear security is an imperative, but right now, we’re stretched so goddamn thin we have to make things happen. We can’t be a roadblock in the way of good, commonsense measures.”
“Exactly,” the Chancellor says.
The President addresses SecDef. “Give local commanders the latitude to involve NATO resources where it makes sense. We shouldn’t be slowing down recovery efforts.”
“Understood,” SecDef says, hurriedly scrawling notes.
“How concerned are you about forced nuclear disarmament?” the Spanish Prime Minister asks. That this question is coming from a non-nuclear country is telling. This is the question everyone’s thinking but no one’s asking.
“Very,” the President says, being careful with her words. “The US and Russia have the most to lose from disarmament, but this also impacts countries like France and China.”
She sips at a glass of water, barely taking anything to drink, using that motion to pause and gather her thoughts.
“Regional conflicts between nuclear powers have always been a concern for the United States. It doesn’t matter whether that’s Israel and Iran or Pakistan and India. But now, as far as the balance of power goes, it’s all about conventional forces. In the short term, at least, the nuclear arena is a level playing field.
“Our message is simple. Forget about regional squabbles. Help us with global security. I hope all nations will suspend their differences and focus on the greater threat—An̆duru. Call me naive, but perhaps beyond this, we can start thinking as a single species instead of ideological factions. Throwing these damn things at ourselves has always been a dumb idea.”
The Prime Minister of Belgium speaks with a distinct accent. The video call automatically enlarges his screen before them.
“I’m concerned about Russia. We’re detecting trace amounts of cesium-137 in the air. What does the US know? Has there been another Chernobyl?”
The US President breathes deeply, steeling herself. She speaks with cold deliberation, laying out the facts without embellishing.
“We’re monitoring multiple nuclear incidents in Russia and several of the former Soviet states. We suspect there were mobile nuclear launchers positioned in eastern Ukraine and Kazakhstan. Our satellites are showing uncontrolled fires at several nuclear power stations in the north of the country. We have offered what assistance we can but political cooperation with Moscow has ceased.”
No one dares breathe.
“Russia is blaming the US for the global disarmament. They’re saying we failed to act against An̆duru when we could. They’re going it alone. They’re withdrawing their mobile infantry and armored divisions from the border with Western Europe. Our intelligence says they’re preparing for what they see as the defense of Saint Petersburg and Moscow.”
Nolan’s got his hands out in front of him, clenched together on top of the table. White knuckles face the camera as the President continues.
“We do not agree with their assessment. We do not think the conflict with An̆duru will escalate into an invasion or a ground war. That is not our position.”
“What is your position?” the Prime Minister of Italy asks.
President Aston hesitates. Nolan cringes, unsure what she’s going to say. Ultimately, she’s the boss. This is her call. His job is to support her decision. As it is, he’s a stage prop in this conversation. Nothing is likely to be directed at him. He’s there to project the strength and confidence the US currently lacks.
“Our position is that Earth has been attacked.”
She pauses. No one else dares speak.
There’s no doubt each country on the call is recording this meeting. Analysts will pour over every inflection in the President’s voice, each word she utters, and even what she doesn’t say. If Nolan was working for any of these countries, he’d have a team of intelligence officers dissecting the meeting. He’d watch the facial features of every other world leader, wanting to understand their reaction to the US position.
It’s a given the President’s remarks will be leaked. He knows it. She knows it. They all know it. It’s just a question of to whom? News outlets are the most obvious point. Anonymous sources will speak off-the-record. From the President’s perspective, clarity is important. From here, the message is only going to become ever more muddied.
“What we know is the attack was limited in scope. It was targeted against our nuclear arsenal, but it is important to keep this in context. No attack was made on any specific population center. No attack was undertaken on our industrial capability or food production. This was not a knock-out punch—even within Central America and the American Southwest, where there has been considerable loss of life and a significant impact on the electrical grid. The damage we’ve suffered was a secondary effect rather than a primary target. In military parlance, collateral damage.
“Based on this, it is the position of the United States that An̆duru is not launching an all-out war against Earth.”
Nolan breathes deeply, flexing his fingers.
The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom asks, “Then what is its goal?”
“At this point, we do not know,” the President replies. “But we can rule out some possibilities. If the occupants of An̆duru wanted to destroy us, they could have—just a few days ago.”
Nolan squirms in his seat at that sobering thought.
The President says, “The United States is shifting its production capabilities. Our goal is to survive a protracted engagement with An̆duru.”
“A military engagement?” the French President asks, seeking clarification.
