The Cocoon Trilogy

by David Saperstein

  Four of the expectant mothers on board had taken off-planet mates. Rather than separate these couples, those who required special environments had been put into a state of suspended animation and sealed in cocoons engineered by the Antareans. Each contained the required gasses, light spectrum and nourishment for each particular race of humanoids. Much like the Antarean cocoons now resting on Earth’s ocean floor, the containers could function indefinitely, preserving the precious life within.

  Precious life were the key operative words throughout the galaxy. It was, in fact, the primary reason why this Watership now raced toward Earth. The birth law, like most laws advanced and enlightened living beings adhered to, was sacrosanct:

  “All new life to come is a gift. Whenever possible, the birth of new ones is to be accomplished upon the home planet of the mother, or the egg bearer, or the divider. The highest priority of passage is to be given to any and all travelers who ask to be taken to home planet for the purpose of giving birth. This right shall be denied to no life form.”

  This Watership, along with members of the Geriatric Brigade, was now on that sacred mission.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN – THE OVAL OFFICE

  The President of the United States sipped his black coffee and smiled cordially at the attractive woman now seated across from him. She was relaxed and comfortable, settled in the pale blue armchair. Her forest-green dress blended perfectly with the chair’s fabric and dark blue carpet, both emblazoned with the presidential seal. They had been introduced by Caleb Harris and Margo McNeil, the President’s Press Secretary. After the amenities they both had left the Oval Office, leaving the President alone with Alma Finley. He quietly admired her good looks as he mused to himself, “They say this woman is almost twenty years older than me and she’s just about the sexiest female I’ve laid eyes on in weeks.”

  President Malcolm Teller, a Democrat from the Deep South, was sixty-three and the first president to be divorced while in office. His wife had waited until his first term was over, and the official party announcement made that Teller would seek a second term, before she filed for divorce. Her grounds were adultery. She made the proof a public campaign issue. To the chagrin of the Republicans, now controlled by the Evangelical Right, and Teller’s enemies in his own party, the public that always liked the underdog, perceived the President was a wronged man. Since it had been widely rumored that both Teller and his wife led separate private lives, his wife’s denunciation came as no surprise to the Washington press corps and the knowledgeable public. He was a man caught by a wife whose own sexual activities and proclivities would not stand the scrutiny of a public investigation either. This was not fair play. As Margaret Simpson Teller wrung her hands and bemoaned her role as the betrayed wife, the voters chuckled to themselves. The spokesmen for the white Christian Right and their Evangelical television preachers were as voices in the wilderness. The media didn’t buy it. Mainstream television didn’t bite. Only the sensationalistic rags and Teller’s enemies in the media picked up on the story, much to the chagrin of the Grand Old Party who counted on public rejection of a “sinner” and saw only understanding instead.

  Malcolm Teller was reelected in a close, hotly contested race. With his place as a two-term president secure, he openly dated, inviting some as not so secret overnight house guests in the White House. Many of the nearly seventy million baby boomers, born after the end of WWII in 1945 and the engine of the turbulent 1960’s, almost regarded their President’s open dating and sexual activities as patriotic. Telling stories about the sexual appetites of past presidents, long kept secret by a protective and elite Washington press corps, was now a popular parlor game.

  “Women are my friends,” Teller proclaimed when questioned about his rumored affair with the attractive fifty-three-year-old shapely blonde, blue-eyed Prime Minister of Sweden. “And when they are as brilliant and attractive as Prime Minister Johanssen, then,” he announced, “I say let the courses of nature and national interest converge and go forward together!”

  He was comfortable with women and secure with himself. But there was something unnerving about Alma Finley.

  “I think you’re attractive too, Mr. President,” Alma said softly a moment after Margo McNeil had closed the Oval Office door behind her.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said, wondering if his carnal thoughts about this woman were somehow showing on his handsome, suntanned face. “Did I say something I didn’t hear?”

