December 24, 2012
2:17 PM Eastern Time
Atmosphere vaporized outside the dropship’s viewports, then stopped as the pilot engaged the thrusters to slow the craft’s descent. The planet’s gravity tugged on the ship while the anti-gravity generator calibrated itself. Most of the passengers had a small hit of vertigo from the gravity exchange. No one, and not one thing, moved from their spot.
“We have entered Terra Firma airspace,” the pilot announced. “Local government airspace ETA three minutes.”
“Keep your senses sharp,” Captain Brill Secambre said. “When you see danger, you jet us back to the Endeavour. Copy?”
The pilot raised her two right arms and gave a four-finger signal from each hand.
The remuzen battleship captain of Nova Company let out a heavy exhale.
A second visit to the planet, but with a proper plan and advanced notice. The small crew was more agitated than after the recent rescue mission. Three Nova Company soldiers—two gunslingers and one mage—examined their weapons and magic skills in repetition, obsessive to t a point. Anything that could go wrong, might go wrong as the saying goes. The mage was snapping her fingers several times making sure her lightning spell still functioned. Shadowwalker Commander Nodus Kantra and his shadowwalker subordinate meditated on the center chair row, legs crossed and threaded hands on their laps. They made not much as a twitch from the dropship’s jostling. A trezel medic, the sixth of nine crew members, rocked back and forth while clenching his charred wooden staff with both hands. His carapace-dotted face expressed as much worry as Secambre.
The captain cleared his throat to speak to the pilot. “Remember, Major Tillak, any threat, and I mean anything. Our lives are in your hands.”
“I got your back, Captain. Radar is full strength, sir,” she said. “This puppy can pick up a bug splat in milliseconds.”
Good old Wringheart, Secambre thought.
A low grumble was enough to stir Secambre and the crew to deviate their attention. All eyes except the pilot beamed at the ninth crew member with fear.
"Tradition," he said. Despite being an artificial body and remote-controlled through an encrypted Slipspace channel on another planet, the mere image and presence of him made everybody tense. Except for the captain. The male Creosian insectoid's body was braced against the hull with a tight grip on the support beam in the ceiling with one hand. He ducked his head forward for being too tall for the dropship. "Negotiations. Announcements. Trade deals. First Contact rituals. Festivals across the galaxy and this planet," he said. "All trashed. Mute. Thanks to your gunslinger getting desperate for money.”
The crew groaned. Kantra let out a low chuckle.
“Trygo,” Secambre said. “Please. Again. It wasn’t Jaruka’s fault. We’ve been over this. And you said making amends is necessary. I agreed. We agreed. You agreed, old friend. Please don’t rub it in again.”
“Apologies, but pray to your gods this mission succeeds, old friend.”
Councilman Trygo Denverbay, known in the Galactic Council as “The Hammer,” was a booming and intimidating figure. His anger with the mission was absolute. If he had his way, he would’ve composted half of Terra Firma inhabited land masses and left the primitive species to fend for themselves the moment Secambre called him. One factor kept him from making the order—the alleged GMT mutations. It tore every protection law he knew and it put him squarely into no man’s land of galactic legal affairs. Secambre’s rescue operation was, after all, a success, but at a great cost for Nova Company to clean up.
The dropship’s descent slowed while it sailed over the eastern coastline. Three Nova Company skhiv ships flanked the dropship on either side and rear. With Lieutenant Manis Wringheart’s cyber-scrub on the country’s defense network, it could take a few days to reset critical systems and detect the alien spacecrafts.
After entering restricted airspace, Major Tillak said, “Captain. You need to look outside. It’s a real mess down there.”
Secambre turned to look out the nearest porthole. Denverbay and others followed suit.
The ships flew over the Potomac River. Humans were spotted on land: driving, walking, and cleaning up their land. Secambre was unsure if all the damage was from the amethyst crystals or the short-lived civil war.
The ships flew past the capital’s airport. The crew were no strangers to non-anti-gravity craft, but a destroyed travel port was not. Every runway was torn to shreds from massive crystals like knives to tree roots. The air traffic control tower collapsed not from a crystal but a peculiar outward explosion a third up the tower’s height. The tower’s remains had flattened two airplane hangars. Several airplanes were nothing but scrap heaps taking up precious space.
