by Mark Kraver
Yahweh, with a wave of his hand, manipulated a floating sphere on his instrument panel that tapped into the frequency of the hominin’s communication device and began transmitting.
The sapient lifted the device to his ear and opened a channel. The device squelched loudly, making him jerk the phone away in agony. Yahweh waited until the pigmented hominin put the phone back to his ear and adjusted the amplitude. Then he said the first thing he thought of; it was a request for what they should not do.
“Kill.”
This time Goodheart heard the voice clearly. “What?” he demanded back into the phone. “Is this a joke? This is a private government line and we will track you down and throw you in jail if you don’t get off the line.” Goodheart looked around the room. “Somebody’s got some balls.”
Yahweh recorded his response and tried to analyze it. Joke? Oh, I see, amusement. This is amusing? Balls? He looked at the sphere on his control panel and was unsure.
Logan’s blood boiled, and her face had turned red at the brush off. But her instincts told her this FBI asshole was out of his element and could play to her advantage. She approached the artifacts with caution, noting their size and shape and the jagged structures on either side of the larger oblong artifact. She could see how they could have fit together at one time. She reached a hand toward the surface as a voice whispered in her ear: “Spaceship.”
“Do you know what it is?” she asked Goodheart.
“If you let us do our job, we should be able to tell you in a couple of days,” he said.
“I’ll tell you what I think it is,” she said, in a loud voice to attract as much attention as possible. “It’s a spaceship.”
Goodheart burst into laughter, “And I suppose we’ll find little green men inside?”
She looked around the hangar at the other agents and technical workers who were watching her. “Maybe. Does it matter what color they are?” The innuendo was acute, and Goodheart frowned.
“You may think this is your baby,” she continued, “or an FBI case to be hidden from the naive public, like some modern-day Roswell. But unlike Area Fifty-One, this is real and only one part of the picture. My colleagues and I decided to investigate this site first because it was convenient.” She stood up straighter as she improvised, trying to look confident enough not to get kicked out of the place.
“What do you mean ‘first’?”
“Oh, I believe I have your attention,” she said in a patronizing voice, trying to think of more intelligent-sounding information that would interest him. “This is one of three sites that I—my team—found. I don’t know if the other sites will be as productive, but time will tell.”
“Where are these other sites?” he asked.
“Sorry. That is on a need-to-know basis, and I can’t for the life of me see why you need to know,” she said with her crooked little smile. “Now can we get down to business?”
Yahweh had been compiling data on the people of this planet and was developing a working knowledge of their rudimentary communication skills. He had answered many of his pressing questions, such as how long he had been hibernating and his location, but he could not figure out where Numen was or why he was alone. He triggered Numen’s recall transponder at the loudest frequency, and amplitude possible, and was still unable to locate him.
On the display monitor, Yahweh witnessed everything that had transpired since his uncovering. He wanted to communicate with the leader, but he hadn’t figured out how to do it effectively. He was in no hurry as long as they behaved in a benign fashion.
Then he noticed a group pushing an unfamiliar device to the edge of his ship. What could it be? The powerful diamond-tipped drill started to spin.
“Flaps,” exclaimed Yahweh in horror. “They’re trying to drill me full of holes. What do I do now?” He ran his hands over his control panel, and then watched his display for the results.
When the cutting bit engaged the hard exterior of the ship, it danced across the surface. For an instant, the bit caught, shaving off the first little slivers. Then, with the sound of crackling aluminum foil, the wall of the artifact began to dissolve with enlarging pinholes.
“Shit,” yelled the tech, falling back and knocking over the portable drill press.
All eyes went to the ship. Everybody in the room gasped in unison as the side of the larger object evaporated into an open hole, revealing a wide passage. Logan and Goodheart stood completely still, mesmerized by what had become a clear view of the ship’s inner structure.
Yahweh adjusted a few controls with a wave of his hand, and then turned to look at the astonished hominin’s faces. For a moment, their gazes met, and he felt every bit of their surprise telepathically. Then he jerked his head back to his panel and, waving his hand over the controls, rematerialized the wall of the craft as quickly as it had vanished.
Logan and Goodheart looked at each other in stunned silence. This was the most extraordinary event in the history of modern humanity. They had seen a legitimate, honest-to-God space alien—not some trumped-up spoof and not a quasi-real story like Roswell. This was the real thing.
Logan strained to look for the former opening, but instead saw only its smooth outer surface. The drill technician scrambled to his feet and bolted out the nearest exit, leaving his tool on the ground. Others left the building or took cover. A few officers drew their handguns or rifles and aimed them at the ship. Goodheart was petrified, but if the scientist bitch wasn’t moving, he wasn’t either.
After a few seconds, he whispered to Logan, “I guess you were right.”
She answered, barely moving her lips. “About what?”
“It don’t matter what color it is.”
She nodded and began to move around the ship.
“What are you doing?” he asked, petrified.
“I’m looking for another opening,” she answered.
“What?” Damn crazy scientist, he thought. She ought to be running for her life, not trying to poke at the thing. At least if she ran, he wouldn’t look like such a sissy when he followed.
