Xenophobia

by Peter Cawdron

  “Did I miss something?” Bower asked, sitting beside Jameson.

  The bodies were gone. There was no blood. If it weren’t for the holes where bullets had punctured the thin sheet metal on the side of the truck, she’d never have known there had been a firefight the night before. Villagers crashed trucks all the time, normally not this badly, but it was a common sight. This could have been any other day.

  “We routed the enemy around 0100.” Jameson was clinical in his description of what had happened the night before. “Fourteen combatants neutralized. We estimate the rebel strength at no more than forty.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” As the words left her lips she realized the assumption in her question, that it was only US troops that could feel pain. The enemy was depersonalized, as though they felt no more pain than a cow being led to slaughter. And yet she didn’t correct herself. He had to know what she meant. He had to agree.

  “We came through the fight with little more than scratches. Bosco’s radio, though, didn’t fare as well. It took some shrapnel from a fragmentation grenade.”

  Elvis was rummaging around under the hood of the rebel truck. Although Bower had seen him running wires back to the flatbed trailer, it never occurred to her to ask what he was doing. She assumed he was doing something to help Smithy, who had brought the other truck over and was trying to salvage parts.

  Elvis stood on the back of the damaged truck holding a microphone. A cable led down to an old metal speaker, the kind used on military parade grounds.

  “Bright light city gonna set my soul on fire,” resounded from the speaker. Bower was surprised by the resonance in his voice. Singing a cappella, without any accompaniment, Elvis sounded surprisingly good. His voice had a natural vibrato, wavering softly as he sang the Elvis Presley classic.

  “I’ve got a whole lot of money that’s ready to burn, so let those flames reach higher.”

  Bower laughed, he was getting the lyrics wrong, but that didn’t seem to bother him.

  Elvis was posing as he sang, with one arm out stretched and his legs shaking in time to some unheard beat.

  “There’s a hundred thousand pretty ugly women waiting out there, and they’re all living, but I don’t care.”

  “Goddamn it, Elvis,” yelled Jameson. “If you’re going to torture us, at least get the words right.”

  Smithy cried, “Get your ass down from there before someone shoots you.”

  “Before I shoot you,” Bosco added.

  “And I’m just a devil with a dollar to spare, so show me Las Vegas.”

  Smithy yanked the wires from the battery, killing the microphone.

  “Oh, not fair,” Elvis cried.

  “You stupid, dumb, hick, fuck farmer,” Smithy yelled, her hands set firmly on her hips. “What the hell are you trying to do, bring in every goddamn rebel for miles around?”

  “Hell no, he was scaring them off,” Bosco replied.

  Elvis laughed, dropping down off the truck and landing with a thud, his combat boots crunching on the ground.

  “Is he all right?” Kowalski asked softly, his head appearing between Jameson and Bower as he leaned forward from behind them. “Post-traumatic stress?”

  “Oh,” Bower replied. “I’d say this is a baseline normal response from Elvis.”

  “Yee-haw,” yelled Elvis, grabbing his hat and his sunglasses from the front of the truck. “Come on, Smithy, we need to get this show on the road. There are tour-dates to be kept. Fans to please. When are you gonna get me mobile?”

  “You're an idiot,” Smithy replied, laughing. Elvis didn't seem to mind.

  Kowalski headed back over to the patients. Jameson sat there grinning.

  “I don’t know how you guys do it,” Bower said. “I mean, I was terrified last night, but you can just switch this on and off at will.”

  “You get used to it,” Jameson replied. “But the team needs to blow off some steam from time to time. It’s healthy.”

  “As healthy as you can get in the midst of madness,” Bower added.

  Jameson never replied, and Bower knew she’d struck a raw nerve. There was only so much bravado one could hide. She may not have handled combat well, but she understood hers was an outward meltdown. Soldiers had inward reactions every bit as crippling, it was just easier for them to wear a mask and walk away.

