Extinction Countdown

by James D. Prescott

  “Uh, I…yeah, sure, go ahead.”

  “I believe they did not intend for us to discover their presence.”

  Mia tilted her head, trying to grasp Anna’s point. “Do you think they mean us harm?”

  Anna blinked. “I tend to agree with Dr. Greer. Their intention to do harm may be secondary to the rule of unintended consequences.”

  “Do you think they know we’re here?”

  “That is impossible to conclude with any certainty,” Anna replied. “However, if you would like me to formulate a hypothesis on the matter, I would say they do not.”

  Mia thought about the Atean ship hurtling through space towards earth. “Then we need to somehow find a way of telling them. You learned their language. Couldn’t we beam a message at their ship asking them to stop?”

  A glimmer of hope appeared on Anna’s face. “That is certainly worth attempting.” She reached a hand to disconnect herself from the laptop before pausing. “Was there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Mia said, feeling a surge of anxiety over the question she was about to ask. “You know the process that you used to decode the signal imbedded in the blast wave? Did you try applying that same thing toward the Salzburg genome?”

  Anna nodded. “I am sorry to say that my attempts to apply the key to Salzburg have so far not been successful. Rest assured I am constantly running alternative methods in the background.”

  Although that wasn’t the answer Mia had wanted, it was certainly the one she had expected. Life never seemed to give you what you wanted. It gave you a sprinkle of what you needed and left you perched on a limb to figure the rest out for yourself. But before entertaining any thoughts of flying off to Greenland and whatever awaited them there, there was something Mia needed to do first.

  Chapter 6

  “And what pisses me off the most,” Trish Han shouted, pacing back and forth behind the desk in her office, “is that you went over my head to Ron Lewis and made me look like an asshole.”

  The stress ball Trish was working feverishly in her left hand didn’t seem to be quite doing the job and she tossed it at the glass wall. It bounced back with enthusiasm, only to plop on the floor and roll to a stop. As Lifestyle editor at the Washington Post, stress was nothing new. Neither was dressing down young reporters who had grown far too big for their britches.

  The young reporter before her listened intently to Trish’s list of grievances, her face a mask of neutrality. Christened Kayza Mahoro, a Rwandan name meaning ‘beautiful,’ she had decided early on, mostly out of mercy for her friends, colleagues and neighbors, to simply go by Kay. It elicited fewer confused looks and long explanations which mostly went something like this:

  “What an interesting name. Where are you from?” she was often asked, as they surveyed her dark skin and short afro.

  “America.”

  Her curt response was often met with a mix of shame and embarrassment for the insensitive way the question had been phrased.

  “If you’re asking about my parents, they came from Rwanda.”

  “Ohh,” they would say, and quickly change the subject.

  When it came to Rwanda, most everyone knew two things. That a terrible genocide had taken place there in the early 90s. And that the Hutus were responsible. Not surprisingly, the complexities of tribal politics in that part of east Africa were often lost on them, just as the complexities of American politics would baffle the average Rwandan goat farmer.

  Kay was a Hutu, born five years after the genocide in a country thousands of miles away, and yet the prevailing narrative of Hutu guilt seemed to follow her throughout her life. She found that more often than not, it was simply better to avoid the topic entirely. But avoiding never meant lying. She was proud of who she was. Her father was a former diplomat, her mother an employee at the state bank. They had been at a posting in Ethiopia when the war broke out in April of ’94. Back in Rwanda they had had land, houses and a large extended family. Within three months all of that was gone. It had been a terrible shock they had never fully recovered from. Telling the truth about what had really happened there and why was of tremendous importance to Kay. She wanted to set the record straight and do what she could to remove the kind of stigma that made speaking with strangers an often painful experience.

  It was for these reasons that she had wanted to become a reporter in the first place. And, to a greater or lesser degree, it was why she was sitting in Trish Han’s ultra-modern, glass-walled fishbowl of an office, listening to her editor try to tear her a new one.

