ARC ONE
FIRST CONTACT
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1
Twelve Thousand Years Later
My name is Anton “Tony” Segerstrom, and in two weeks, I will become the emperor of Earth.
Not just the planet but the entire solar system.
Now, you might be wondering why a former Marine and a broke college student from a no-name town with a blue-collar family managed this nonsensical feat, especially in our modern age with the continuing advancement of technology, feuding geopolitics, and cutthroat globalization. I didn’t conquer one country from the next with an army that I somehow raised overnight, hack through the grid with the latest tech, assassinate a bunch of patronizing politicians and important folk, or attempt an elaborate secret coup across all superpowers.
Those happened years down the line.
It’s simple, really.
The aliens.
That, and my stubborn will and my big fucking mouth.
It had a nice ring to it, didn’t it?
Emperor.
The antiquated title indeed came with ostentatious regalia, the bowing and cooing, and stomach-churning platitudes because, with one command, they might lose their heads. And, believe me, I am not exaggerating; I had the power to do so. But becoming emperor wasn’t as glamorous as I imagined it to be. You built the foundations, watched half of it collapse into pandemonium, and assembled those pieces together with blood, sweat, and so many deaths. Then, repeat that a thousand times. I am a glorified father of billions of bickering and self-serving children who aimed to kill me from stress, anxiety, and bad eating habits.
As for my neighbors in the galaxy, they simply wanted me dead by cutting off my head and making an example out of me. Simple. Concise.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
Let me start from the beginning.
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Officially, they called our run-in with the aliens the Novikov-Whitman First Contact Day, named after the two spacewalking astronauts who unfortunately got sucked up by one of their ships before spitting them into Earth’s orbit. The astronauts were alive for another ninety minutes until their oxygen slowly depleted…and what happened after wasn’t pretty. Besides the morbid hello with Earth’s new neighbors, I called it NLA (Nee-la) day, short for No Longer Alone Day.
Mostly everyone on Earth just called it Forerunner Day, named after me. Again, another long story.
Calling them our new neighbors was technically wrong. They had been here since the dawn of our species’ existence, or perhaps longer than that. They were the secretive and nosy old man on the front porch watching your every move, yet you never knew their name or their life and history. We occasionally wave hello on the off-chance that they’re friendly, you know, to be polite. Then one day, they would cross the vastness of our neighborhood street just to point out what was wrong with your fucking house and what a shit job we did mowing our lawn, and if we didn’t do anything about it, he’d call in the big guns. I shuddered to imagine a bureaucratic Space HOA running our galaxy, which, in hindsight, wasn’t far from the truth. Given the threat, you’d realize your neighbor was a total asshole at that point, and you better stay clear of him. If I could move planet Earth to a more suitable star system and far away from hostile neighbors, I would go in a heartbeat.
At twenty-six years old, I was the oldest sophomore on campus when the alien ships arrived, studying political science, paid in full by the Naval Reserve Officers’ Training Corps, or NROTC. Previously, I served seven years downrange, and enlisted Marines like myself had the opportunity to transition from enlisted to a commissioned officer through the competitive Marine Enlisted Commissioning Education Program (MECEP), which I was lucky enough to be selected by passing half a dozen hoops, written exams, medical and psych evals, and lots of bullshit and groveling for recommendations. My hefty transitional package allowed me to graduate from a twelve-week officer’s candidates school at Quantico and then attend a four-year course at the University of Southern California while maintaining my active duty status and still getting paid as a Staff Sergeant within the next four years, until my next promotion, of course.
I went to school most of the year and went to war during the summer.
To tell you the truth, I didn’t join the Marines because I had a great calling to serve my nation or some patriotic duty instilled in me when I was young. I was the son of a small-town mechanic, a full-blown pacifist; my stepmother, a vice principal of my hometown’s only high school; and my real mother was dead. My stepmother brought two sons from her previous marriage, now twelve and nine, respectively, and I considered them all like my own blood. But my small town of three thousand barely had any opportunities for boys like me, nor a path to college and afford it, so I joined the Marines after my high school graduation, served with them for seven arduous years, and finally decided to pursue a degree.
I hoped that having a military background would help me run for office as a congressman down the line, maybe even as a senator or a president. Most young kids wanted to be president. Politics was a cushy and volatile job; growing up, I was drawn to its competitive nature. And also the status it brought.
