He said nothing. All he could do was wonder how to say, “We surrender,” in whatever alien tongue the attackers spoke, if indeed they spoke any language at all.
* * * *
The FBI Director had been injured; she had been hit with flying glass from an attack. The CIA Director, having called in sick, thereby extending his vacation at his second home in Easton, Maryland, across the Chesapeake, had not been heard from since the attacks began. Two CIA analysts, Kimmells and Blix, were poring over reports on their laptops, directing occasional nervous glances toward the president. He eyed them suspiciously. They should be trustworthy: they were career analysts, but he was paranoid at the moment. The people around him weren't giving him answers, and giving him answers was the primary job of the people around him. They should all know this by now.
Additionally, emergency talks with other world leaders had been as helpful as a chat with an IRS telephone information center. The Russians, the Chinese, and various NATO leaders could do little but confirm they were enduring the same fate. They all agreed to stand firm against the aggression, not give an inch. Useless posturing.
He looked to his right. “I've got to get on the air and say something. Something to calm and reassure them. They expect leadership, deserve it, demand it. If we survive this, if we don't all get fried, they'll just turn around and roast me at the polls next November."
His ashen speechwriter nodded and gazed at an empty note pad. Three TV screens high on the wall gave flickering images—endless reports of major amounts of minor destruction on all continents. On one station, the citizenry was being interviewed. One woman said, “It's like, way totally unfair. We didn't do anything to anybody and they're totally bombing us. Are we supposed to like ... hide or something? I'd be way pissed off if I weren't so totally freaked. What do I do now?"
Others being interviewed were equally confused and unenlightened.
“It just doesn't make any sense, sir,” came a voice from across the table. Bernard Swick, National Security Advisor, was visibly shaken. His chin quivered; his jowls wagged. “Their technology is so far advanced we can't even remotely determine how it works and don't have the slightest clue as to what it is. There's no detectable beam or energy transmission. They could easily have wiped us out by now. But the attacks are completely random. Not on our key infrastructure, defense, or high technology. Mostly civilian. Totally chaotic. There's no logic to it at all."
“Unless they want to create terror before eliminating us. Unless they have some other motivation. Unless. Unless. You and the Secretary of Defense need to determine what they're doing and how they're doing it. Immediately. Find any weakness to exploit. Whatever their plan is, I expect you to stop it. Understood?"
“Yes sir.” Swick got up to leave, at which point the Secret Service refused to open the blast door until the president turned around and barked at them to let him out.
Harrison grasped at a frenzied dust devil of random thoughts, trying to hold each of them still where he could look at them. At least his wife, Brittany, and the two kids were safe. At least for now. They were in another bunker—an Uncle Sam cave with all the amenities. But what did the supposed illogic behind these attacks mean? What did any of it mean?
He went over and sat across from the CIA analysts. “What patterns are there to the attacks? There's got to be something."
Kimmells pursed his lips, thinking about this, as if there were time for idle pondering. “Well, Mr. President, I can't say there's a pattern to whom they're attacking, but we have been able to deduce a couple things."
“Which may be mostly irrelevant,” said Blix.
“Yes, but not entirely irrelevant,” said Kimmells.
“That's true,” said Blix.
Kimmells looked to his left. “Stop interrupting. You're distracting me."
Blix clamped his mouth shut and stared defiantly at the wall.
“You see, Mr. President, most of the attacks have been on the surface. Houses, cars, parks, apartment buildings. The zone of annihilation is always spherical. And normally eight feet or so in diameter."
“But not always,” said Blix.
Kimmells shot him a look. Blix returned to his computer.
“Some of these spherical zones are larger. A few. But below ground they're all larger. All reports of attacks on basements, root cellars, and the like have had kill zones of twenty feet or more. And depth seems to be significant. For example, there was an attack on an office building over on K Street, one level below ground, twenty feet in diameter. A few minutes later, on the other side of that same building, an attack two levels down, twenty-eight feet in diameter. Sad, actually: it was a policeman and his dog, highly decorated, and he was investigating—"
“The policeman, not the dog,” Blix interrupted.