Continuing their descent into the capital, one gunslinger cursed seeing one crystal jammed into the Lincoln Memorial’s left wall after smashing the Memorial Bridge. More crystals of various sizes and shapes were in the river. One crystal jutted from the rectangular pond before the Lincoln Memorial. Near the pond, Capital Hill’s dome top collapsed as crystals took its place.
As the ships descended lower, Seambre spotted more humans. Hundreds of humans. Lying dead on the streets, grass, dirt, and concrete architecture. Authorities both covered the bodies in black bags and carried them into unmarked white trucks.
The highest majority of them that Secambre deducted was they all had the same outward cranial burst back at Groom Lake. How did that reaper do it? He thought.
From the research they collected over the last few days, the capital was the most hit by the attack and bore the most deaths in the country. Thousands went on with their day, picking up after Asteroid Helen destruction and alterations, then stopped, went bloodthirsty killing or about to kill loved ones and strangers, to having a frightening similar head injury within ten minutes. The same ten minutes while rescuing Jaruka, fighting off blood-thirsty soldiers, and the reaper disguised as an army general at Groom Lake.
“Landing in three minutes. Secure yourselves,” the pilot announced. The gunslingers and mage strapped themselves tighter to their seats. Ones not strapped down, like Denverbay, gripped the support beams tighter.
Secambre braced himself to the porthole, still staring out.
Denverbay leaned down to Secambe to whisper, ”The first spire has arrived. It’s tracking our location.”
The captain tore his gaze from the destruction outside to his friend’s three eyes. “Seriously? Now?” he whispered.
Denverbay nodded. “It’s protocol.”
Secambre swallowed. A titan spire, above them, primed to mulch them at the capital if things escalated to an inescapable point. Telling the crew before landing would make them get on edge, he thought. They could rebel and push to abort the mission. Secambre cleared his throat and turned to the crew.
“Remember your orders,” he said. “You all are to protect me and the councilman while we speak with the local leaders. Do not engage without my direct orders. Restrain yourselves from reacting and do not make yourselves the aggressors. If they do attack, subdue, and retreat back to the Endeavour. Kantra is second in command. Do I make myself clear?”
Not a single soul rejected the captain’s word.
The White House was getting closer. A large clearing was set up before the historical building for their landing, accompanied by rows of chairs filled with members of the press. Local law enforcement and military had a presence inside the gates, outside, and the surrounding streets and blocks. The civilian population occupied every piece of space near the black gate, watching the ships approach.
“Shields,” the captain ordered.
Each crewmember twisted a disk on their chest to produce a green translucent shield close to their bodies then went invisible. The mage knocked a gunslinger’s shield twice with his hand for good measure.
“No shield?” Secambre asked Denverbay.
“I need none,” he said and kept his silence. His purple robes shimmered silver a little from the nanobots that made up his remote body.
The dropship veered to the right, passing over the podium and the press. Humans working for the government cleared the landing zone. Secambre could hear the cheers, boos, and screams behind the hull despite the dropship’s thrusters.
Was this a good idea? Secambre thought but shoved it to the side quickly.
The captain unbuckled and stood up. “Ground crew, line up!”
The captain lined up at the starboard side hatch first, then the councilman side by side. Kantra and the shadowwalker stood behind them. The gunslingers and mage flanked the tight group.
The dropship touched down on the White House front lawn. The human voices outside grew as the thrusters powered down but stayed idle in case of emergency. Outside, the skhiv ships hovered and kept flanking the dropship, observing the area and any incoming fighter jests for potential danger.
The captain placed his hat on his grey bald head and cleared his throat. “Care to give a blessing, Councilman?” he asked.
Denverbay nodded. He turned his palms upward and closed his three eyes. “May the Forum bless and protect our journey. Sha tu, pri-va, ro,” he chanted, then clapped three times.
“Okay. Pilot, open the hatch,” the captain ordered.
A steady beeping came as the locks released and the hatch opened outward.
*****
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
Junior Archivist Varen Malac II, a Modalan elf, snorted awake from his nap. His short blond hair was not combed clean, all stringy and clumped. He stopped the audio file with a light tap on the console. “I’m not sleeping, teacher!” he yelled.
He blinked. Still alone, still in the waystation’s control room. The console monitor’s glow illuminated the dark interior.