High Risk, High Reward, as they say.
A distant dream, perhaps a relic of my childhood memories of leading nations in my backyard against my cousins. You could already tell that at an early age. I was fascinated with leading countries and running a government, mostly in war games with my friends. Not many kids made a hobby out of making up their own country’s name and having a glorified game of battleship and monopoly using grass, rocks, and sticks. This wasn’t the defining reason why I became emperor. But even at a young age, I wasn’t stupid enough to be blinded by the facade of making a career out of my dreams. I didn’t come from loaded money; you needed a shit-ton of it in politics. Especially if you want the highest office in the land. My dad told me so. Why don’t you become a doctor, he said. That’s easier to reach than being president.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
And boy, did I want to become president.
But I took life’s challenge by the balls and tried to make something out of it. Seven years as a Marine. Four years of college. Perhaps, seven more years as a commissioned officer. Then, forty years in public office, and as high up as I could go. It was a backbone of a plan, but it was something. It was a life I could cruise by before time finally decided to bring out the axe and chop off my head.
So there I was, newly integrated into civilian life for less than two years now, busily serving the students in the cafeteria by the lunch counter and sneaking glances on the bloated Essence of Decision: Explaining the Cuban Missile Crisis splayed under the counter when humanity’s world imploded. Back then, I was worried about some fucking tests.
I shouldn’t have gone to my roommate’s spring rush party last night, but when you recently got dumped by a douchebag frat bro through text after nine months of seeing each other and on the night of your birthday, you’re not really thinking well. And now I scrambled to read eighty-five pages before my International Relations quiz later in the afternoon after running for two miles, doing three-minute push-ups and three-minute sit-ups with my platoon at six in the fucking morning. I couldn’t call off work even with a hangover and my body aching. It’s another part of my scholarship—my work-study. I’m surprised that I’m still standing and wide awake.
Another student walked up to the counter. “Good afternoon. What can I get for you?” I asked for the hundredth time today while I focused on my book.
“Well, let’s see…I want Tony,” a familiar voice answered.
I looked up. Amelia Hansen smirked with her nude lipstick, long ebony black hair tied up into a loose ponytail, and brown eyes watching me with nefarious intentions. She was sweating, a plastic water bottle tucked under her armpit, keys to her dormitory dangling from her middle finger, and she wore green yoga pants and a pink knockout mesh tank top. Her gym bag was secured on her back.
I scoffed. “You look like shit.”
She chuckled. “Chill out, staff sergeant. You, too, need to go to the gym more often. Last I remember, you weren’t looking good this morning.”
“Hangover.”
“Out from the desert and into the party scene, huh? You move on quick.”
“Well, the school year’s almost over, so I’ll enjoy it as long as it lasts. I’ll be in Camp Pendleton most of the summer, you know. Summer cruise. The whole shebang.”
“Please, don’t remind me that I’ll miss you for three months. We just plucked you out of the desert not a while ago.”
“Sorry. Don’t really have a choice.”
“Well, it sucks you’re not going to Idaho for the hiking trip with us. River rapids, nature trails, mountains, and fresh air. Hello? Isn’t that the best thing ever? I thought you liked that shit.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. I may be in college, but I am still on active duty. The usual, then?” Amelia nodded. I grabbed her tray and added quinoa, some grilled marinated chicken, and sautéed vegetables.
“Also, I want to check up on you. I’m sorry about Mark,” she said, frowning.
I didn’t remember telling her that last night. “You heard?”
“Jason told me.”
“Speaking of the devil, thank you for reminding me. I need to have a talk with my roommate about privacy.”
“That’s your fault. You know my boyfriend tells me everything, and as your best friend, I should know this thing automatically.”
I smiled. “A lot of guys in my platoon would beg to differ.”
“Well, they haven’t seen you wear diapers and eat mud, have they?”
“No to the diapers, but does sand count for the latter?”
Amelia barked a laugh. “Anyway, I was hoping you’d ditch Pendleton for Idaho. A month with nature will do you good post-breakup.”
“Not unless you want me AWOL and get me in big trouble….”
“Can’t hurt to ask.”
Amelia and I went way back since pre-school. I was the shortest kid, bullied until middle school, where puberty strapped a rocket on my body and propelled me to six-foot-four. Most of the time, Amelia and I got mistaken for siblings. I had dark brown hair that I cut short, brown eyes, and an oval-shaped face like hers, and we shared the same birthday and liked the same music. Only I am paler, broad chin, chiseled jaw, and a prominent brow line. Still, I treated her like my own blood. We enlisted into the Marine Corps together, but she did her four years and didn’t reenlist when her time was up, and instead went to university to pursue her degree. She’s nearly graduating next year and has started fishing for grad school.
Amelia pulled out her student ID and handed it to me when her phone chimed. “It’s Jason,” she said. “We’re going on our first anniversary this weekend. Isn’t that exciting?”
I bit my tongue as I swiped her ID on the reader.
Jason freaked out last month about what to do for their one-year anniversary. Since I served with him for two tours before he jumped ship and introduced him to Amelia the previous year, I’ve never seen Jason Navarro be serious about any relationship. He’s been a let-loose and be-all kind of guy, and doing intimate shit, as he eloquently said, was jarring. So, I offered to plan out the day. Amelia and Jason loved to cook, so I set them up for a cooking class for couples in the morning. I urged Jason to take Amelia to the Santa Monica pier and enjoy the rest of the afternoon there. Then, they’d stroll a couple of blocks to the new and popular Italian restaurant that had just opened up, where I reserved a table for them a month in advance, which was a bitch to do. Jason got to do a month’s chores around the apartment, owing me big time. Although, I am glad that Amelia found a great guy like Jason. They’re my best friends, and I am happy for them.
“That would be fourteen points, but your account is two points short. Are you gonna pay the rest in cash? It’d be two dollars and thirty-nine cents.” I handed back her ID, sliding it across the counter. She did not pick it up. She was staring at her phone, brows furrowed. I snapped my fingers in front of her face. “Earth to Amelia? Hello? You’re ID, babe.”
“What? Sorry.” She handed me her debit card. “Jason sent me something weird.”
“How weird are we talking here? Like Jason’s standard weird or yours?”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Just check this out. It creeped me out.”
Amelia flipped her phone around. It was a blurry video, not much to see except there was a lot of shouting in Spanish and kids running around while whoever was filming scolded them.
“I don’t see anything,” I said. “And I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Doesn’t matter. Just wait for it.”
The camera pointed to where the jungle met the ocean, focused on the harbor of this small seaside town. Watching the shaky video made me nauseous, but then I realized why it was shaking. They were under an earthquake. Screams echoed through the speakers. Gutters and hanging potted plants almost fell on top of the person holding the camera. Miles off the harbor, a plume of water erupted a thousand feet into the sky. An enormous silver metallic object that couldn’t even fit the screen rose out of the sea, continued upward, surrounded by the ocean’s mist, and disappeared through the clouds. The sea swayed after its wake and swelled into a thirty-foot wave that crashed through the harbor. The video cut out with everyone running for the hills.
“Is this real?” I asked, but Amelia merely shrugged. “Well, that’s great CGI work, actually. What movie did Jason pull that out from?” Jason was a journalism major focusing on Cinema Studies, so I assumed the video he sent Amelia was from a big-budget movie. He was also taking classes about special effects. In hindsight, I realized how stupid I sounded.
“He said it came from Peru.”
“It’s probably for that class he’s going on about lately?”
“You think so?”
“Jason’s been working on a big project since he took it this semester, working on some CGI for a short film. Remember that the professor wanted them to make a thirty-second VFX shot for their final?”
Amelia nodded. “I remember. Forty percent of his grade, right?”
“Yep. Tell him that video creeped me out, though, so bravo.”
“I can’t find any news articles about the tsunami.” I leaned over the counter and saw Amelia browsing CNN’s news feed.
“See? He’s gauging your reaction to if it’s believable or not. Text him that it looks fucking real, and he’ll definitely get an A-plus.”
Amelia heaved a sigh and texted him. Her phone chimed again. “He said, I wish. One of his classmates sent it to him.”
“Well, someone in his class is much more talented than him.”
Amelia snorted. “I’m not texting that. I won’t bruise his ego before our date, Tony.”
I grinned. “He can fucking take it.” Behind her, two more students walked up to the line. “Look, my shift ends in like fifteen minutes. Talk to you then?”
Amelia took back her debit card and picked up her tray. “Perfect! I’ll be by the windows.”
I plastered my best retail smile as the next student approached the counter. “Hi. Good afternoon. What can I get you?”