“What?” Kimmells spun around.
“The policeman was the decorated party. Just clarifying. The way you structured that sentence, it sounded like—"
“Of course, the policeman! Blix, you're not helping!” Kimmells turned back to Harrison. “My point, Mr. President, should I be permitted to finish it: the farther below ground the room is, the bigger the sphere.” He took a deep breath. “It could mean they're testing their weaponry in some fashion."
“But we think that unlikely,” said Blix.
“That's right. Unlikely. They could have tested it anywhere. Not here and now when they're in the process of attacking us. Now it could mean their weaponry requires more power to be activated when surrounded in five out of six directions by soil and rock—"
“But we think that unlikely also,” said Blix.
Kimmells sighed. “Yes. Unlikely also."
Harrison leaned forward, his temper long since missing in action, his patience on a short leash. “Get to the point. What's the most likely conclusion?"
“Well, it could well mean their detection and/or targeting technology utilizes data gathered multi-directionally—in three dimensions—and therefore is less effective below ground."
“I don't understand. Why would that result in larger explosions?"
Kimmells held up his index fingers and stared at the space between them as if the answer resided in, and could be divined from, that exact location. “Well, if they're having difficulty obtaining a bio-sign reading, or getting an exact lock on the individual's location, they could simply boost their power output and destroy a larger area ... theoretically."
Difficulty obtaining a bio-sign reading. Growing slightly hopeful, Harrison said, almost whispered, “Any reports of attacks this deep?"
“Oh, no sir. Not even close."
Harrison felt his shoulders relax and experienced a rush of hope. Only then did he become aware of the ignoble fact that most of his tension had been tied into concern for his own survival, not that of his fellow Americans. Partially cognizant that this might be something he would have felt guilty about in years past, he nonetheless managed not to let it derail his feeling of relief.
Blix chuckled. “But statistically speaking, Mr. President, that doesn't mean very much. After all, very few people work at this depth. So, if attacks are random, based on probability it might take quite a while—"
“Yes. I get your point.” So much for relief. He looked at Kimmells. “Is there any pattern to the attacks? Anything at all?"
“Well, Mr. President, there's so much chaos, it's hard to tell. And there's so much raw data, it's a gargantuan task for headquarters to sort it all. We're being sent any relevant information as fast as they compile it. The targets have been homes, offices, veterinary clinics, beauty salons, police stations, airplanes, municipal parks, duck blinds, urban, rural ... you name it."
Harrison looked down, but held up his right index finger to indicate he had heard enough for the moment. An image of a duck blind flitted nervously through his mind, frantically searching for a place to settle down and make sense, on a quest for meaning where it could fit properly into a greater whole. It failed.
“Okay. What about the size of the .
.. kill zone. You said some were larger."
Kimmells smiled, a slightly goofy and sheepish grin. “Well, the largest one reported so far was, uncharacteristically, above ground and was on what Blix and I are calling the ‘busload of blind bigots.’”
“You're joking.” Harrison stared at the pair of analysts, wondering who hired them. He also wondered how he had gotten stuck with these two, of all people, in the middle of this crisis. “A busload of blind bigots,” he said incredulously.
“Yes sir,” said Kimmells. “It seems there was a charter bus full of blind members of the KKK on their way to an annual party in Biloxi, Mississippi. They go there each year for Easter, to gamble away the holiday. The attack took out the driver, the passengers, the entire bus, and a healthy chunk of Interstate 10. We estimate a diameter of 60 feet. And a whole mess of other cars behind them drove right into the crater."
Harrison rubbed his eyes. Despite himself, he wondered how blind people gambled. Then he wondered—if they were both KKK and blind—how they would know they hadn't put their hoods on backwards. Shaking his head, he wondered if present company was possibly getting to him.
He confronted Blix accusatively. “What's taking so long with my order to attempt communication with the aliens?"
“Well, sir, they're working on it, but we're a bit short-handed. Some people went home to their families as soon as the chaos began. And some of our guys overslept. A big Caribbean theme-party last night. I wasn't invited, but ... Wait.” Looking at his computer screen, he grinned. “What do you know? They've just informed me they're ready! Just when you need something, if you try, sometimes, well, you get what you need. I was just telling Kimmells here—"
“Shut up and prepare to send my message.” Harrison forced himself to concentrate on the issue at hand. He thought of all the exhortations of foreign leaders—to stand firm, to talk tough with the aliens, threaten massive retaliation. A big bluff. He thought of all the people dying with every minute that passed and all the additional people that would die while he pretended he could fight them—a nameless them, likely as advanced over us as we are over our cave dwelling ancestors. He wondered what kind of a leader he would be if he didn't at least try to stand up to them. He thought of the cheering crowds at his campaign stops, the friendly, innocent faces.
“Tell them we surrender. Tell them we will cooperate with them in any way they require if they will stop the attacks."
The message was relayed along a circuitous path to conceal the whereabouts of the president, then sent skyward on multiple frequencies. They waited.
Harrison repeatedly walked the length of the conference table, trying to shrug off a suffocating aura of guilt at his impotence and concentrate on a solution. He stopped pacing and turned to face Kimmells.
“Where aren't they attacking?"
“Sir?'
“Where aren't they attacking? You told me what types of places they are attacking. What types of places aren't they attacking?"
“Well, sir ... I—"
“Movie theaters,” said Blix. “Not one report of an attack on any theaters."
“Well, come to think of it, Mr. President,” said Kimmells, “we don't know of any attacks on grocery stores yet."
“Or hospitals,” said Blix. “Except for one. We did get one report just in the last few minutes of an attack on a hospital basement. Three levels down. Forty foot diameter. Took out everyone hiding there. And a chunk of the morgue. But that's the only one so far."
“Are people dying in every attack?"
“Not at all,” said Kimmells. “Many houses have been hit when the owners were out."
“Possibly at the theater,” said Blix.
Kimmells glared at his associate, looked back at the president, took a deep breath, and said, “Anyway ... no. One report from a man says an attack took out several of his prize sheep. And his best sheepdog. And we have reports from park rangers in the Angeles National Forest, north of LA, of blasts out in the woods, in completely unpopulated areas. And from forest rangers elsewhere as well. And then, well, there was what could only be described as an odd one—"
“We're receiving an answer!” Blix shouted. “They've sent back a message. It's coming through now."
Harrison quickly slid over the conference table and landed on the floor next to Blix. On the screen was their reply: WE DO NOT REQUEST YOUR SURRENDER. WE DO NOT REQUIRE YOUR COOPERATION.
Harrison stared at the screen with a stiffness that mirrored his catatonic wits. That was their reply?
After a moment, he said, “Send this message. ‘Then why, in the name of humanity, are you attacking us?'” He collapsed into the chair.
“This next response should be quicker,” said Blix. Weary and frustrated, Harrison raised his head and stared at him. “Well, sir, they had to learn how to respond. Maybe even learn our language. And look, they answered intelligibly and with proper grammar."
He then returned to his computer, his enthusiastic countenance withered by the president's glare.
Blix was right. Soon the answer came: WE ARE NOT ATTACKING YOU.
Seething with anger, Harrison said, “What the hell are they trying to pull? Okay. Send this: ‘You have attacked us around our entire world. Stop immediately. We will not sit idly by as you exterminate us.'” He gazed at the ceiling. “As if we could stop them,” he muttered.
He went to the other end of the conference table and argued with his speechwriter, whose note pad was suspiciously devoid of anything resembling a speech. Kimmells and Blix took the opportunity to bicker with each other, after which they returned to their research, but not before Blix accused Kimmells of possessing neither the insight nor the courage that Mulder would show in a similar situation.
Soon Harrison was called back over. The response had arrived: WE ARE NOT ATTACKING YOU. WE ARE NOT EXTERMINATING YOUR SPECIES.
Blix raised an eyebrow at Kimmells, who bristled at Blix like the more irritable half of a long-married couple. “So?"
Blix then raised both eyebrows. Kimmells's eyes flared. “I don't want to hear it!"
Harrison—whose whirlwind of thoughts had lost its speed but had disrespectfully dumped the clutter of ideas on him in a heap—ignored their bickering. “This is insane! What are they doing? How do we stop it? Okay. Send this: ‘If you are not attacking us, what the hell are you doing?’ Yes, that's exactly how I want you to say it. ‘If you are not attacking us, what the hell are you doing and why?’ Send it now."
He looked at Kimmells in despair. “Does it appear they're trying to deceive us with these answers? Or could it be ... we think so differently that they don't understand us ... or we don't understand them?"
“Any of those possibilities could exist,” said Kimmells.
Blix looked away, clearing his throat.
Kimmells continued. “They seem to be responding only to the direct communications you give them. So we get terse answers. But this time you asked what they were doing and why. Perhaps that will elicit a more detailed response. But it's also possible they misunderstand our communication somehow."
“Or not,” said Blix.
Kimmells sighed abruptly, nervously. “Mr. President, there is one theory developing, and Blix thinks it probable. You see, based on some of the attacks and now this reply by the aliens that they are not exterminating our species ... well, sir ... there's the ... the possibility that they're actually attacking our ... well, sir, there's the possibility they're actually attacking our pets.... Sir."
Harrison coughed uncontrollably for a few seconds, silently vowing that if his CIA Director proved to be still alive, he would strangle him at the first opportunity.
“You're joking. Or you're insane."
Blix eagerly turned to face him. “To be more specific, Mr. President, I believe they're attacking our dogs.” He looked at Harrison with a wide-eyed innocence that made him appear even more ridiculous. “It was hard to filter this out at first with all the confusion, but it's possible that dogs have been t
he target of all attacks. Human deaths are likely just collateral damage. Or sheep deaths, for that matter,” he said with a chuckle.
Stunned now more than angry, Harrison tried to process the information. Okay, so there was a dog that a man lost along with his sheep. There was that policeman and his dog. Parks are often filled with people walking their dogs. Families trying to hide would go into their basements or public shelters with their ... Veterinary offices filled with ... Okay. Okay. But this did not in any way constitute proof. As he was about to say so, the image of the duck blind flapped its way back into his consciousness, exhausted from its migration and still searching for a place to rest. This time it was complete with two hunters and an English Setter. No. How in the name of cross-eyed, crack-smoking Uncle Sam was he supposed to believe something like this?
“What about the airplanes?” he blurted out.
“The airplanes were all destroyed from blasts to the cargo area,” said Blix. “Where the dogs are carried. Also, we've recently had two reports of people cut in half by the spherical blast zones while walking their dogs: either poor targeting or the humans weren't the target to begin with. And lots of houses attacked when the owners were out. It was your question about where they weren't attacking that got me going. Movie theaters. When's the last time you saw a dog in a movie theater?'
Far from ready to embrace either the premise or its messenger, Harrison ignored the question. “What about the blasts in the woods?” He found himself compulsively making a fist on the surface of the table.
“Coyotes, I suppose. Or wolves. All the same species, you know."
“They are not,” said Kimmells.
“Are too,” said Blix, through gritted teeth.
“Well, what about those ... that KKK bus?"
“Blind, sir. Guide dogs. A whole pack of Klan guide dogs, I presume."
As much as Harrison wanted to believe a scenario that didn't end with the destruction of humanity, he still was not about to take this person's idea seriously. And he tightened his fist a little more. “Have you always been prone to wild and crazy delusions?"
Analog SFF, June 2006 Page 12
