Jeff Abel was either late or the calculation was off. Or perhaps the human was here somewhere. Humans weren't small enough to hide in this terrain, were they? They possessed no shape-shifting abilities according to the cyclopedia. Their scent profiles were easily identifiable, especially the ones that ate animal proteins.
The Commander activated the ship's scanners. Large blinding white lights shot out in every direction, painting scrub and sand in brilliance and shadow. The computer tagged and labeled a hare as it shot out from one bush. Small mammalian herbivore, not a member of the dominant contact species from this world. The Grey touched the screen so the animal, now identified, would be ignored. Next came a snake, a lizard, another hare. Once identified, all of these were also disregarded. No Jeff Abel among them. The timer ran a second string of numbers from the missed contact event: two minutes and rising. Maybe he would arrive shortly. The Commander kept calm, aware of the crew's full attention. Move forward or go back home and reassess?
It considered the minimized screen with the probability calculations. It swiped a finger. “Collating,” a computer voice said. A green eye appeared on the screen and stared at him. “Contact probability 100%.”
“Excellent,” the Commander said. It ignored the rest of the screen with all the fussy numbers and charts. Time to go. “Whatever the problem might have been has passed. Time to meet Jeff Abel.”
“Agreed, Commander,” came the reply from the part of the crew not in isolation bubbles.
If they didn't make contact, if they blew it, another species would be chosen to contact the humans, picking up appropriate bragging rights and Galactic Commons swagger along the way. The window for this operation was limited. Failure inconceivable. And now they’ve regained 100% probability despite the delay. Plus, some of the ship's equipment had been rented and was a bit pricey.
The Commander landed the ship. A broader scan for biological signs spotted something man-sized, not far off and to the north. It wasn't moving. Maybe something in the sensor reading was amiss, but no matter. Some of their equipment was past the warranty date. The earlier 1% percent difference could be chalked up to an old connector or a driver that needed an update.
The silenced brood fellow in the isolation bubble might have reminded the Commander that one number being off in a probability calculation could spark a chain of similar errors, just like when one of their kind rolled over onto its side on the nest cushion and nudged its neighbor, each sleeper adjusting until finally one at the end might indeed roll off and spoil a perfect rest cycle. It also would have mentioned that the probability computer wouldn't normally change its mind on their chances without some kind of input. But that Grey was silent, stuck under a bubble, and breathing rank air to shut it up.
In the command compartment the Grey killed the ship's exterior lights. With the flip of a switch, a hatch dropped open and a ramp lowered to the ground. The Grey stepped out into the cool night, filled its small lungs, and interpreted the signals in the air with the help of an imbedded app programmed with Earth's flora and fauna. A variety of sensations flooded over the Grey. The scant trees on this side of the mountain range were dropping their pollen. A coyote bitch was in heat. Nearby lay a clutch of snake eggs. Other creatures and plants, even in this dry landscape, germinated, farted, and shed dander. But there, as distinctive as a thick chain of reeking algae floating atop a pond, especially the delicious blue-yellow stuff only found on its native subcontinent, the Grey smelled a man.
The ship behind the Commander hung on nothing, a dark sphere of black against the starry sky. The Commander tapped a sub-dermal remote, and the hatch closed. It walked away from its ship and across the sand, cool and coarse on its bare feet. The way was not as flat as it had looked from the sky, so it clambered up a graveled shoulder and onto the asphalt. This made for easier walking. The faded lines marking the shoulder provided an easy path to follow. There, just past a rise in the road, Jeff Abel waited for the honor of first contact, a greeting into the fold, a guest pass as ambassador to the Galactic Commons, and a personal blast of scent from a member of the Happy Alien Welcome Committee.
Pheromones of trepidation from the other crewmembers still inside the sphere wafted from his communicator. Some of the other brood mates were nervous. Should the Commander be so far from the ship?