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
The beeping sound was still beating against Varen’s tired, conscious mind. He wiped his eyes and looked over the monitors. The reason for the annoying beeping sound became apparent to him.
INCOMING SLIPSPACE TRAVELER. The monitors displayed the words in bold Modalan letters.
What? Varen knew no one was arriving on the schedule for the next week Creos time. He checks the schedule daily.
Suspicious, he sat up and loaded the calendar on the console. The agenda was the same as any other day: catalog the titan spire operation logs, calibrate antennas, run the trash incinerator once a day, run station diagnostics, exercise two hours a day, and transmit all captured communications to Capital Archives through encrypted Slipspace channels before sleep.
He found a note for an incoming traveler, received a few hours ago when he had breakfast. He had a habit of silencing all notifications when eating.
Curious, he checked the traveler’s ship signature. “Must be an inspector,” he said. After reading it, a bead of sweat dripped from his pale forehead. No inspector could cause a cold sweat.
“Oh, shit me!” he yelled in the quiet space station, bolting out of the command chair. From groggy to wide awake, he furiously typed commands on the console.
The control room’s lights came on and all the dozen monitors turned on. Several of the monitors displayed the consistent streams of analog and digital media from Terra Firma’s broadcast satellites, comm satellites, and radio waves, all being cataloged and compressed by the station’s assistant A.I. automatically for future transmission. One monitor was dedicated to one person’s vital signs and exact location on the planet with a note below it saying “spire trigger.” Another was critical observations about Ground Zero in the northern Pacific Ocean, from the state of the island ring to the multi-country presence surveying it. He quickly closed his personal storage on the center monitor.
Varen felt the waystation vibrate beneath his boots. A warning message sounded through the interior from the assistant A.I. “Waygate opening. Prepare for arrival.”
“No, no, no. Damn it. I’m not ready!” Varen yelled. He loaded the manager-swap checklist on his touchpad. “Okay, uh … waygate opening. Check. Prepare for decking clamp … right.” He hovered over the console, activating the necessary routines to run automatically, and then Varen sprinted out of the control room to clean up the space station.
The waystation was built with a teleport module, docking bay module, two living quarters modules, the spherical control module, and a storage module, all connected to two common area modules with basic kitchen, bathroom, and seats. The command module had no windows. It was covered with antenna dishes and poles gathering valuable planetary data and communicating with the titan spire network in high orbit. Above the common area modules was the Slipspace waygate, a folded ring with five rectangular emitter nodes equally spaced. They pulsed green for standby, then turned red, and then the ring expanded to the size of the incoming spacecraft.
The nodes then turned purple as a Slipspace rift formed within the ring. A small spacecraft exited the rift with a trail of purple wisps of Slipspace energy. The rift closed, the emitters turned red, the ring shrunk back to its original state, and the emitters turned green. Five minutes was all it took to run.
The shuttle drifted for a minute before slowing down and turning toward the waystation. Varen saw it approaching from the exterior cameras on the eleventh monitor while carrying a bag full of his trash.
“Oh, no. Gods no. Not now! Why is he done already!?”
A voice came from the station’s intercom, deep and almost robotic. “Shuttle to waystation. Confirm docking bay is ready for approach.”
Varen—cussing like mad—bolted to the nearest wall console, cleared his throat, and pressed a green button. “Waystation to shuttle. Good morning,” he said with a chipper tone. “Give the lock two … three minutes to calibrate. You know how long these U-docks take these days.” He finished with a short laugh. A bold-faced lie. U-docks take seconds to configure. Varen just needed a few more minutes to stuff his duffle bag and complete the checklist.
“This shuttle has been the only craft the U-dock links with,” the voice said.
“Exactly, and it resets itself every time. Like the committee will authorize an upgrade. Just sit tight, sir. You’ll get the green light soon,” he said smiling. Varen then ran to the garbage incinerator.
The slopped shuttle rotated to face the rear to the U-lock. Several clamps and servos moved as scanners locked on the shuttle’s airlock. Attached to them, a grey tube extended toward the airlock’s outer ring, gripped it and sealed the tube to the airlock. Motors then pulled the shuttle toward the station for the secondary locking system to complete the docking.
This process took three minutes while the incinerator did its job. Varen plopped his packed and buckled duffle bag in the common area.