  “We’ll be ready in about an hour,” Smithy said, grabbing some unrecognizable part from the rebel truck. Wires and fine tubes dangled from a rusting metal cylinder.

  “So what do we do without a radio?” Bower asked.

  “We stick to the plan,” Jameson replied. “Ordinarily, we’d stay in the area and wait 48 hours for a lost comms protocol to kick in, but I doubt they’ll send choppers into a hostile LZ. Within 48 hours this place is going to be crawling with rebels. If we don’t get on the move, and soon, we’re not going to have to worry about forty rebels, we’ll have four hundred to deal with.”

  “Hey, I’m getting a fresh signal on the commercial band,” said Bosco, staggering past with the shattered remains of the military radio slung over his shoulder and the small public radio in his hand. He dropped the damaged military radio on the grass beside the other backpacks and sat down with the small, blue radio.

  “It’s the BBC,” he said rather triumphantly.

  “Although we have no idea about the nature of our celestial visitors, we can infer some valuable information from what we have observed so far.”

  The reception was much clearer than the night before.

  “I have here a bullet, just the lead projectile that comes flying out of a gun, not the casing with its powder and detonation cap. And, as you can see, I can toss this bullet in the air and catch it without any concern for my safety. But why? Bullets are dangerous, right? Well, no. Bullets are only dangerous when they’re traveling at high velocities.”

  He wasn’t wrong there, thought Bower.

  “Standing here before you, I can toss this bullet up and down, catching it in my hand without any danger at all. But, if I fire this bullet from a gun, imparting a massive amount of kinetic energy into the metal and lead, accelerating it to a thousand feet per second, it would pass straight through my hand, probably straight through my body.

  “In the same manner, the alien craft had to decelerate as it entered our solar system. Just the tiniest speck of dust or rock would be damaging. Given the sheer amount of kinetic energy within the alien craft, if they meant us harm, they need only have continued on at high speed. Even a small craft, perhaps the size of this building, traveling at three-quarters of the speed of light, would be enough to destroy all life on Earth. There’s just so much energy involved. But they slowed to a stop relative to Earth. That act in itself tells us something of their intentions. They intend to come in contact with us, not to destroy us.”

  Bower was fascinated. It was clear they’d dropped into the middle of an ongoing technical discussion about the alien spacecraft. Some of the details were a repeat of what they’d heard the previous night, but with additional insights. For a second, all her cares dissolved. The tension of the previous night dissipated like a dream.

  “Question from the floor: Ambassador Philip Cohern, Canada.”

  “Where have they come from?”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t know. As the craft passed Neptune, some four light hours from Earth, it conducted a course correction, aligning with the ecliptic within our solar system, allowing it to move on the same plane as the planets. As best we understand its current trajectory, this would have been one of a number of course corrections to slowly orient with our solar system. We have a rough understanding of its origin in the southern hemisphere, but only a rather vague notion of either Triangulum, Pavo or Telescopium.”

  “Are those real constellation names?” the ambassador asked. “I thought the constellations had names like Aries or Gemini?”

  “These are real names,” the speaker confirmed. “Triangulum may not have any exotic meaning like Scorpio, but it is
a legitimate constellation, first identified by the Greek astronomer Ptolemy well before the birth of Christ.”

  “So this ... this thing,” the ambassador asked. “Tell us more about what NASA observed as it approached Earth.”

  “The craft did not approach Earth directly. It passed through the inner solar system, swinging around behind the sun and slowing before it approached Earth. At the phenomenal speed with which it initially approached our solar system, the alien craft would have arrived here within a few hours, perhaps a day or so. But it slowed its approach, shedding its kinetic energy, taking over six months to reach us. But I must stress, covering this kind of immense distance in less than several years is phenomenal in itself. As it was, the craft arrived at Lagrange point five trailing Earth just eight days ago and has remained stationary in that location since then.”

  "Could you expand upon what a Lagrange point is for the assembly?"