“Stay at your posts,” the Grey puffed. “I will succeed and welcome-”
From the direction where the Grey expected to meet Jeff Abel came a shimmer in the darkness and a single golden light. The light weaved, sometimes on the center of the road, sometimes not. The Commander grabbed at its belt and activated the welcome beacon. The beacon opened up like a fountain of illumination. Bright light washed over the Grey, highlighting its smooth skin in flattering tones. By the beacon's design, any functioning sensory organ would pick up on emotions of peace and love and kinship from the one that held the gadget. Pheromones pumped into the night, signaling familial warmth. And a small drone painted words in the air that read, “We Are Your Friends!!” in the appropriate languages for this area of the planet.
Much debate had gone into the phrasing and translation of those words. Most suggestions, upon research, proved to be vague, inviting an attack based on mutual consumption or, possibly worse, inviting erotic entanglements. These suggestions were discarded. But the message the Happy Alien Welcome Committee had settled upon was perfect.
The light got closer, the one cone of illumination in the approaching lane vibrating and getting larger. The Grey stood well on the shoulder, smiling as best as its lipless maw could manage. Only a second before impact did it realize that the approaching vehicle had one headlight out and was straddling the shoulder line.
The front of the old park department service truck struck the Grey full on, sending up a final puff of exclamation into the night. The signal from its belt vanished, a tire crushing the beacon.
The driver of the truck leaned up from underneath the dash, victoriously producing both the no-longer-free-rolling last bottle of Mickey's beer and a long-lost Journey cassette, newly recovered from the trash on the floor of the cab, just in time to see a bit of the splat of the Grey and the vanishing traces of the welcome message. A strange feeling of peace washed over him along with a notion of familial warmth as the pheromone component of the welcome message worked its magic. It complimented his buzz perfectly.
“Huh,” he said before clicking the tape into the cassette player.
CHAPTER 3
JEFF ABEL HAD HIS THUMB OUT as the park department service truck blew past him on the highway. Jeff put the thumb down. He checked the road and exhaled, his breath just visible in the chilled night air. No one else came. He gave his own out-of-gas pickup truck a final glance. It sat off the shoulder on flat, dense sand, parked amongst tumbleweeds and scrub. This time, the broken gas gauge wasn't lying, and the drive to Masaya's place had been farther out than Jeff had expected. Masaya had been grateful for the lift, at least, and his kids grateful for a working computer once Jeff deleted the bloatware, spyware, and malware from the machine's hard drive. Not enough time for a full system wipe and an OS reinstall, but good enough. Jeff wouldn't have touched the machine but for Masaya's insistent begging. Throughout the hour of computer time, Jeff's sweat ran cold and his hands trembled. These days, ever since giving up programming and staying as disconnected as possible from the internet and his former world, Jeff couldn't even check email without having a panic attack. He hadn't calmed down until saying goodbye and getting twenty minutes alone, driving in silence.
Jeff walked back towards town.
For a moment it appeared as if another vehicle might be coming from the direction of the first truck. A brief spasm of light flashed in the sky, like a set of stadium lights had been flicked on and off. But nothing came. And with the single light of the truck now gone, the moon and the glow of the stars were his sole illumination.
Three hours later, he walked into a gas station mini mart. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the
last of his money. Two dollars and thirty-two cents. Not enough cash for a gallon of gas. Masaya's gratitude hadn't extended as far as any funds for fuel.
Two women sat behind the counter. The first wore an orange and turquoise tank top, a metric ton of electroplated jewelry, and a scowl. She glared at him. The second woman leaned back on an old office chair that bent under her weight. She was busy twisting a curl of glittery dark brown hair. She ignored Jeff, intent on a television framed by beef jerky and a display of energy pills. Jeff grabbed a Milky Way bar, put it back, and instead took a Payday. From one of the refrigerators, he took a bottle of water.
“Three dollars,” said the first woman. Her glare continued, but she had to shift a bit to look up as Jeff stood tall at the counter. Her tank top was a few sizes too small, the straps digging into her fleshy shoulders. Several faded, blurry tattoos on her arms bore feckless witness to loves lost and dreams unrealized. One read “Hawai” without the second “i.” Another read “Scooter” or “Skeeter,” some of the vowels now smudges, writ over a large heart. When she saw his off-kilter eye, her gaze shifted to the stubble on his chin.