“Docking and pressurization completed,“ the waystation’s assistant A.I. said.
Varen huffed air as he locked his living quarters. “Need to do more cardio in space!” he muttered to himself. He then stood ready before the hatch, hair fixed, face cleaned, uniform straightened up, and took several breaths to calm his racing heart just as the iris hatch opened.
The tovac stood with pure patience before the junior archivist. A chrome-plated android stood on bipedal legs in the shuttle. It wore no clothing. With a closer look, the chassis had deep etchings invoking the nebulas and celestial symbols of the cosmos on its upper chest, telling anyone who exactly occupies it. The actual tovac is a spectral brain suspended in the torso in a green fluid within a four-sided window-paned chamber. Neural cables linked from the brain pass upward and through the chassis to control it. Two long arms were by his sides with six-fingered hands. On top was an oval-shaped head. Four green lights in a square formation were the tovac’s visual sensor and below that was a horizontal slit, unlit, serving as its verbal processor.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Morning, Daberth,” Varen said with a wide smile. “How was your monthly retreat?”
The verbal processor lit up red as Daberth spoke. “Same as ever,” he said. Every tovac celestial meditates every month for a week in congregation across Republic-space borders in the Confederate Strand.
Daberth’s chassis walked in, each step clanking against the metal floor. Two metal crates of his belongings floated behind him. ‘Anything significant to report?” He asked.
“No spires fired since you left,” Varen answered promptly.
“Messages?”
“Plenty and sorted.” He was sure the A.I. handled that from his commands earlier.
Daberth faced down Varen with unblinking green eyes. “Any blunders from him?”
“Varen blinked. “Oh, right. Um. Jaruka… Nope. Nothing new this time.”
Daberth considered it and said, “Must have finally learned his lesson.” Daberth walked while sending commands to the station: store his crates in his empty living quarters, set the station lights to a low setting, and command the A.I. to run his pre-programmed queries for his own reports.
He tapped on the console’s screens and said, “Authorization code 2B47Z. Station manager present.”
“Acknowledged. Welcome back, Lead Archivist Ki-Daberth” the A.I. said.
“Uh. Yes. It seems so. Knock on wood.” Damn stutter, keep it together, Varen thought.
Daberth stood before the console in the control module. For a second observing the space, he noticed three switches in different positions and a monitor a few centimeters tilted up.
“And I just want to add,” Varen continued, “your frame looks extra polished today. Did you get it washed?”
If the celestial in a material body had real eyes, they’d be rolling into his brain of Varen’s stuck-up attitude toward him. Always proving himself to the senior, sucking up, even though he knows full well Varen slacks off. Daberth wanted to start work, in peace, real soon.
“Return to the Archives, scholar,” Daberth commanded, cutting Varen’s neediness. “I’ll inform the committee when my next retreat will happen.”
Varen swallowed. “Oh, right right. Can’t leave them waiting, can I? You don’t want my formal report before…”
“Leave.” The robotic tone came out forceful to make Varen step back.
“Oh… well. Best to be making my way. Save me any juicy tales from the planet when I get back.” Varen quickly left for the shuttle with his duffle and once the iris closed and the launch commands activated, Daberth’s brain emitted tiny bolts of bio-electricity from his chassis in a quick succession and frustration.
“Fleshlings,” Daberth muttered.
When the shuttle undocked and traveled back through the waygate, there was silence, say for the console’s hums and chirps, the station’s small fusion core beneath him, and the life support system Daberth didn’t require. Interacting with non-celestial beings brings up “understanding barriers.” Communication is at a higher level for celestials than with compressed air against vocal cords: electro-chemical exchange and extra-planar energies coalescing in a language far exceeding any material living being’s language. Using the metal body feels like a handicap just for the sake of talking to the majority. Varen would get seizures if Daberth opened his mind to him.
“Station manager code 2A82,” Daberth said.
The command chair folded inward and stashed itself under the console as a docking platform with two clamps made for Daberth’s metal feet appeared. Daberth clipped into the clamps. Four wall panels segmented and separated as several cables snaked in the air toward Daberth. He raised his metallic arms while crystal-lined ports opened in his back. One by one, they connected to Daberth, and Daberth’s consciousness melded with the station, the data stream from the planet, and the Titan Spire network.
First order of business: know what Varen did and didn’t.
