Freefall: A First Contact Technothriller (Earth's Last Gambit Book 1)

by Felix R. Savage

“What’re you going to be doing in California?” she asked innocently.

  “It’s just a think tank thing.” Colbert rolled his eyes. “The little green men are here. Discuss.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  He kissed her again, collected his overnight bag, and went downstairs to hail a taxi. Xue Hua’s face lingered in his mind’s eye. She was as beautiful as the day he’d married her. To this day, he couldn’t believe he’d landed such a lovely—and intelligent—woman. The stereotype of the submissive Chinese woman was bullshit, as all stereotypes were.

  His flight landed at LAX at half past midnight. No one met him at the airport. The organizers of the think tank thing—yes, there really was a think tank thing, a panel discussion hosted by the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation—thought he was arriving tomorrow morning.

  He’d booked a hotel room in Santa Barbara, near the Foundation. But he wasn’t going there yet.

  He rented a car. The sullen African-American clerk showed no sign of recognizing the junior senator from Connecticut, even when Colbert showed her his driver’s license. Her ignorance didn’t surprise him. 77% of Americans couldn’t name even one of their own senators, according to Pew. Trust in government bumped along at an all-time low. The latest Gallup poll had found that just 15% of Americans said they could trust the government ‘always or most of the time,’ and that figure must surely have fallen further in the wake of the first contact event.

  “The Spirit of Humanity project is a cover-up,” frothed a pundit on the car radio. “What’s happening here is the elites see their chance to create a one-world government. This is the endgame, folks …” Typical far-right nuttiness. But in this case, the asshole was right. The government was holding back crucial information about the Spirit of Humanity mission.

  And Colbert planned to obtain that information, whatever it might be, tonight.

  He drove north. Traffic downtown and in Hollywood crawled; horns blew, music thumped, revellers jaywalked. It was 2 a.m. on a freaking Wednesday. Why were all these people awake? Colbert associated LA’s restlessness with the first contact event. A new anxiety possessed the earth. Humanity had been given world-shattering news, but no way to react—no answers, no orders, no advice except “Stay calm and carry on shopping,” to paraphrase George W. Bush’s famous injunction in the wake of 9/11. Colbert had served as a loyal warrior for Obama in the Senate, and he would not hear a word against the first black president. But a new Obama had emerged in the wake of the Juno observations … chilly, close-lipped. It felt like a betrayal.

  The media had gone into raptures about the Spirit of Humanity project. But for Colbert, the exclusion of China raised troubling questions about the president’s commitment to world peace.

  Colbert finally reached Griffith Park, the 4,000-acre stretch of wilderness north of Hollywood. The Griffith Observatory was closed, of course. A chain stretched across the entrance to the parking lot. Colbert parked on the shoulder outside the parking lot.

  There was one car already there, a beat-up Subaru sedan.

  Colbert got out and stretched his back, inhaling the murky scent of the trees. Frogs chirped over the background hum of city traffic. He didn’t have a flashlight, but he didn’t need one—L.A. lit up the darkness.

  He stepped over the chain and climbed up to the observatory. The castle-like building had wide terraces overlooking the city. Colbert admired the view of the city basin full of lights.

  A few people loitered on the terrace.

  As instructed by his contact, Colbert went over to one of the coin telescopes. He pretended to insert a quarter—no sense actually wasting the money—and waited.

  Sure enough, one of the loiterers approached him.

  “Senator?” the man rasped in a low voice.

  “Russ will do,” Colbert said, switching on a smile. Inwardly, he was appalled. The man looked like a bum—scruffy, slouching, jittery. He wore a hoodie with the hood up. He probably thought it was a good disguise. Instead, it drew attention. No one wore a hoodie in July except gang-bangers. “Are you Ralf Lyons?” Colbert asked, making sure.

  “Yup,” Lyons said. “Here. This is it. It’s all here.” He thrust a USB drive at Colbert.