“It’s a possibility, but
our focus is on civilian resources. We need to prepare for any disruption in the production and distribution of food, water, and medicine. Now is the time to form strategic stockpiles. Whatever happens, civil unrest will only make the situation worse.”
“And?” the French President asks, apparently sensing something more.
“We will continue to pursue peaceful, scientific contact with the alien vessel. Our preference is to avoid conflict. Our hope is that clear communication can avoid misunderstandings.”
Several of the NATO members talk with their advisors on mute.
“What about China?” the French President asks.
President Aston pauses a little too long for Nolan’s liking.
“China is—being helpful. We all need to come together. Right now, we need to establish a zone-defense plan on a global basis. If An̆duru continues hostilities, we need to be ready to come to each other’s aid. China, Indonesia, and India have agreed to work together in Asia. Africa worries me. It’s so vast. We have so little coverage. Then there’s the Pacific, the Indian Ocean, and the Antarctic—these regions are indefensible. As much as we need to prepare for war, our hope is for peace.”
Ideas
“You all made it!” Kath says through the thin microphone wrapping around the side of her face. She’s seated at her desk in the Executive Building across from the White House. As much as she can, she puts on a brave face. Being cut out of discussions in the Situation Room hurts. All she can do is focus on the science. Her video conference call spans some of the most unusual places on Earth.
From the top left of the screen, Kath examines each view.
Dr. Jessie Chambers from the Astronomical League is sitting on a pitched roof in rural Ohio. Behind her, cornfields sway with the breeze. Asphalt shingles line the roof. A bird sits on a satellite dish behind her. Blue cloudless skies stretch forever.
“How’s the Midwest?” Kath asks.
“We still don’t have any mains power,” Jessie replies. “Our solar inverter blew, but I’ve rewired a few of the panels and can scrape together about 30 watts. Not enough cabling to reach inside, so I’m perched on the roof.”
Kath smiles. “And you, Sara?”
Sara Hendi usually broadcasts from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s main office in Pasadena. Today, she’s sitting in what could be a garage anywhere in Los Angeles were it not for the ungainly sight behind her. The steel roller door is open, allowing light to flood the floor. Rather than a muscle car or some electric hybrid, she’s sitting beside a Mars rover. It’s not a mockup. It’s a fully-functional clone used for testing on Earth. Wire bundles wind their way over the pristine white chassis. A camera sits idle on a thick mast rising from the main deck, pointing down at her. Six metal wheels keep the vehicle well off the ground, giving it a clearance of almost four feet.
“I’m in the Mars Yard,” Sara says. “It’s the only place with any power. Excuse the mess.”
Kath laughs. It’s forced. Fake. But right now, it’s all she’s got. In the background, she can see a Sojourner. It looks as though someone took a shrink ray to one of the larger Perseverance or Curiosity rovers. These prototypes once drove around the fourth planet, paving the way for their bigger cousins. With the upper deck being an array of solar panels, the sojourner looks like a mechanical cockroach compared to its nuclear-powered brethren.
“How are you doing, José?” Kath asks. “It looks like Spring has come early.”
So far, everyone has been quite positive. Professor José Alvarez, though, looks panicked. Kath’s comment about Spring was more than an observation. She could see the distress on his face and was trying to offer some comfort.
“Not good,” he says, although why isn’t immediately clear. He’s sitting in a picnic area in Switzerland. Behind him, a field full of dandelions and daisies lead down to a forest of fir trees. Beyond them lies a pristine, blue lake flanked by a mountain range. Snow clings to the peaks.
“People are freaking out,” José says. “We’ve had rioting. Looting. This is not like the Swiss. I had to get out of the city.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kath says, lowering her head. “I really am.”
There’s nothing she can do. She could enquire further, but she needs to keep the conversation focused. José knows. He doesn’t elaborate. They all know. They’ve all seen something similar in their own cities, everyone except Pete Conrad at the ALMA observatory in the Atacama Desert. Down there, there’s no one to riot.
“How are you, Pete?”
Like Jessie and José, Pete’s outside, only it looks as though he’s on another planet. Beyond the white radio telescope dishes dotting the barren plain, there’s no sign of life. Were it not for the bright blue sky, he could be on Mars. Boulders lie scattered across the ground. Behind him, a rocky mountain range stretches into the distance.
Comparisons with Mars aren’t superficial. With less than a millimeter of rain most years, the Atacama is fifty times drier than Death Valley. It’s been like that for almost forty million years.