He accessed the station’s logs and scrutinized every log in seconds. Two things of those seconds he regretted wasting after being reminded how Varen wasn’t much help around the station. He spent most of his time reviewing the archived data, even capturing radio recordings from a European hard rock station Daberth got a migraine from.
One file showed up several times in the local storage. A copy of Xi’Tra Zader Khu II’s narration of “second contact.” Not at all a proud moment for Nova Company or The Hammer in Daberth’s perspective and certainly a stain in political discourse with primitive cultures.
“Why so many views?” Daberth thought.
He resumed the file where it left off.
*****
The side hatch rose slowly as if cautious of the locals. Sunlight cast on the captain’s friend and his soldiers. The grass was vibrant green, a little overgrown from missed maintenance.
Groups of humans were scattered everywhere. It was overwhelming to Secambre. White House secret service, capital police, and military soldiers from the US Army and Navy were all placed in strategic points for offense and defense. The faces he could see expressed such seriousness that their next moves must not tick them off. For those not in the military, each human expressed a cacophony of emotions, reactions, and verbal chatter against them despite their current circumstances. In any sense, this was a distraction from the major issue plaguing them.
“Is the boundary shield active?” Secambre said into the mic in his collar and the voice spoke through an earpiece in his left earhole.
“Strong and steady,” the pilot said, staying in the cockpit, “they’d be crazy to attack us with these many civilians around.”
“Right.” Secambre straightened himself before saying. “Forward.”
Denverbay was first to step off the dropship, one insectoid leg at a time, all three jabbing at the red carpet. Secambre stepped down next. The rest of the crew followed suit, keeping a lookout for potential dangers all around them. The senior gunslinger had his rifle butt jammed into his shoulder.
When they all revealed themselves, the general population behind the iron fence erupted. A mixed bag of awe and anger. The crew’s universal translators had no difficulty translating the dominating language, hearing how hopeful and murderous their words and tones were. They wanted relief. They wanted revenge. They wanted … anything. The crew was vigilant and kept following Secambre and Denverbay toward the podium.
Government agents, dressed in similar black suits, stayed where they stood, and were hard to read when their eyes were covered with sunglasses.
As Secambre got closer, he realized the podium was taller than him. The mic wouldn’t be anywhere close to his mouth to speak through. He gestured to the nearest black suit-wearing human to come over.
The young man swallowed before saying “Y-Yes?”
“Do you have something to lift me higher?” Secambre asked, gesturing at the podium.
The human was taken aback by the request. An alien talking to him? The first one (not really)? In person? That can’t be. And so polite. The man did as told. He located an unused chair and set it before the podium with its back facing to the side.
Secambre thanked him and stepped up. The mic was chin height. The captain remembered the details from The White House staff on what to say but waited until he was ready to speak by letting the humans settle a little.
The remuzen took a breath to compose himself. A piece of him didn’t want to be the first speaker, but amends must be made.
“Good afternoon,” he addresses the press, ultimately to the whole world. “I am Brill Secambre, captain of the Endeavour and founder of Nova Company. You might be having all sorts of thoughts about why we are here, but trust us, our presence here is not threatening in any way.”
For the next ten minutes, Secambre told most of the truth as short as possible. He started from the call from Jaruka begging to be rescued, the scare they almost lost him, and hatching up the rescue mission. No Nova Company member is ever abandoned. They are family, even though not blood-related. He was unaware at the time of what was really happening until they saw Asteroid Helen’s effects firsthand.
“We were in no way involved with the asteroid,” he told them, “you have our word.”
Secambre took a breath from the long explanation. Human reports sat in silence.
“And now, I will hand this off to my government’s representative who greenlit the operation. Councilman Trygo Denverbay,” Secambre said gesturing to the creosian.
He stepped down from the chair and moved it away for Denverbay to walk up. He towered over the podium and regarded it. He then pulled the wireless microphone from its holder. It felt so small in his right hand he could crush it to dust. Secambre could hear a few swallows and murmurs of how he looked.
“Thank you, friend,” he started. “I’m Councilman Trygo Denverbay of the Galactic Republic. Firstly, and unequivocally, this is not part of an invasion. Grow up.” He made several humans yelp.