  "Sure," the scientist replied. "We think of outer space as empty, but it's not. Gravity shapes space, molding it into what could be figuratively described as different forms, different shapes. Think of a street map. Maps show us how to get from one place to another, but maps are flat, they don't reveal the hills and gullies that define the land, and so we make topographical maps, maps with wavy lines to indicate the contours of the land. In much the same way, we see space as flat, but the gravitational attraction of the Sun, Moon and Earth means we need a topographical view of space, something to show us the gravitational hills and gullies. A Lagrange point is an area that acts like a hilltop. From a Lagrange point, any which way you move is down, moving under the influence of gravity in one way or another."

  "And so this is expected?"

  "I don't know about expected, but it's smart. They're sitting a way off, in a place from which they can easily go anywhere. They can come to Earth, go to the Moon, or retreat into interplanetary space with ease, with a minimum of effort."

  "So you'd say this is a defensive position rather than an offensive one?"

  "I ... I don't know," the scientist replied. "I don't know that it makes any sense to draw military parallels with their location. It could be neither offensive nor defensive, just practical."

  "What do you think their next move will be?"

  "Well, I doubt they came here for sightseeing. They didn't just happen to cruise into our solar system, they were always headed for Earth. They knew exactly where they were going long before we ever saw them. I think it only makes sense to assume they'll make contact."

  "How?"

  "Mr. Ambassador, I'm a scientist, not a soothsayer. We'll have to wait and see."

  "Humor me," the ambassador said. "What's the most likely scenario?"

  "There’s no likely scenario. We're in uncharted territory. We think they picked up on our electromagnetic radiation, our TV and radio signals as they have been beamed into space over the past century, but they've made no effort to communicate with us via radio waves and have ignored our attempts to dialogue."

  "And how have you tried to open dialogue?"

  "With crude methods, with communication akin to the semaphore used between naval vessels in World War I. Just flashes of light deliberately sweeping across their craft, but following a pattern of prime numbers. All we're looking for in return is an acknowledgement on the same frequency, but there's been nothing. It's like they're not listening, which is counterintuitive given they've just flown dozens of light-years to get here."

  "And what do you make of that?"

  "I think the only thing we can make of it is that their ways are not our ways, their mode of communication has nothing in common with ours. And it's for this reason, I support the launch of the Orion, as our physical presence in space would be something they would recognize."

  "Oh," the ambassador replied, "But there's a danger they could interpret our launch as a hostile act."

  "I don't think that's likely. They would have already observed that we have thousands of satellites in orbit, that we have a manned space station, that we have deep space telescopes like the James Webb, so they know we're capable of space flight. Even though we’ve developed nuclear weapons, it's not likely we could be a serious threat to them. If their shielding can protect them from the fusion of interstellar hydrogen into helium, a nuclear bomb is going to be like a firecracker."

  “So you disagree with the Addison initiative?”

  “Absolutely. Nuclear weapons are so devastatingly effective on Earth because there’s stuff to push around, air that can be super-heated and compressed, but in space, they’re little more than fireworks.”

  Another voice broke in over the top of the discussion.

  "We interrupt this special session at the United Nations to bring you news from Washington DC, where NASA special liaison Jonathan McKinsey has just announced that the alien craft is in motion, moving in an arc toward Earth. If the initial course is held, NASA expects the craft to enter a stable orbit some eight hundred to one thousand miles above Earth's surface within the next day."

  The radio transmission was confused. There were several voices talking in the background. Bower could make out terms like perihelion and apogee from a female voice, but it was the drone of a monotonous male voice mumbling in different languages that spooked her.

  "Nouse venons en paix ... Veniamo in pace ... Ons kom in vrede ... Ni revenos en paco ... Wij komen in vrede ... Wir kommen in Frieden ..."

  "As you can hear," the commentator continued, speaking over the top of the voice. "The craft has begun transmitting a single phrase at 1420 MHz, a phrase repeated over and over again in every known language on Earth, a phrase with only one, unmistakable meaning."

  "Vimos en paz ... Erchomaste se eirini ... Dumating kami sa kapayapaan ... Nou vini nan lape ... We come in peace ... Rydym yn dod mewn heddwch ... dolazimo u miru ..."

  The radio commentator was silent, allowing the gravity of the moment to be conveyed in the rhythmic repetition of that phrase in multiple languages. The slow, plodding words cast a spell over Bower, leaving her in a trance. In the background, she was vaguely aware of the sound of a truck engine starting up and soldiers hollering.

  Jameson said something, but she was barely aware of his words. He tapped her knee, saying, "We need to get the hell out of here before the rebels return in force."

  Bosco switched the radio off and Bower found herself snapped cruelly back to Africa.

  "Time to get this show on the road," yelled Elvis. "We're going to Vegas, baby, Vegas."

  Chapter 05: Hotel Ksaungu

  The road to Ksaungu was full of refugees fleeing the fighting in the rural areas. They marched along the sides of the rough dirt track, spilling into the single lane as they herded goats and cattle before them. Men, women and children called out, pleading to be taken on board the Ranger's Hummer and the truck, but the soldiers were firm, shouting at the stragglers, peeling their hands away from the back of the truck and watching as they collapsed to the ground, still appealing to the soldiers.

  "Surely, we can take some of them," Bower said, sitting in the cab of the truck with Elvis driving and Jameson riding shotgun.

  Elvis was quiet.

  Jameson looked at her with eyes that pierced her soul, and for a moment she wasn't sure if he was going to say anything at all. It seemed his silence spoke loudest, saying what she already knew, that it was a futile effort. Within minutes, they could be joining the refugees on foot if the engine on the truck gave out, and adding more people would only hasten that moment. Besides, who should they save? Those who shouted loudest? Those who pushed and shoved others out of the way? And why these people? What about others further down the road? Were they any less deserving? It was easy to drive on, these people weren't in any immediate danger, and yet she couldn't escape the feeling that they were somehow condemned to death.

  "We can fight a battle," Jameson finally said. "But we cannot fight a war."

  Bower was silent. Jameson examined a map of Ksaungu, talking to Elvis about their approach t
o the city and possible exit routes if they came under rebel fire. He settled on the Hotel Ksaungu as somewhere they could rest and take stock of the situation. He said it had been used by the Press Corps and would have good connections.

  Government forces pushed north against the human tide flowing south, waving at the US Rangers and calling out as they drove past. They didn't seem too bothered by the US soldiers heading away from the battle. Government troops sat on tanks, in the back of trucks and on top of armored personnel carriers, smoking and joking, yelling and laughing.

  After an hour or so, as the Rangers moved further down the road, Bower noticed the civilians became more subdued. They no longer clambered to get on board the truck. They shuffled along the road, numb to the exodus forced upon them. In some ways, their sullen demeanor was more alarming than the almost riotous villagers further north. They seemed to have lost the will to fight and were trudging on instinctively rather than with purpose.

  "Hey, what about them fucking aliens," Elvis said, half leaning on the steering wheel as their truck crawled along at barely fifteen miles an hour, bouncing in and out of potholes.

  Bower was seated between Elvis and Jameson. She turned to Elvis, surprised by how he'd blurted this out. For the most part, their conversation so far had been subdued, but Elvis wasn't one to stay subdued for too long.

  "I mean, what a load of bullshit. 'We come in peace,' yeah, right. Like anyone's going to believe that."

  "But they do come in peace," Bower cried, somewhat confused by how Elvis could assume anything else. How could he assume the worst? Was she being naive? No, she thought.

  "Come on, Doc. Don't tell me you believe that horse-shit. No one comes in peace. Hell, look at us. We're peacekeepers, and we blow shit up all the time."

  Elvis laughed.

  "They're not like us," Bower protested, although she knew her protest was irrational in that it wasn’t based on anything other than her gut feeling.