The second woman sat behind the register and held out a hand for the money. She never made eye contact with Jeff. The TV showed some judge presiding over a juryless court. Quick cuts between arguing plaintiff and defendant, both as round as their lecterns were narrow. No one looked happy.
Jeff looked at the candy bar and the water. He considered the money in his hand. “Just the water.” He put the candy bar back.
The cashier didn't say anything.
“One of those nights,” Jeff said with a smile. The first woman took his money and handed it to the second. Jeff gestured with the water. “Thanks.”
The first woman now, too, was looking up at the TV. Jeff left.
He walked to the edge of the gas station's property. He pushed his mop of brown hair back from his face and took a sip. His throat was dry, and the water was good. He chugged half of the bottle's contents and looked out at the peach and copper lights of approaching day. Two wrecks from America's automotive past marked the border of the wild desert beyond. From somewhere, he heard one of Journey's shopworn wedding standards followed by the rumble of a truck.
A single light bounced into the gas station. It was the ranger service truck from earlier or an uncanny duplicate. It stopped. The driver got out, ignored Jeff, and ran into the station.
“Call CNN,” the driver yelled. “I just ran over E.T.”
Jeff peeked in the truck's bed. From under a tarp protruded a small, limp, grey hand.
***
Jeff saw the driver many times in the weeks to come, all in snippets on TV, interview after interview. Lindsey Sheldon, according to the captions, was now the man who made first contact, and his dead alien made him popular. Jeff never tuned in long enough to get the whole story. He was busy working, and he didn't talk to any of the other employees at the bar and grill long enough to get the spreading rumors about Mr. Sheldon and his find. Except Masaya.
“It's the real deal, man,” Masaya said. “Aliens. ‘Bout time someone bagged one, and the government didn't cover it up.”
It was another late night, and Masaya watched as Jeff did the final clean up.
Jeff paused for a moment and leaned on his mop.
“I'm not saying they don't exist,” Jeff said. “I couldn't prove they don't as proving a negative is impossible. But I believe what I see, and there's a sucker born every minute.”
“But you told me you saw the body yourself. Too smart to believe what's in front of your eyes?”
“One: keep that to yourself. And two: there's too many ways to fake things like this. Even a body. When this thing settles down, I'll form an opinion.”
“But the guys on the news say it's real.” Masaya flashed a smile.
“I don't watch the news.”
***
Business at the bar picked up with more pots for Jeff to wash. With the increase in business, the dining room became crowded. Jeff hated busing tables when the place was so full,and tried to stick to the pots and dishes in the back. Still no split on the tips from Stacy. At first the bump in patrons was from news crews from local Reno and Carson City areas and a few national reporters. The next wave of drinkers and diners was the tourists eager to see the contact site firsthand, hopeful for a glance of alien tech or even a burn circle where the ship must have landed. There was nothing legitimate to see, but the bar and grill made out well for the duration. Jeff worked on and worked extra.
A week later, Mr. Carlson called Jeff into the office at the start of the afternoon shift. He handed Jeff a check. Jeff looked it over. It was missing ten hours of his overtime, but included pay up through the previous evening.
“I have a witness that says you stole some beer from the walk-in,” Mr. Carlson said.
“I didn't steal anything,” Jeff said. “I don't drink. And I pay for anything I eat.”
Mr. Carlson shifted in his chair. A finger pushed a thin lick of hair off his forehead. He didn't look at Jeff. “I'm afraid I have to let you go.”
Jeff left the office. As he walked through the bar towards the exit, he saw Stacy leaning in the doorway to the dining room. She gave him a wink and smirked.
Jeff went to his rented trailer and packed. He got into his fully gassed-up pickup truck with the fuel gauge still on 'E' and drove away. An odd sense of relief washed over him as he drove off. He had other job offers in places with fewer crowds and no Stacies.