“Secondly, yes, this is a disaster I never foreseen. I for one am deeply concerned about what is happening with your species and your futures in all aspects of your lives. Knowing that magic is real and tangible is especially jarring to young cultures.”
“For the last few days, I have seen what I wanted to see. Some stipulations prevented my government from reaching out, but it seems this is as ever a moment to—“
“FUCK YOU!!!”
Denverbay, Secambre, the Nova soldiers, and every human looked toward the nearest portion of the fence surrounding The White House. A metal pipe was flying toward the Councilman in the air. It would’ve hit him square in his third eye. The refraction shield prevented the hit, casting the pipe away. Kantra caught it with two right hands.
A man was able to jump over the fence and started sprinting toward the group, bearing a face full of rage. He then reached behind himself and pulled out a sidearm from the back of his pants.
Humans, from reporters to government security forces, were too slow for the off-worlders to react.
The most grounded gunslinger bore a long-barrelled rifle ending with a four-pronged antenna. Blue electric bolts coursed down the barrel, and then he fired a blue beam at the approaching human.
The man froze mid-run with one foot on the grass. The sidearm aimed downward.
Humans yelled and hollered from the act. Security detail began rushing the frozen human in an attempt to control the situation.
“Good work, Brek,” Secambre said. The gunslinger lowered the rifle as steam exhausted from the barrel’s end.
“Vyroken stasis rifle?” Denverbay asked.
Brek the gunslinger nodded.
Kantra got in front of them in case others would attack. One look around showed no such copycat response.
The attacker was surrounded by ten guards. Each one attempted to subdue to man, but the stasis field prevented them from being taken to the ground. Frozen like a stone statue in a garden. Except for the attacker’s eyes, wide open but moving erratically.
Denverbay hummed to himself amongst the growing commotion from the humans. He raised off the mic to his mouth and yelled, “SILENCE!!!”
Every human stopped, movement and sound. Nova soldiers winced from his command, all too familiar with his tone from countless council broadcasts. Even his best friend reacted.
Denverbay looked back at the attacker and the guards, then started approaching them.
“Wait, Councilman, you can’t…” Kantra started, but Secambre prevented him from saying anything else.
“Follow from behind,” Brill ordered. “Keep the shield on all of us.”
Denverbay walked with a solid spine, each step from his three insectoid legs dug into the grass. The guards saw him approach. The man in black who brought the chair over for Secambre was there.
“Sir, this is being handled. Please release … whatever he froze him with and we’ll…”
“Let me speak with him,” Denverbay interrupted him with a slight rumble in his throat. “If you don’t, you will be personally responsible for holding up any negotiations with this planet, and my patience. Do I make myself clear, human?” Denverbay leaned over him.
The man in black stepped away and ordered the rest to disperse.
The attacker, still frozen mid-air, was still able to move his eyes. Still frozen with rage on his face, he was unable to express how God-awful frightened he was off the off-worlder.
Denverbay took three paces to get close to him. The man could feel him breathing on his face. The shield between them hummed against their faces. “Is he concealing any more weapons?” he asked the man in black.
“Uh… I don’t think so. Just the pistol,” he asked. Others pitched in to agree.
Denverbay hummed. “The stasis field is maliable. Slow push and pull move of his hand and fingers can release the gun. Gunslinger, when I say it, release your stasis field. Human, have two others hold him down but keep him facing me. Do not take him away until I’m done with him.”
“He might be hiding another gun.”
“Check after he’s unfrozen.”
“What are you going to do?”
Denverbay side-glared at him for being annoyed. “Don’t. Question. Me. Any further.”
The man in black called for two of his guards to follow his word. Each one held his arms while the leader stood behind him. The guard close to the pistol followed Denverbay’s word and got the sidearm out of the attacker’s grasp. He commented on how cold the stasis field felt against his hands. The sidearm was then confiscated and two guards held his arms tight.
Denverbay raised a clawed finger to the gunslinger, then dropped it.
The stasis field dispersed. The man dropped to the ground while screaming and the guards reoriented their grip on him. The leader quickly searched his body to confirm no other weapons were on him, only a set of keys, his wallet, and a smartphone with a cracked screen.
“Let me go!” the attacker yelled. “Let me at them. I must kill the ugly fucks!”
Denverbay rolled his three eyes. “Typical.”
“Sir, we have to carry him away just to move on. Why are we holding him here?”