  “No, Mr. President” she laughed gently, “you didn’t say a word. But you thought it, didn’t you?”

  “Thought what?” he asked, growing uneasy. Margo McNeil had asked that he see this Mrs. Finley as a personal favor. The Press Secretary and he were supposed to spend the weekend alone at Camp David. He knew Margo was looking forward to, so it surprised him when she asked that they delay their departure. He was sure this had originally been a fifteen-minute appointment, but when the Press Secretary introduced Mrs. Finley she inexplicably remarked that she and Caleb Harris would be back in thirty minutes.

  “You were thinking I’m a sexually attractive woman, and you were surprised you felt that way because of my age.”

  “How in the name of . . . are you a . . . one of those mediums?”

  “No.” He stiffened.

  “Well, I guess my press notices proceed me. Good guess.” Alma put down her coffee cup and settled back in the comfortable antique armchair. As she did, the President, seated on a matching divan across from her, leaned forward, his dark brown eyes focusing on her calm, intelligent face. He concentrated his attention. “Exactly what can I do for you, Mrs. Finley?”

  “You can just listen for fifteen minutes, Mr. President. I’m going to tell you the very best story you’ve ever heard.”

  And she did.

  The weekend at Camp David was cancelled, as were most of the presidential appointments for the next few days. The Secretary of Defense, Gideon Mersky, one of Malcolm Teller’s oldest friends and closest advisors, was summoned to the White House. He arrived to find Caleb, Margo, Alma and the President huddled in a meeting in the Oval Office. Alma, in the interest of saving time, tuned into the Secretary’s mind and quickly brought him up to speed. The process so amazed him that immediately, convinced she was telling the truth, became enthusiastic and excited.

  “Mal,” he began, addressing the President in familiar terms, “do you realize what this means to the country? Imagine having a woman, no . . . what did you say, four people? . . . right, four Americans capable of listening in on our enemies’ most secret thoughts . . . of telepathing information securely all around the world . . . of having the experience of . . . what shall I call it . . . alien technology. It boggles the mind, Mal. It’s absolutely sensational.”

  “No, Mr. Secretary. We will not to be involved that way.” Alma was firm. She allowed her annoyance to permeate the minds of the others in the room. With the exception of Gideon Mersky, the others understood Alma’s concerns. But the tough Defense Secretary shrugged off Alma’s objection.

  “Mrs. Finley,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, “I understand you are under certain . . . restrictions, shall we say? I can, uh, live with that. I can live with the fact that you have made promises; sworn allegiances to other planets, governments, whatever. But unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, you are now back on, as you put it, home plane The land of your birth. You are an American citizen under American law. It may well be that you will have to decide your loyalties either to America or to these aliens. Antareans you call them, who I might point out, although welcome, are still in this country illegally.”

  Nervous silent filled the room. Alma blocked her thoughts and reached out to Ben, Joe and Mary. In an instant they communicated, discussed and concurred.

  Then we have nothing more to discuss, Mr. President. Thank you for your time. Thank you, Caleb and Margo. I’ll be going now.”

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Finley,” the President said. He turned his attention toward the Defense Secre
tary. “Perhaps you haven’t grasped the total situation here, Gideon.”

  “I’ve grasped it Mal. This woman, and her people want us to help them. Fine. All I’ve said is that we could use their help as well.”

  Caleb Harris couldn’t contain himself anymore. “You’re an idiot, Mersky.”

  “What you think of me personally is of little consequence, Caleb. I’m here speaking the Secretary of Defense; as an advisor to the President; as the person with the mission to keep this country free and strong, and as an American.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that this situation might go beyond those rather parochial boundaries?” Caleb responded.

  “There’s nothing parochial about being an American…”

  “Let’s stop this nonsense immediately!” Interrupting, the President was on his feet. “I apologize for this, Mrs. Finley. Gideon here means well, but he’s a bit of a zealot. I don’t think he’s quite grasped the enormity of the situation, or its importance in the context of human history.”

  “I understand Mr. Mersky’s position,” Alma said calmly. It’s all very natural. Very human. In fact, one of the most interesting conversations, or rather confrontations I should say, that we Earth-humans had during our orientation and training was regarding our ideas about nationalism. The Antareans, who have been space travelers for thousand of years, have carried the code, the unwritten laws, to many parts of our galaxy. When we few humans, who had lived on this little speck of a blue planet, first stepped out into the cosmos, one of the first attachments we lost, and oddly clung to at the same time, was our citizenship of Earth. The dichotomy of that fact was driven home as we watched our home-planet dwindle and finally disappear into the black void. The strange thing was that none of us ever referred to ourselves as Americans again. We were of Earth, or bipedal, human, humanoid or warm-blooded mammal dweller from Quad 3. But never American. I suppose it would be like someone at a world conference of nations proclaiming he was from Yonkers or Keokuc or Sacramento. Too provincial or parochial. In deep space we don’t talk of such things. We know the scope of our vast galaxy; the variety of life, society and civilization out there. It would be futile, and honestly quite arrogant, to ever hold nationalism as more important than the preservation of life, one single life, no matter what its origins or physical appearance. We simply don’t live in caves anymore, Mr. President, and though I don’t wish to appear superior to you in any way, almost everyone on this planet still does. I think we made a mistake coming to you. I think we may have made a mistake trying to bear our young on our home-planet.” Alma stood and prepared to leave. “It is not too late to intercept the Watership and have it return to Antares. The cocoons are well hidden, safe and viable. The Antareans can come for them another time.”

  “Please, Mrs. Finley.” The President reached out and took Alma’s hand gently in his own. “Please. A moment. I want you to stay. I want to help you. There will be no strings attached.” He glared at the smug Defense Secretary. “I will personally vouch for the safety and secrecy of your mission. The government of the United States and the powers of this office are at the disposal of you and your friends. Please, stay.”

  Alma knew the President was sincere. She reached to obtain a sense of Mersky’s mind. She stared at him. He returned her stare. He was a tall, gaunt man with a shock of dark curly hair that cascaded unruly, blending with heavy eyebrows and a salt and pepper beard. Dark penetrating eyes were his most dominant feature. They burned with laser intensity. Then he was in her mind. “I don’t know if you can hear me, Mrs. Finley. I am not sorry about what I said, but I will apologize if the President asks me to. However, I want you to understand that I will do whatever he asks or orders me to do. And I will do that with all my strength and energy. That I pledge to you!”

  The corners of Alma’s mouth curved upward slightly. Her gaze softened. “Thank you, Mr. President,” she said aloud, still staring at Gideon Mersky. “And thank you, Mr. Secretary. I am sure you will be a tremendous asset to our mission.”

  The tension in the room abated. They all sat down again, relaxed and eager to begin planning. A secure conference room on the fourth floor of the Executive Office Building adjacent to the White House, was to be temporary headquarters where plans for the Watership’s arrival and the events and actions that would follow as the mothers-to-be of the Geriatric Brigade neared term.

  CHAPTER TWELVE – TO TELL OR NOT TO TELL

  Before dinner Patricia Keane called her oldest daughter, Cynthia, a junior at Emerson College in Boston, and told her to come home and why. Cynthia rushed by taxi to Logan Airport and caught the last Pan Am shuttle to La Guardia Airport. Being the first-born, she had a special relationship with her grandmother. When she arrived home she leaped out of her father’s car and ran to the house. Mary Green was in the kitchen helping Patricia clean the dinner dishes. Cynthia rushed in and hugged her grandmother, tears flowing, squealing for joy.

  “Oh Grandma! Oh God, how I missed you. I love you. Oh!” She squealed. “I am soooo happy!” .

  Mary stroked her first-born grandchild’s hair and held her tightly to her bosom. Cynthia had been a girl of fifteen when she last saw her. Now she was a woman of twenty. The measurement of time passed, of family missed, was most apparent in the changes she saw in Cynthia.

  With everyone gathered, they settled comfortably in the screened porch that served as a family room in summer. It was a warm May evening. Where to begin?

  “Let me begin by telling you about the night we left this planet. So much was happening around us. The others, most of the members of our Geriatric Brigade, were being shuttled out to the submerged Antarean Mothership. Eleven of us remained behind in the processing room because we had chosen to become commanders. Our bodies had already been processed. What was then required was a surgical procedure, a cerebral implant.” At that point she once again showed them the bump on her skull.

  “Did it hurt?” Lisa asked.

  “Not at all. But we had to remain fairly quite for about an hour so that the implant could root itself to our cerebral cortex. While that happened we began to learn how to combine our minds and think and act as one. The power of it was awesome. And then, we could wait no longer. The police were coming because they thought someone had kidnapped a bunch of old people and were torturing them, or worse. We boarded two boats that the Antareans had and made our way out to the Mothership. The Coast Guard was all around, helicopters, cutters, speedboats, police boats . . . it was chaos. The Antareans kept our pursuers confused and at bay while we slipped over the side into the ocean.”

  “You jumped into the ocean at night?” Cori interrupted. “Weren’t you afraid of sharks?”

  “No my dear. We were afraid of nothing. The Mothership was far below, more than four hundred feet, glowing brightly to welcome us. We swam toward it without breathing.”

  “Not breathing?” Michael asked. “How did you…?”

  “Air just wasn’t necessary. It seemed but a few strokes and we were there. A round portal opened below us and we swan to it. It was a wonderful substance, like a membrane that allowed us through but kept out the sea. My first impression of the Mothership was that it was bright and warm and above all, safe. The others - the old people we had gathered from all over the country from the abject poverty of Collins Avenue, from degrading nursing homes, from our old friends who hadn’t moved to Florida were all there. We eleven were their leaders. Everyone was in awe, smiling and excited. Alive!”

  The Keane family sat enthralled by Mary’s story. She continued, describing the takeoff, the journey away from their Mother planet, the long weeks of learning, teaching, training for their new lives. And finally, their arrival on Parma Quad 2. Mary then spoke about that planet where they’d spent nearly two years, and other places that she and Ben had visited as commanders and teachers on the Antarean Mothership.

  From time to time, when she wanted to make a point or clarify a location, they stepped outside the porch into the backyard to gaze up at
a star-filled sky. Mary identified certain stars as systems she had visited with Ben and the Antarean Mothership after leaving Parma Quad 2. There was unbelievable wonder, even in the eyes of her cynical Wall-Street–hardened son-in-law when casually, she pointed out a star and said, “We were there just about seven months ago on a survey measuring the rate of expansion of the Talican planetary system. Then we returned to Parma Quad 2, over there.” Her finger swept across the midnight sky to the Dog Star, Sirius.

  “I’m not astronomer, but that seems like quite a distance, mom,” Michael remarked, tracking the vast expanse of cosmos between the two stars.

  “From here it is,” Mary answered. “Up there it’s a little closer. Of course, with the Parman guides we travel pretty fast. It depends on their star fix and the rate of ultraviolet absorption they set.”

  “The speed of light?” Cori said. She was a straight A student, quite the opposite of her sister Lisa, whose one dream was to live in Beverly Hills and be a movie star.

  “Of course,” Lisa answered unexpectedly. “They have to travel that fast or they wouldn’t be here.”

  “It means,” Michael Keane interjected, “that we are looking at stars as they were before Grandma was there because it takes the light from those stars years to reach us here.”

  “Then how did Grandma get here before that light if she traveled at the speed of light?” Cori asked. No one answered. Mary chuckled and turned to all of them.

  “I said we travel fast, dear hearts, but I never said at the speed of light. No, light speed would take way too long. The Antareans, with their Parman guides, can displace space. In effect, they bend it. Something like using the shortest distance between two points by moving those points closer together and then traveling along the new distance created.”