  Colbert trapped Lyons’s hand in a version of the senatorial two-handed handshake. He held on, squeezing slightly, and focused on transmitting his qi to the other man. Xue Hua had proved to him that this ancient Chinese healing technique worked. When he came home with a stress headache after an acrimonious debate, she would sit beside him and lay her hand on his forehead. Usually, the pain would go away within moments. Colbert focused on transmitting soothing, reassuring energy. He could not be sure he was doing it right, but after a few seconds, Lyons stopped trying to pull his hand away. When Colbert released him, Lyons pushed his hood down. He seemed to be standing straighter now, as if a burden had slid from his shoulders.

  “It’s great to meet someone who understands,” he said.

  “I understand completely,” Colbert said. “It’s unacceptable that NASA is hiding this information, that they’re forcing you to go to these lengths, just to make sure the truth is heard.”

  “Yes. Yes! The FBI, the spooks, my fucking God, they were all over us. They said if we talked, we would be committing treason.”

  “I am a United States senator,” Colbert said. “You are not committing treason. You are doing the right thing.” He pocketed the USB drive. Out of curiosity, he asked, “Can you give me your own take on this data? In your own expert opinion.”

  “First off, I’m not an expert on aliens,” Lyons said. “No one is. This is completely new for everyone. You see these people on TV calling themselves experts on extraterrestrial whatever, they don’t know shit. This is an outside context problem. That means we have no context in which to think about the race of alien beings that built that spaceship. The only certain fact is that their technology is far superior to ours. We are the Incas in this scenario, OK? We are the Arawak.”

  Colbert grimaced. That did not sound good. He said, “Is it not reasonable to hope that the aliens have come in peace?”

  “Yes! In fact, it’s our only hope. We have to seek engagement, not confrontation.”

  “We are told that the Spirit of Humanity will be a diplomatic mission,” Colbert said, clinging to his dwindling faith in President Obama.

  Lyons rasped, “You have not been told that the Spirit of Humanity will carry weapons. That’s what’s on there.” He gestured at the USB, now in Colbert’s breast pocket.

  Colbert shook his head. The information confirmed his worst fears. “Does the president know about this?”

  “Read the email chains. The president refused to approve the project unless the ship could be weaponized.”

  “What kind of weapons?”

  “Might as well be bows and arrows.”

  “What … what else is on the drive?”

  “Sketches. Preliminary specs. Everything I could access.”

  “Wow.” Colbert inclined his head. “Ralf, thank you for your courage in coming to me.”

  The JPL scientist shrugged. He turned away and dropped a quarter into the coin telescope. Leaning into the viewfinder, he tilted the telescope upwards, towards the stars—there, of course, but invisible beyond the dull orange glow of the city lights.

  “I’ve spent all my life thinking about outer space,” he said. “Wondering what was out there beyond our solar system. There was always this idea that first contact would bring out the best in us. Who’d a thunk it, it’s bringing out the worst.”

  Colbert touched his shoulder, sending more calming vibes. “Don’t worry, Ralf. It’s going to be all right.”

  Lyons turned to face him. “Are you going to leak this to the media?” he said.

  “No,” Colbert said, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. Absolutely under no circumstances. The information would lose its value if everyone had it. “I’m pretty sure that would not be wise. And I strongly advise you not to do it, eithe
r. Even if we splashed this all over TV, the only result would be to further diminish confidence in our leaders. I know what you’re thinking: they deserve it. Yes, maybe. But it would not serve the purpose of peace.”

  Lyons nodded. “What are you going to do with it, then? If I can ask.”

  “It’s probably best that I don’t share that with you at this time,” Colbert said. “But please be assured, I will get this information in front of the people who need to see it.”

  Lyons reached out and gripped his hand. “Thank you, Senator. This is a massive load off my mind. Thank you for coming all the way out here … Thank you.”

  The irony of Lyons’s gratitude stayed with Colbert as he drove away. It should have been him thanking Lyons.

  Half an hour later, he pulled onto a side street somewhere in Koreatown. He cut the engine. Sitting in the dark, he telephoned Edgar Ho.

  “Russell,” Edgar said. “Good to hear from you.”

  “I’ve got the information,” Colbert said.

  “Good,” Edgar said. “Where are you?”

  Colbert gave him the name of the street he was parked on.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Colbert then waited for half an hour. This was the worst part. A tree branch, broken in a recent rainstorm, scraped the windshield. He nearly screamed. As he steadied his pulse, using the breathing techniques Xue Hua had taught him, he reminded himself that he was safe. Perfectly safe.

  Edgar Ho was a professor of physics at UCLA, who also happened to work for the Chinese government. In the interests of gathering information—Colbert preferred not to think of it as spying—Edgar had reached out to numerous NASA scientists thought to be involved with the Spirit of Humanity mission.

  A fishing expedition.

  Ralf Lyons had taken the bait.

  Edgar had given Lyons’s details to Colbert, in person, during one of Xue Hua’s events in Washington last week. Edgar and Xue Hua did not know each other beyond the merest nodding acquaintance. They both happened to be Chinese, and both were Democratic activists. That was all.

  Xue Hua would never find out.

  Nor, needless to say, would anyone else.

  Edgar had assured Colbert in the past that Beijing deeply appreciated the work he did for international peace, and of course they understood his need for absolute discretion.

  He was safe.

  All the same, demons of anxiety wriggled through his body, like the restless traffic snaking through the streets of L.A. On some level deeper than the merely rational, he knew that something very bad was going to happen.

  The handover came as an anticlimax. A car pulled in ahead of him. A young Chinese man jumped out. It was not Edgar. Colbert rolled his window down. The man stuck his hand in through the window. Colbert placed the USB drive in his palm. “I want you to tell Edgar,” he began, and attempted to enfold the man’s hand, as he had Lyons’s, but the young guy was too quick. His fingers slithered away like fish. “Thank you,” Colbert said, giving up.

  “Bie danxin,” said the man. He didn’t even speak English. He went back to his car and roared away.

  Colbert sighed. It was now four in the morning. He drove towards Santa Barbara, filled with a somber and yet exalted sense of accomplishment.

  The FBI had misrepresented to Ralf Lyons and his colleagues at JPL that they’d be committing treason if they talked … but in fact, Lyons had not even broken the law when he gave Colbert that USB drive.

  It was Colbert who’d committed treason. When he passed the USB drive to a Chinese national, he’d rendered himself liable for prosecution under the Espionage Act.

  However, he did not consider himself a spy, because the law was insane. It reflected the irrational bigotry of the population, rather than any objective principle. Right-wing demagogues made people act in hateful ways towards foreigners, and China came in for the lion’s share of xenophobic hatred, when in reality, the Chinese were just trying to get a fair shake.

  As the husband of a Chinese woman, Colbert was very sensitive to the ways colonial oppression had distorted the global order. The Spirit of Humanity mission exemplified how the West still conspired to exclude China.

  Since his election to the Senate, Colbert had been in a position to make reparations for these historical and ongoing injustices. He’d taken action, to what small extent he could, whenever possible. For instance, the Frostbite thing a few years back.

  And tonight, he may have contributed to a truly global response to the alien question.

  Fortified by these thoughts, he checked into his hotel in Santa Barbara as the sun rose over the Pacific. A weathered building with dead leaves clogging the pool, it was not exactly a senatorial joint. But the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation couldn’t afford to put him up anywhere better, and Edgar Ho, of course, had not paid him anything for his efforts. Even if Edgar had offered, Colbert would have refused.

  He settled his head onto the not-very-clean pillow and tried to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress.

  He wasn’t doing this for money.

  He was doing it for humanity.

  For Xue Hua.

  He slid into unconsciousness. The next thing he knew, a rapping noise forced its way into his sleep. Disoriented, he pushed himself onto his elbow. It felt like he’d slept for no time at all. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was 7:45. He was tireder than before he’d gone to sleep. Sunlight sliced under the curtains, and someone was knocking on the door of his hotel room.

  “Senator,” the person outside said, softly. “Senator Colbert. Gonna let me in? Need to talk with you.”

  Panic electrified Colbert. His mind filled with visions of armed FBI agents breaking down the door and arresting him. He did not pause to consider that it might just be someone from the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation, or the front desk. His guilty conscience drove him to the window. This was a ground-floor room. He was halfway out of the window when the door swung open and a blur of motion crossed the room. Gloved hands hauled him unceremoniously back inside.

  “You were gonna run out to the highway, barefoot, in your tighty whities?” Colbert’s visitor smiled, showing hillbilly dentistry. “That would have made a nice paparazzi shot.”

  Not a squad of FBI agents. Just one man, with an Arkansas drawl and eyes so pale they almost matched his blond eyebrows. He wore motorcycle gloves that went halfway up his thick forearms.

  “Just kidding,” the man went on. “There aren’t any paparazzi out there. They’ve got bigger fish to fry than you.”

  Colbert glanced at the door. The man sidestepped, blocking his path to freedom.

  “You should be more careful about security, Senator.”

  Colbert found his voice. “What is this about?”

  “It’s about your meeting with Ralf Lyons last night. Like I said, you should be more careful.”

  Colbert mentally reeled. In a flash, he saw everything slipping away: his career, Xue Hua …

  The man smiled at his horrified expression. “We’ve got geotraces on the cell phones of everyone at JPL,” he explained. “Poor amateur son of a bitch didn’t even switch his phone off. Neither did you. And half an hour after that meeting, you telephoned a certain Edgar Ho. He’s already been arrested, by the way. We recovered the USB drive.”

  Colbert kept his mouth shut, reasoning that they couldn’t prove anything against him. Oh God. Wait. His fingerprints would be on the USB drive! He should have worn gloves …

  But the information was definitely in China by now. That kid last night would have uploaded it within minutes of receiving the USB drive. So whatever happened to Colbert, he’d already succeeded.

  He mustered defiance. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “That remains to be seen. What did Ralf Lyons tell you about the Spirit of Humanity project?”

  If they had the USB drive, they already knew, didn’t they? Maybe the man was bluffing. Maybe they didn’t have it.

  The man’s pale eyebrows knitted. “I’m not
playing games here, Senator. What was the substance of that conversation?”

  “My wife!” Colbert blurted. “Is she all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “You goddamn spooks are capable of anything.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” the man said. He made a quick twitching movement, and a gun jumped into his hand like it was spring-loaded. An extension on the barrel had to be a suppressor.

  Colbert soiled himself.

  The man laughed grimly. “Last chance, Senator. What did Ralf Lyons tell you?”

  “The Spirit of Humanity is a warship,” Colbert said. “We’re going out there to blow the aliens away.”

  “Creeping cheetos,” the man swore. “That’s what you told Edgar Ho?”

  “There were emails on the drive. Sketches, he said. Specifications. I don’t know.”

  The man’s pale cheeks reddened. “Congratulations, Senator. You’ve jeopardized America’s national security, and the future of humanity. Not bad for a night’s work.”

  “So it’s true? The aliens are hostile?”

  The man’s pale gaze seemed to come back from a very long way away. “There are no aliens,” he said. “There’s just a busted-up old alien spaceship going round Europa on autopilot.”

  Colbert’s jaw dropped. Profound relief spread through him. The man’s words dispelled a fear he had scarcely been aware of harboring … only to replace it with an even more immediate and personal fear of the human being in front of him.

  Would they tell him this, and then let him walk away?

  “Yep,” the man said. “The ship is a hulk. You don’t even need a telescope to know that. All you need’s a brain. If there were any living aliens on board, they would be emitting radio signals, moving the ship, or engaging in some other sort of activity we could detect. My own agency has been trying to raise ‘em for four years. Targeted, tailored messages designed by the top experts in the field. Four goddamn years we’ve been saying hello, hola, bonjour, konnichiwa … nothing. There are no little green men, but there is a pile of money to be made.”

  “Oh, so that’s your game,” Colbert muttered.