“Just want to talk. Won’t be long,” Denverbay said.
“Oh… okay? You’re not gonna kill him, right?”
“Do I look like I want to make things worse?” Denverbay beamed.
“I would agree with him if I were you,” Secambre said to the man in black.
He took those words to heart and ordered others to continue restraining the attacker.
“No. What are you doing? Don’t let him suck my brains out!” The man yelled but any chance to free himself was thwarted.
Denverbay crouched on the grass with his central bottom touching the ground, trying to be at eye level with the subdued human.
“Afternoon,” Denverbay said. “What’s your name?”
“Why ask that? You gonna use that while probing my ass?”
“What would I learn from an ass?”
That made several humans laugh, and then some reporters, listening to everything he was saying, took the joke. Denverbay didn’t laugh.
“You believe I’m the enemy, but not even close. I have no mood to fight.”
“Fucking tell the fucking truth you fucking alien!” The man yelled, along with several curses Denverbay’s translator attempted to convey.
“What my friend said is the truth,” Denverbay said.
“Coming from a fucking Grey? Bullshit!”
Denverbay scanned over the man’s face and body language. The glazed look in his eyes was picked up. “Is he on something?”
The man in black checked the man’s eyes. “Maybe a bit drunk,” he said.
“Typical,” Denverbay said. “You want me to tell the truth.”
“Yes,” the man said.
“Certainly. What truth? My friend shared all that we learned.”
“Tell the world what you did. The asteroid. The fucking experiments on us for decades. Every. Single. Fucking thing you all did to our economy. Maybe the asteroid was your next plan for world domination, or your disgusting lizard overloads ordered you to expose yourselves to save face. Tell us the truth you fucking alien cockroach!”
The man kept spitting in Denverbay’s face, continually spewing nonsense to him and nothing that he knew happened on the planet outside the asteroid’s influence. But he knew a man desperately searching for meaning when he saw one. He must have researched conspiracy theories that clouded his perception, he thought. Within the man’s eyes, Denverbay could tell there was intense trauma Also, he insulted a Republic councilman, especially The Hammer. No one insults a councilman. Some of Bill’s soldiers looked uncomfortable with what was unfolding, possibly wondering if Denverbay would kill the man outright to make a point.
Denverbay looked further at the man blathering lies he knew nothing about. The red complexion on his face. Dirty clothes. A ring on his left ring finger. If the remote nanite body had smell receptors, he could warrant the man hadn’t bathed in a few days.
But the ring.
“That,” he said, pointing at the jewelry. “What does that signify?”
He stopped in the middle of asking about the cow mutilations in Chile. He didn’t answer. His face contorted from rage to sullen.
“From other species coming to mind, that must signify marriage. Have children? I can tell from the trauma. Seems way too uncharacteristic of a father, flinging himself at off-worlders just to get killed and be an ideological sacrifice for…whatever reason. The kind desperate for meaning. Now, I will have a civil conversation, or continue embarrassing yourself in front of the whole world, possibly ruining any sort of reputation you had. Start with telling me your name and I won’t ask these guards to take you away with nothing to gain but a media stain on your soul. Understood, little human?”
The man noted the reporters, the cameras, and the new truck’s cameras. A large percentage might be live broadcasting his face on national television and internet streaming sites from their personal, handheld touchpads. Denverbay could see the gears turning from his eyes.
“C-Carl,” he answered.
Denverbay sounded his name out. “Progress,” he said. “Now tell me, what possessed you to want to attack me and my friends? Possibly kill in the process. Explain and I’ll go easy on you, Understood?”
It took more coaxing from Denverbay for Carl to crack. He was married for ten years to his wife. He had a daughter of five years old. When The Wave hit, half of their house was flattened by a crystal. He was unharmed as he was working construction from Baltimore and very lucky from dying, but his wife was crushed by the house’s remains. His daughter suffered a broken foot and was at the hospital, still overwhelmed with injured, transformed, and dead corpses from the asteroid thrall attack.
He was also a troubled man. Easily manipulative by corrupt groups. His track record on the internet isn’t at all favorable for peace and prosperity. He gravitated to the amateur videos of the Endeavour flying down from space, and the announcement of the apology. He took it upon himself to get his revenge.
Denverbay asked him why did he fight. