The Sha'lee Resurrection

by Paul G White

  As the car swept along the Western Highway into the township of Georgeville, Makeman reached over and casually paused the player between songs. Carter glanced over at his friend enquiringly.

  “You realise Margaret’s been given the bait, don’t you, Mike?”

  Carter nodded. “I thought you’d probably take advantage of the opportunity while I was away, considering how I felt about her.”

  “Lars thought it was best. At least it takes you out of the equation as far as Margaret is concerned, and leaves the way open for the two of you if she’s not the mole after all.”

  Makeman flicked the indicator and turned left onto Chiquibul Road, which meandered into the foothills and continued in a forty kilometre loop back to the Western Highway at the town of Santa Elena, ten kilometres from the Guatemalan border.

  “Thanks!” Carter replied. “I can’t imagine, though, that she’s naïve enough to believe I wasn’t involved in the decision-making.”

  “Maybe not, but at least she’ll have the chance to feel in her heart you had nothing to do with it, even if cold logic tells her otherwise.”

  Carter lapsed into a moody silence until the vehicle made a left onto a dirt road, at the end of which lay the archaeological site. Once on the dirt road, Carter’s gloom began to lift; the mere presence of the nearby site and its alien wonders acted like a tonic on Carter’s jaded spirits, and by the time they crunched into the parking area at the site, he was able to smile.

  “Thanks for the ride, and sorry I haven’t been the best of company. Between our friend, Craithie and the situation with the mole, I think I let events get to me a bit.”

  “No problem. Look, Mike, I’ll help you with your luggage, and then you can freshen up. Lars wanted to see us both as soon as we arrive, so I’ll let him know you’re here, OK?”

  Carter grinned and sniffed theatrically as if Makeman had made a comment about his personal hygiene. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll have a cold beer ready.”

  Ten minutes later, Carter breezed into Hendriksson’s office. He found the director, Minister Hernandez, Hal Kleineman and Phil Makeman seated around a table, brought in for the occasion. In a cooler in the middle of the table was an ice-cold beer. The other four present each had his own partially consumed beer. Carter took a seat and waited expectantly.

  Hendriksson took a small, almost delicate sip of his drink and asked, “Has Phil mentioned when we intend to commence the awakening of the first of our guests?”

  “He mentioned it would be after breakfast the day after tomorrow. Have we got everything ready?”

  “We’ve been working with Hela and we believe we have done everything within our power to prepare ourselves. The medical staff are ready – in fact, they can’t wait.” He smiled as if at some private joke. “They are torn between two opposing scenarios. On the one hand they want everything to go so smoothly they have to do absolutely nothing; and on the other, they would relish having to intervene to save alien lives. Let us all hope the procedures instigated by the AI prove flawless, because I personally would rather trust Sha’lee procedures for Sha’lee until human doctors have gained sufficient experience of their alien physiology.”

  Hal Kleineman’s eyes twinkled as he said, “All we can do now is wait until the day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, I think Mike should tell us all about his trip to New York.” His eyes twinkled even more as he added, “Word on the Net is that it was a pretty eventful half-hour, but the episode hasn’t made it onto the Net yet. Is the gossip to be believed, Mike?”

  “All I can do is repeat what happened and you can make your mind up whether the whispers are accurate.” Carter then proceeded to give a detailed account of the events in the Izzy Longman show.

  Everyone – even Juan Hernandez, who normally exuded an aura of polite reserve – laughed when they heard that John Craithie and his bodyguards had been jailed for their violent conduct.

  “One thing, though,” Carter told them, “Izzy Longman requested an interview with one of the Sha’lee when they are awake and fully recovered. He believed, and I’m inclined to agree, that assuming they are not mindlessly aggressive and hell-bent on planetary conquest, an interview would go a long way towards allaying anyone’s fear of them. As I said on the show, the Sha’lee may originally have intended to stay on Earth as settlers, but now they are refugees, who are immensely far from home. I think that particular point struck a chord with Izzy, and I hope with most of his audience.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  PGWNewspapers

  PublicGovernmentWorldNewsCorporation

  23rd November 2028 Correspondent James Whay

  We have just received a report from our source in the Maya Mountains of Belize, that the first of the creatures on board the alien spacecraft will be brought out of cryogenic sleep at 09:00 Belize time (15:00 Greenwich Mean Time) on 24th November 2028. This will be a momentous event for mankind, and promises to surpass even the news of the spacecraft’s discovery in June 2028.

  *

  Mike Carter reread the news item on his computer screen for the third time, but the content stubbornly refused to change. He felt his heart constrict in his chest. For the preceding few days he had nursed the hope that Margaret Blythe would prove not to be involved in passing information to the Newspapers, but the evidence of her perfidy was here, in bold print, for everyone to see.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to see that,” Phil Makeman sympathised over his shoulder. “Life’s a bitch, isn’t it? Just when you thought—”

  “Thanks, Phil,” Carter growled, “but sympathy isn’t what I’m looking for right now. What I want is some kind of explanation that doesn’t stretch my credibility too far. I think she owes me that much.”

  “Probably,” Makeman agreed. “Would you like me to bring Margaret to the director’s office while you get the others together? Or would you rather it was the other way round?”

  “I’ll get her and we’ll be there in about ten minutes, OK?”

  Makeman nodded and set off to find Hal Kleineman.

  *

  Carter’s features were set in an uncharacteristically stern expression as he led Margaret Blythe through the door of Hendriksson’s office. Her face was drained of all colour and she had clearly been weeping. The minimal mascara she normally wore to accentuate her green eyes had run down both cheeks and puddled in dimples at the corners of her mouth. She presented a pathetic figure, and the normally macho Makeman felt immediate sympathy for the exobiologist. Carter stood beside her, staring out of the window, saying nothing.

  Director Hendriksson said quietly, “Please take a seat, Miss Blythe, whilst I ask you some questions.”

  The exobiologist looked forlornly at Carter and then quietly sat down.

  Hendriksson began, “I take it you know why you are here, Miss Blythe?”

  “Y-yes, Mike told me on the way over here.”

  “Would you like to offer an explanation for what you have done? And please, be truthful; we have no wish to involve the police in Belmopan, but we are prepared to do so if we feel you have been less than truthful.”

  Margaret Blythe stared at the floor and said nothing for more than half a minute; then she said, “It was the money. I needed the money.”

  “How was that possible?” Hendriksson enquired. “When you came to this site, you could have had no notion what was going on here. Yet to do what you say, you must have made prior arrangements with certain elements of the media. Otherwise, how would you have known whom to contact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what, Miss Blythe?”

  “Yes, I did have a prior arrangement – more than one, in fact. You see, as an exobiologist there was a strong chance that I would be seconded to any team if ever aliens were to visit Earth. I propositioned certain newspapers and offered them early news of any such contact – a scoop, if you will – for a retainer, of course. When I received a mysterious invitation to drop everything and come to B
elize, I imagined that the time of contact had arrived. I wasn’t prepared for what I found here.”

  “I’ll bet you weren’t,” Makeman commented.

  “Thank you, Phil, but please permit Miss Blythe to answer my questions without interruption. This is a difficult enough situation without anyone resorting to unwanted comments. Now, Miss Blythe, you say that you passed information to the press for money. Did you also pass sensitive information to John Craithie?”

  Margaret Blythe paled even more. “How could anyone even think such a thing?” she protested. “John Craithie and I hold diametrically opposite views about aliens. I believe Mr Craithie to be a very dangerous man, who showed at the outset that he is at best deluded and at worst utterly corrupt and evil.”

  “Then your reaction to Mr Craithie’s invitation to leave the site with him was not in any way pre-planned?”

  “How could it have been?” the exobiologist protested. “Even on arrival at the site, I still had doubts about why I had been invited. And as for Mr Craithie, his reaction to the presence of the Comora proved that an alien spaceship was probably the last thing on Earth he expected to see. If he had even suspected the presence of the Comora, I can’t imagine he would have been persuaded to come to Belize. Can you?”

  Hendriksson looked around at the others. Everyone was shaking their heads. A smile hovered on Phil Makeman’s lips. “This is no laughing matter, Phil.”

  Makeman came abruptly out of his private thoughts. “Sorry, Lars, I was just imagining Craithie’s face if he’d received a direct invitation to dig up a spaceship – and it wasn’t pretty.”

  Hendriksson almost smiled, but he managed to maintain his serious demeanour. “Now, Miss Blythe, please tell us why you felt compelled to become a mole.” From the way he enunciated the word, the director clearly found the concept distasteful.

  Margaret Blythe gazed at Carter, tears brimming in her eyes and threatening to add to the black streaks down her cheeks. “Family debts,” she whispered.

  “Please explain what you mean by family debts.”

  “My ex-husband accumulated a considerable amount of debt, firstly from failed business ventures and later, by gambling in an attempt to pay off the debts. When he walked out, I began to receive demands that I could not hope to honour, and so I lost the house – and a considerable amount of money.”

  Carter found himself asking, “How come you were saddled with your husband’s debts?”

  “Because, naively, I trusted him. He obtained loans and goods in my name, and I never knew until the demands started arriving. Then it was too late. He had disappeared without trace and I was left nursing a pile of bills. Some time ago, I had been approached by a certain newspaper and invited to provide them with information, but at that time I had no wish to compromise myself or my colleagues. However, when my financial position worsened, and I could see no other course to follow, I phoned a contact number and agreed to their terms. To my relief my money worries were over, and all I had to do was deliver exclusive information in the event of a close encounter.”

  “How long ago was the bargain struck, Miss Blythe?” Hendriksson asked gently.

  “Twelve years, but I want you to understand, I have been quietly reminded of my obligations throughout those twelve years. Which,” she added defiantly, “was unnecessary, because unlike my former husband, I can be relied on to honour any promises I make.”

  To which, Makeman added, “Except confidentiality at this site.”

  Margaret Blythe seemed to shrink even further into herself. “Yes, and I am truly sorry for what I did.” She lifted moist eyes to look at Hendriksson. “I’ll pack my bags, Director, and I would be grateful for a lift to the airport if anyone can bring themselves to help me after the way I have betrayed your trust.”

  Hendriksson glanced around at the faces of his colleagues. Although Margaret Blythe had admitted her betrayal, he could detect no sign of triumph in their body language – not even for the swift-to-judge Phil Makeman. He said, “Please wait outside my office for a moment, Miss Blythe.”

  Margaret rose and walked to the door. Carter rose with her and laid his hand on the handle for perhaps a split second longer than necessary before turning it and allowing her through. She risked a glance at his face, fearing that she would find only disgust and condemnation, but all she could discern was a neutral expression. At least, she thought, Carter didn’t hate her for what she had done, although in some indefinable way, lack of emotion was infinitely worse. She pulled the door closed and prepared to wait.

  As the door closed, the director enquired, “Has anyone any strong opinions on what we should do?”

  As usual, Makeman was first; he seemed to have been born to air instant opinions about anything and everything. “I’m sorry Lars, but you can’t sack her. To me, it seems she’s a victim of a bad marriage and a strong notion that promises are meant to be kept and not broken. I admire her for that even if I don’t agree with the way she’s compromised the site.”

  Hal Kleineman smiled. “You really mean that don’t you, Phil? And, y’know, I reckon I agree with you. However, before we go all dewy eyed, I think we should take the time to ensure that Margaret isn’t shooting us a line. That shouldn’t prove too hard to do, should it? What do you think, Mike?”

  “If this is going to a vote, then I’m abstaining. You know how I felt . . . feel . . . about Margaret and my judgement can’t possibly be sound. Anyway, it’s up to Lars in the end.”

  Hendriksson glanced at each of the others in turn, gauging their feelings. “I have no argument with what you have said, Mike, and I also agree with Hal that we owe it to our hosts, the government of Belize, to ensure that we do not blindly accept what Margaret has told us. I intend to request, through Minister Hernandez, that certain agencies investigate her background to confirm or refute her statement. Once we have the reports, we shall know whether or not to welcome Margaret back into the fold.” He nodded to Phil Makeman. “Please ask Margaret to join us.”

  Makeman complied, and the exobiologist stepped back inside. She had clearly been crying again, and it appeared from the redness around her eyes, most of the time she had waited outside.

  Hendriksson said, “Please sit down, Miss Blythe.”

  Her voice barely audible, she replied, “Thank you.”

  “You understand, Miss Blythe,” Hendriksson began, “that I am not in a position to accept your explanation merely on faith?”

  Margaret nodded, and a solitary tear seeped from the corner of her eye. “I understand.” She waited expectantly for Hendriksson to continue.

  The director obliged. “You realise that I must use whatever means I have at my disposal to check your story? This will probably mean prying into your private life to a point before you were married, and I realise that you may deem such an investigation intrusive and unacceptable. If that is the case, please tell me now and I will do nothing more in that respect.” Hendriksson regarded her expectantly.

  “I agree to an investigation, but you need to know that I have reverted back to my maiden name. My husband’s name was Marc Dennison.”

  “Thank you, Miss Blythe. Now, I must ask you to restrict yourself to your accommodation, until such time as I receive confirmation. Do you agree to these terms?”

  With relief etched into her features, Margaret Blythe replied, “I do, and I assure you that I will make no ripples.”

  She stood, ready to leave and Hendriksson added, “You may be interested to know, Miss Blythe, that I have decided to delay the awakening of the first of our guests until you, or your replacement is able to attend. This is such an important occasion that we cannot even contemplate an awakening without the best experts available at the scene.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Hendriksson. I won’t let you down again.” With a glance at Mike Carter, the exobiologist left the director’s office. The glance revealed the hint of a gleam in Carter’s eyes that she imagined had been lost forever

  To Mike Carter, Margaret
Blythe’s instant acceptance of the investigation and virtual house arrest, suggested a certainty that her story of marriage and debt problems would survive close scrutiny; and she was too intelligent to imagine that the investigation would be an amateur affair. He began to feel hope once again.

  Two days later, Hendriksson downloaded two secure emails as soon as he opened up his computer. Mike Carter walked in through the door ready to discuss final preparations for awakening the first of the aliens from cryogenic sleep.

  Hendriksson regarded Carter over his rimless spectacles. “Would you like to send someone to accompany Miss Blythe to this office?”

  “I’ll do it myself,” Carter told him.

  Hendriksson could barely conceal his surprise. “Don’t you wish to read the reports?”

  “I’d rather not know what’s in them until you tell Margaret,” Carter grunted. “That way I won’t have to try to hide my feelings, and I reckon I’ve done too much of that lately.” He turned on his heels and strode out of the door and across the site towards the hut where Margaret Blythe had spent the preceding two days isolated from her colleagues.

  He knocked on the door and a small voice said, “Come in, Mike.”

  “You don’t seem surprised that I’m here,” Carter offered by way of a greeting.

  “I’ve been watching as much of the activity around the site as I could whilst I was restricted to this hut, and I saw you approaching. What’s the verdict?”

  “I don’t know, and that’s the truth. It might not make much sense, but I wanted to hear it when you did.”

  “Thank you, Mike. Shall we go?” They set off back to the director’s office, Carter clad in his workaday site clothing and Margaret Blythe in a prim grey suit, white blouse and simple black shoes.

  Carter realised she must have dressed this way for the previous couple of days, in anticipation of being called to Hendriksson’s office for what might be the final time.