  Kay felt there were important stories that needed to be told and covering the opening of art galleries and celebrity gossip for the Lifestyle section just wasn’t cutting it.

  “I bumped into Ron at lunch the other day,” Kay tried to explain. “And he said the news section had an opening if Lifestyle could spare me.”

  Ron Lewis was the news editor, a crusty relic from a bygone era famous for his refusal to use a computer until Sandy Yeats, the editor-in-chief, threatened to fire his ass if he didn’t. Disheveled and often unshaven, Ron was one of the best in the business.

  Trish halted her apparent mission to wear a hole in the carpet and stood with her arms folded over her chest. “That’s all good and fine, Kay, but I’m sorry, I simply can’t afford to spare you. You’re the best I’ve got. Kanye’s new fashion line breaks in two days and I need you on it.”

  Kay felt her heart drop down through her chair and tumble into a bottomless pit. “I’m done asking celebrities asinine questions about things that don’t matter. Besides, Kanye’s clothes all look the same. Beige and with more holes than a colander. Send Sarah, she loves that stuff.”

  Trish combed back a swath of thin black hair behind her ear as she sat down. Although calmer than before, she didn’t seem particularly swayed by Kay’s arguments. “Sarah’s busy with something else. Maria and Brianne are off for medical reasons. So are Kelly, Roger and the two others I just hired to replace them.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” Kay said, attempting one final run at the wall. “People all over the world are falling sick. We just discovered an alien ship on earth. Countries around the world are struggling to maintain order. Millions are convinced the end of the world is coming and you wanna pretend like none of it matters.”

  Trish rooted through a desk drawer and came out with a white envelope. “I agree with you, Kay. Those stories are important and that’s why the paper has reporters covering them. But you weren’t hired for that. You were hired to tell the world about celebrities. What they like. What they don’t like. Who they’re fighting with. It might not seem like much, but a little distraction these days can go a long way.” Trish handed Kay the envelope.

  She hesitated before taking it. “Am I being fired?”

  Trish smiled. “Far from it. It’s your ticket to Kanye’s fashion show in New York tomorrow. I don’t have the luxury of firing you, even if I wanted to. But don’t test me. And leave Ron Lewis alone.”

  •••

  Kay’s march back to her desk was filled with humiliation and despair. While the glass walls in Trish’s office might have muted their voices a touch, it offered the reporters outside an unobstructed view of the action inside. Kay had gotten reamed. They didn’t know exactly why, but the whys never seemed to matter much.

  Ellis Dow, a string bean of a guy who covered home renovations, popped up above his cubicle, one of the few non-transparent partitions in their ultra-modern head office. “Kay got in trouble,” he sang. His juvenile quip elicited a cackle of laughter from the doorknobs who sat around him.

  It was hard to imagine Ellis in charge of anything, let alone a gaggle of idiots. His father had been a famous reporter and had shoehorned his useless son into a cushy job.

  “You’ll get her next time, champ,” he called after her.

  Kay raised her middle finger and held it over her shoulder as she walked away.

  She arrived back at her desk to the persistent sound of pinging. Kay p
ulled the phone from her pocket and saw a Facebook message pop up a second before disappearing. Her eye caught sight of the word ‘lied’ before it went away. Then another muffled sound, this one coming from the laptop on her desk, scattered with documents and papers. Kay swore on a daily basis she would put some order into her workspace and every day she seemed to find a perfectly valid reason why the whole endeavor would have to wait.

  After pushing aside fashion magazines and copies of recent articles she’d written, her laptop soon emerged. The cover was open and the act of clearing away the dreck had woken it from a deep sleep. She stared down at the screen and saw an email waiting for her. She slid into her seat. Someone had contacted her through her blog. It was a side project of sorts she used to address an eclectic assortment of topics close to her heart. Some had to do with social and political issues in Africa, others with problems in D.C. Her most recent blog post about free speech on university campuses had gone viral. “Is our education system teaching intolerance?” The title had been a touch hyperbolic, but it had served Kay’s purpose of asking tough questions, the kind too many folks felt were best left unexamined.

  Kay read through the short, enigmatic email three times.

  I have something for you. Open Facebook.

  The note had been signed…

  Laydeezman

  A chill ran up the back of Kay’s legs as she stood, glaring around the open work space. A few of her colleagues were on the phone, others were typing away, immersed in their work. She swore, if this was Ellis playing one of his stupid little pranks, she was ready to pay a visit to HR and have the “Laydeezman’s” derrière tossed to the curb.

  Kay went to her phone and the direct message she’d received on the Facebook app. It too was from the same source. Except this one was different.

  The public is being lied to. And I have proof.

  Kay clicked on the profile. It led her to a page with no picture or identifying information, only a name: Laydeezman.

  Normally guys named Laydeezman would send her barely literate messages online like “Yo, sup, sexy lady?” or invitations to join them in lewd and unspeakable sex acts. The urge to ignore the messages was strong. Stronger still was the desire to reply, if only to validate that either Ellis or some other bozo was aiming to have a laugh at her expense.

  Kay centered the cursor and began typing. Who is this and why are you wasting my time?

  She decided to open the envelope Trish had handed her while she waited. As promised, inside was a single ticket for the New York fashion show. Kay stared down at the intricate design, wondering what outfit she would need to wear to avoid committing a fashion faux pas. God forbid if you happened to be wearing the spring collection in summer. And Kanye’s loathing for reporters was a well-documented fact.

  The whole charade was in the process of tying her insides into tight little knots when the reply came back. Actually, it was an attachment without any words.

  She could hear the disembodied voice of Lucas De Silva, the flamboyant and overworked IT guy, telling her not to open that attachment. She hovered the cursor over it and paused.

  “That’s right, Kay,” his ghost voice sing-songed into her ear. “Move that cursor up to the X and close that browser window. No sudden movements. Just keep it nice and slow.”

  Instead, Kay clicked the attachment, banishing Lucas’ apparition from her thoughts. What opened was an image of a man and woman. The picture was too close to see much other than they were standing wearing visitors’ badges. A fresh ping signaled the arrival of a new picture. This time she clicked without any hesitation. The image was almost the same, only this time there was more of it. Suddenly Kay began to grasp what she was looking at. The picture had been taken inside the Oval Office. She downloaded a copy and opened it inside a photo viewer, which she used to zoom in on the visitor tags hanging around the man’s and woman’s necks. Dr. Jack Greer and Dr. Mia Ward. She’d never heard of them. If Laydeezman was trying to pick her up, so far he was doing one hell of a good job.

  Then came another soft ping. This time a bunch of strange numbers and symbols showed up.

  38°53’15.59” 77°00’26.40”

  “What is this?” Kay asked, perplexed.

  Grief weeps on history’s shoulder. Be there at 9 p.m. sharp. Follow history’s gaze. There you will find proof I am the real deal.

  And with that, Laydeezman was offline. Kay sat staring at the message, wondering what she’d gotten herself into. If it wasn’t that asshole Ellis, could her fiancé Derek be pulling her leg? He was a young investment banker with a promising future. Not exactly the prime candidate to punk someone.

  Kay stared at the numbers. They looked like GPS coordinates. Latitude and longitude. She highlighted them from the message she’d been sent and pasted it into Google. Right away a page came up for the Peace Monument right here in D.C. It was a large statue built in 1877 to commemorate sailors killed during the Civil War.

  Kay glanced down at her phone. 6:23 P.M. Two and a half hours before nine o’clock. But this was crazy. She wasn’t going to start running around the city on a scavenger hunt. For all she knew, some psycho would be there waiting to murder her… or worse. On the other hand, this Laydeezman character had pictures from inside the White House. Pictures that hadn’t been published. Which meant this Laydeezman character hadn’t simply gone hunting for them online. Her innate sense of curiosity was engaged in a pitched battle with her common sense and already she had a feeling which side was going to win.

  Chapter 7

  Mia knocked on the door to room 225. They were somewhere outside Richmond on the second floor of a Motel 6. The two-hour drive from Joint Base Andrews meant it was nearly ten o’clock. But she knew this might be her only opportunity.

  Behind her stood two FBI agents the government had assigned as part of her security detail. They wore jeans and loose-fitting windbreakers, all part of a rather dismal effort to blend in and appear less conspicuous. She knew next to nothing about them because they had hardly said more than a handful of words since they had met. She had been able to gather that the thinner one named Ramirez had a serious addiction to Doritos and the shorter, stocky one named Chalk always had a toothpick in his mouth and, when he thought no one was looking, he would use his tongue to flip it end over end.

  Sven had been another man of few words. A part of the big guy had been shattered by Tom’s death, especially since it had been at Sentinel’s hands. He hadn’t spoken of it, hadn’t needed to. She could tell by the hardened gaze in his eye and how the fingers of his right hand kept knotting up as though they were squeezing the life out of someone. When the Navy helicopter had brought them to Ellington Field, Sven had told her there was something he needed to take care of. That she was in good hands now and that he would see her again soon. After that he had pulled her into a hug that was one part boa constrictor, two parts father figure. Just the same, she was sad to see him go, but hopeful they would meet again soon.

  “Who is it?” a voice challenged from the other side of the door.

  “Mia Ward,” she replied.

  There was a pause before the latch clicked and the door opened. It was a man she didn’t recognize and for a second she wondered if she had the wrong room. Then, over the man’s shoulder, she spotted Paul, sitting on the bed with a remote control in his hand.

  “Sven sends his regards,” Mia told the guy at the door.

  The man nodded, a former Sentinel agent himself, now working for the other side. “And Tom?”

  That sting again as she realized the pain of his loss was still so raw and that it might remain that way for some time. Something about the change in her expression had said it all. “He was one of our top agents,” he said, seeming to shake off the sudden feeling of grief, the way some try to shake off a cold sweat. Almost robotically, he moved past her and the FBI men and stepped outside. Mia turned long enough to see him grip the railing, the muscles in his arms growing taut.

  Paul came up from t
he bed and stood there, not entirely sure if he should hug her or not. Maybe not entirely sure he wanted to.

  “I’m glad to see you,” he said, searching for the right words. “Does this mean we can go?”

  Her eyes brushed against the tacky carpet at his feet.

  “I’m not here to rescue you,” she told him. “There’s a good chance they’ll move you in another day or so.”

  Paul pushed the palm of his hand against his temple. “I’m going nuts in here, Mia. Stuck in this room all day. Eating fast food morning, noon and night. And then the parade of strange people who keep coming in to check on Zoey. I don’t know if she’s in a coma, but she’s being fed through a tube and probably needs to be in a proper hospital.”

  Mia glanced past Paul to the bed he’d been sitting on and the tiny lump beneath the covers. Between the wall and the bed was an IV stand. She sat down next to her daughter and peeled back the covers. Zoey’s skin was warm to the touch and rosy in color, similar to Grant and so many others affected by Salzburg.

  “Hey, honey,” she said, brushing back a patch of her daughter’s hair. “How’s my big girl doing?”

  Zoey’s eyes slowly opened and blinked away the light.

  “You remember how I woke you up that one morning singing, ‘Time to make the donuts?’ And you jumped out of bed so excited? It was the jingle from those old Dunkin’ Donuts commercials. I didn’t realize until you started crying that you were too young to know it was just an expression. I guess the real lesson was that sometimes parents say things without thinking. You must have cried for hours and I felt like a bag of crap for putting something in your head that had no business being there in the first place.”

  Zoey stared back at her with a blank expression. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of recognition.

  It was hard enough seeing her daughter like this. But it somehow seemed so much worse that her little girl didn’t seem to know who she was. “I always hated to see you sad, baby girl, but right about now I’d take sad over this.” Mia fought back the tears threatening to roll over her lids and down her cheeks. The only consolation was being close and stroking her hair, the way she used to do every night putting Zoey to bed.