Pete Conrad has never been called Peter—not even on his birth certificate. Being scientists, his parents named him Charles but called him Pete in honor of the Apollo 12 astronaut Pete Conrad. Being the third person to walk on the Moon, that Pete was the first to be forgotten. Not by everyone, but by the public. This Pete’s parents are distant cousins of the actual Pete Conrad. They couldn’t hide their sense of pride in their family’s accomplishment. As for radio astronomer Pete Conrad, he’d love to walk on the Moon like his great uncle. For now, the magnificent desolation that is the Atacama Desert will suffice.
Pete starts talking, but there’s no audio. Although it’s summer in the southern hemisphere, it’s bitterly cold in the high altitude desert. Pete’s wearing a thick winter jacket with the hood up. The faux fur surrounding his face is blown sideways by the wind. Pete’s wearing a headset with a tiny microphone reaching around by his lips.
“We can’t hear you,” Kath says.
“Is that better?” he asks as the wind howls past. “Sorry, I’ll stay on mute to keep the noise down.”
“No power, huh?” Kath says.
“Oh, we’ve got plenty of power,” Pete says. He picks up his laptop and turns it sideways so the camera catches the image next to him. He’s sitting cross-legged on the rough stones. A cable snakes to a tiny, portable satellite dish pointing into the sky.
“No internet.” He replaces the laptop, adjusting the screen so it captures his face. “Had to piggyback off a commercial satellite. Latency is a bitch, but I’m here.”
Kath says, “Thank you all for joining this call. I know it isn’t easy.”
The wall of tiny screens has one blank panel. Someone has logged in anonymously. Their camera and microphone are disabled. The others must have noticed, but no one’s said anything so Kath says, “We’ve got a guest speaker with us today.”
“Oh, who?” Jesse asks. From the tone of her voice and excitement, it’s clear she thinks it’s someone in a position of authority, perhaps even the President.
Kath says, “Andy. Would you like to say hi?”
Andy Anderson activates his mic and camera. He’s unshaven, sitting in front of blackened wall screens in his garage studio.
Andy offers a wave but doesn’t say anything.
At the point Andy began broadcasting, Kath was careful to observe the facial features of her team. Their sense of surprise turns to disappointment. It’s not hard to see they don’t think he should be part of their virtual meeting.
“I’ve asked Andy to join us as we need his help.”
No one speaks. Yeah, she thinks, academics can cast shade without uttering a single word. Okay, then.
“Awkward, right?” Andy says before Kath can continue. “Yeah, it’s like that for me too. Ah, this is like attending confessional. I know you guys aren’t priests. You’re not going to offer me a few ‘Our Fathers’ and ‘Hail Marys’ to make everything better. And I don’t expect that. Seeing
An̆duru pass through our skies has changed a lot of things, and not just in the scientific realm. Some of us old farts have had to change our ways.”
The silence that greets Andy’s comments is painful. He hangs his head, looking away from the camera and raising one hand as he adds, “I just wanted to say, thank you.”
Again, there’s silence. Kath’s known the people on this call for over a decade. Although Andy may not realize it, she’s sure it’s nothing personal. They’re not the kind of people to hold a grudge. They’re probably still shell-shocked at the pace with which everything’s unfolding, including Andy’s change of heart. She tries to move the conversation along.
“You’ve all heard the President’s position, right?”
There are nods, but the team remain quiet. Kath understands. They’re scientists. They’ve had time to consider what’s happened over the past few days. Any response will be carefully measured.
She says, “Between the US, the Europeans, the Russians, and the Chinese, the consensus is we’ve been attacked.”
Kath’s not telling them anything they don’t already know.
“They think we’re at war with An̆duru. I disagree.”
She gets a few nods.
“I’ve invited Andy along because we have a PR problem. War is dominating the headlines. It’s all anyone’s talking about. We’ve seen too many goddamn awful Hollywood movies to believe anything else. People are expecting flying saucers and death rays. That’s not going to happen. You know that. I know that. But how do we convince others?”
Pete asks, “How can Andy help?”
His question is brutal but honest. Kath, though, doesn’t answer him.
“We’ve got to get better at combatting conspiracy theories.”
José asks, “You think the talk of war is a conspiracy?”
“It’s premature,” Kath says. “But war is all the media are focusing on. From there, it doesn’t take much to spiral into the latest conspiracy theory. We’ve got to balance the discussion—provide an alternative viewpoint. The last thing we need is people shooting at An̆duru.”
Wherever Seeds May Fall (First Contact) Page 25