Yahweh watched their reactions, and thought it was a good time to communicate again. He decided that the two people who hadn’t retreated were the leaders. Noticing the structure housing of his ship was a metallic shell fixed over a similar metallic substructure, he could use the thin walls of the shelter to vibrate the gases of the atmosphere and generate sonic tones. This way, he could talk to all within earshot. After making the appropriate adjustments, he put his theory into practice by saying again, “Kill.”
The sound crashed through the air like a sonic boom, blowing out some side panels on the aging airplane hangar as if a bomb had gone off.
“Good God, what was that?” shouted Goodheart, covering his ears.
Logan covered her ears, shut her eyes tight, and knelt on the ground. She was shaking her shoulders and head as if a lightning bolt had almost struck her.
Another blast hit the hangar, this time with less power. “Please kill.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Goodheart whispered.
Then a softer, slightly revised message reverberated through the building. “Not please kill.”
Commandos rushed into the hangar from every point of entry and surrounded the ship with firepower, pulling the FBI agent and Dr. Logan to safety behind crates of equipment.
Logan shouted, “No, it is friendly! Stop!”
The commandos ignored her, pushing her out the door and into an armored personnel carrier outside the hangar doors.
“Where the hell did you come from? What are you doing? Who is in charge? It is friendly,” she shouted, as she was stuffed into an army personnel carrier.
Inside the vehicle, she looked around and noticed monitors on every wall. She hadn’t known she was being observed. “When did you guys get here?”
After a few seconds, one of the military personnel turned from his monitors and asked, “How do you know?”
“How do I know what?” she
stammered, overwhelmed by all the surveillance equipment crammed into the tiny space.
“How do you know it is friendly?”
“I just know,” she answered. “And I saw its face. He was not dangerous. Plus, you heard that last message. It was correcting itself.”
“Well, I’m friendly, too, but...” he smiled and touched his revolver. “I would not hesitate a second to shoot you in the head if I felt my life was threatened.”
“I see your point,” she frowned.
“Colonel Solomon, military intelligence assisting Space Command,” he said, looking back at his monitors.
“What’s your next move, Colonel, military intelligence?” she asked.
“I don’t know. What exactly did you see?”
After a moment of reflection, she said, “Nothing much, just an extraterrestrial sitting inside his very advanced spaceship that could destroy everything in sight. You know, the same alien that is surrounded by a bunch of cowboys with pop guns.”
“I see your point. What do you suggest?” asked the colonel.
“I don’t know,” she conceded. “Maybe we can try to communicate with him—uh, it—again.”
“Good idea. How?”
“Well, it didn’t want us to drill into its ship, so let’s try to drill it again to see if the door will open again. Then when we see him, it, we can try to talk to it—him,” she said, confused how to address an alien.
“Okay, let the doctor out,” the colonel ordered.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Logan protested, feeling hesitant. She had been searching for this kind of thing her entire life, but it had always been just an idea. Now, a live being was actually inside the artifact. She had seen its face. “Don’t you have Rambo or He-man for a job like this? I mean, are you tough guys letting little ole’ defenseless me do your dirty work?”
“Let me put it this way,” explained the colonel. “Either little ole’ you, the level-headed rocket scientist, becomes the first human to speak with someone from another planet, or one of my Rambo/He-man hybrids does the job. Which would you prefer?”
“I see your point. You’re on a roll,” she agreed.
Logan slipped out of the armored command post, straightened her blouse and re-tied her hooded sweater around her hips. One of the commandos fitted her head with a communication wireless, so she could hear what other military personnel were doing around her.
“Check, check. Dr. Logan, do you read?” said Colonel Solomon over the headset.
“I hear you, uh, Roger Wilco. I’m entering now,” she answered, hand cupped to her ear, nervously smiling to all the armored military personnel she moved past.
“That’s a Roger. Be careful doctor,” Colonel Solomon confirmed.
“No shit,” she whispered under her breath.
She walked through the door to the hangar, looked at the Rambo/He-man commandos positioned around the spaceship and froze. The gravity of the situation hit her when she noticed rifles and a thing that looked like a bazooka were all aimed at the ship.
“Do you think it is a good idea to have so many guns pointed at me—uh, the ship?” she asked.
“Concerned about your safety, ma’am,” Solomon responded.
“Right.”
She walked by a table covered with scattered coffee cups and picked up a paper napkin. She unfolded it and held the napkin out in front of her as she walked toward the toppled-over drill press next to the alien ship.
Yahweh had been following their responses. He wasn’t surprised at their primitive display of firepower, but he was rather surprised when one of their weaker-looking leaders, a female, returned carrying the universal sign of peace. Maybe he had communicated his intentions. Maybe they were evolved enough to help him repair his ship and rescue El and Ra after all.
His hopes were dashed when he saw the white flag-carrying leader struggling to upright the drill press and position it close to his ship’s hull.
She waved the napkin over her head. When she started the drill press and moved it to almost touch the ship’s hull, a sonic BOOM hit the hangar with a bright blinding flash of light. The glowing brilliance burned her eyes and appeared to float right through the hangar’s walls and into the building.
It stopped in front of the ship and began to take shape. Before their eyes, it was transforming into a lady in a long white robe and cloth-covered head.
“Mother Mary,” one of the commandos exclaimed before lowering his weapon in disbelief.
“Are you getting this?” Logan whispered.
“Roger that. What do you make of it? Over,” the colonel asked.
“Sure looks like the Virgin Mary to me, but I’m no expert. I haven’t been to church since…”
“Move back from the ship,” she heard inside her head.
“Did someone say move back?” she asked stepping backwards.
“I didn’t hear that,” the colonel responded.
Then it came to her. It was the voice she heard when she talked to God.
“God?” she asked aloud, shielding her eyes from the brightly lit apparition. She bumped into the drill press causing sparks to fly against the ship. The glowing vision of the Virgin Mary swooped over her head, picked up the drill press and threw it into the hangar wall. The concussive wave knocked Logan to the floor.
In her earpiece, she heard a commando yell, “She’s down, she’s down, open fire!”
Before Logan could respond, the airplane hangar exploded with automatic gunfire and several larger explosions, all aimed at the figure hovering over her. Thousands of bullets pelted the object, bouncing off the ship’s hull and escaping through the hangar’s thin metal roof.
“Hold your fire, hold your fire,” Solomon cried over his headset, but when the smoke cleared, Logan and the Virgin Mary were gone.
Chapter 21
If the mountain won't come to Muhammad
then Muhammad must go to the mountain.
Francis Bacon, 1561-1626, Earth
Library of Souls
Reunion
Numen, Yahweh transmitted to his errant seraph. It was the first time he’d done so in several millennia of hibernation. Numen de-configured his graviton emitters to cast-off the facade of the Virgin Mary and appeared to his master in his natural gold-metallic state. He bowed and knelt before his Lord to receive his wrath.
A sobbing sound from the corner of the ship distracted them both. Logan was on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest and seeing them as they were—a golden man and a golden hairless boy.
Yahweh looked at the terrified being in their cabin. “Introduce us,” he said to Numen telepathically. “Tell her who’s in charge.”
Numen nodded in obedience and turned to face the sapient human. Yahweh and Numen activated their graviton emitters to make Numen appear as an angel and Yahweh as an old man. When Numen spoke, his voice washed through her head like water.
“My name is Numen. Seraph to my Lord, Yahweh. I will speak to you until my master becomes accustomed to your syntax and dialects. He will speak through me. Do not be alarmed. Direct your conversation to his person,” Numen nodded to his master, who looked a lot older than before, but still bald.
Yahweh began to speak through Numen. “I hail your pardon. I am Yahweh. You are—” Numen paused as Yahweh placed his fist on his right breast and bowed.
Numen accessed his data banks and flooded his master’s mind with her history.
“Stop.” Yahweh commanded, holding up his hand. “Let her tell me.”
Yahweh was pleased that she had stopped crying, but he felt the confusion emanating from her mind.
“Logan,” she said timidly. “Uh, Kit. I mean. Katherine Logan. Where’s the boy?”
“I’m sure there are questions you want to ask. We mean you and your people no harm.”
“Where did you come from?” she cried. “Where did the Virgin Mary go? That was Mary, wasn’t it? Am I losing my mind?”
Numen recognized her confusion and said, telepathically
, “Master, we should cast-off our facade and show her who we really are.”
“You think that is a good idea?”
“Unfortunately, I have had some experience with this matter in the past,” he said deactivating his graviton emitters and became his golden self, again.
Yahweh nodded with approval, disengaging his graviton emitter too.
“We are from far away,” Numen said, trying to address her questions.
“No shit,” she said.
Numen hesitated to translate, then looked at Yahweh. “I believe that is slang for fecal material.” Both aliens paused, perplexed, and looked around on the ship’s floor and then at Yahweh’s leg pouches.
“Did you say your name is Yahweh?” Logan asked.
“Yes,” Numen answered, still in interpreter mode. “My companion took on Mary’s appearance. He can be clever, but other times, well...” Numen stopped and frowned.
“Why were you buried here?” she asked.
“Long story. One you must all know eventually. I want to tell it only once. How can that best happen, Katherine Logan?” Numen said, in interpretation mode.
“Please, call me Kit. Or just Logan. I like Logan. My mother called me Katherine when I was in trouble. Oh, God, I hope I’m not in trouble now.”
“Logan, how may we communicate with your people?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Maybe by a press conference?”
Yahweh turned to Numen. “What is a press conference?”
Numen recited from his quantum molecular data banks: “A form of communication used to inform and persuade the masses. It can be recorded and replayed to those who did not hear the message the first time, and it may be replayed any number of times thereafter.”
“Yes, good idea. How do I make a press conference?” Yahweh asked. Numen chose not to correct his master’s syntax.
“For a story like this, they’ll come to you. Didn’t you see the media circus out there?” Logan laughed before becoming serious again. “What about them?” She pointed to the strange-looking ship’s monitors showing soldiers posted at every exit.