CHAPTER 4
THE NEWS OF THE GREYS' FAILURE spread to the Galactic Commons and had settled onto the members of the Happy Alien Welcome Committee like heartburn after a bad meal. The emergency meeting of the Committee was somber, the air around the long table in their meeting hall thick with the sorrowful scent of the surviving Greys from the failed mission. The other Committee members put up with the musty odor, eager to move the discussion along and make further plans for the contacting of Jeff Abel and the human race.
The chaircreature brought the crowd to order with the tap of a gavel. The Committee consulted the computer models. The green eye of their computer winked and showed its numbers.
“Contact can't fail,” the chaircreature said. “We need to pick another delegation to be sent to Earth.”
They voted. Committee members raised hands, paws, and tentacles. The chaircreature took a tally even though the vote was clearly unanimous.
The Trin would go, the group decided, with the senior female Trin personally volunteering. She was humanoid, large-eyed, and furry with a protruding black snout that marked her as a seasoned tuber rooter. She gave a sympathetic honk of her nose towards the depressed Greys, placed a floral-and-dirt scented soap bar by the portrait of the dead Grey commander, and left the chambers.
The halls of the Happy Alien Welcome Committee building echoed with the clamor from the meeting room. The Trin found one of the computer rooms and shut the door. She took a chair and pulled up the volumes of data on Earth and its fauna. She took a moment to review the candidate, chosen by the computer from among the one Earth race intelligent enough to warrant contact. Her nose wiggled. She cracked her knuckles. The humans as a biological entity didn't have fangs or claws or natural toxins. The display in front of her showed their biometrics: two arms, two legs, naked as newborn pups except for hair in the oddest places. And Jeff Abel? Ordinary, male, above average height, adequate but not exceptional intelligence judging by the surreptitious psych profile based on internet activity measured before the candidate went off the grid. And since he moved from his permanent dwelling and no longer had a mate, he could be contacted without unnecessary complications. How the Greys had failed to snag the human was beyond her. Never send a stinking gasbag to do the work of a true hunter.
She studied the calculation charts on when and where to contact Jeff Abel. To next find him alone and isolated, the projections showed a delay of several weeks. A direct approach was in order as two weeks had already passed since the
Greys' failed mission. She entered the parameters with a few flicks of her fingers and executed the calculation. The probability computer blinked a green eye and worked its computational magic, and voila! She had a place and a time and would not need to wait. Out in the corridor, she still heard the committee meeting going on without her. She left the building without a word and took a tram to the transportation terminals.
The Trin went down to her species' hangar. Three vehicles awaited her, locked in their berths. Her steps echoed on the hard, clean floor as she approached the ship already prepped for her mission. A pair of Trin techs stepped away from the ship. Both bowed, but neither spoke to her. The hatch to the ship opened automatically and silently as she got close.
Her interphase flight vehicle was a boxy ship with a small cabin, equipped with enough wings and fins on the fuselage to accommodate the medium atmosphere of Earth with its gravity and mild weather. Orange and green lights popped on, illuminating the cockpit and its dark oakish-trimmed interior. The Trin got comfortable on her pillowed flight seat, cracked a few furry knuckles, and checked her gauges. All of the flight controls functioned. Her computers forwarded an electronic “thumbs up” to her HUD. The two techs outside both gave a raised digit. The hatch closed.
Mechanical arms took her ship through a conveyor system to an elevator already set with Earth's coordinates. The doors to the elevator shut. The small room around her ship hummed to life as did her ship’s engines. Numerous messages blinked across her command screen from fellow Trin and Committee members, all wishing her success and luck. There was no sensation of movement. Seconds later, the elevator's bottom opened, dropping her ship into Earth's night sky above the Sierra Nevada foothills. The Trin vehicle purred and hovered on its own power. It stood still in the air, the Trin gauging her point of arrival on her flight screens. A bolt of lightning shot out horizontally from bruised clouds a mile away, caressed the hull of her ship, and was gone, the electric charge entering on one end of the ship and exiting on the other. The wind pushed and folded around the ship's boxy body but didn't disturb its hover.
A Beginner's Guide to Invading Earth Page 2
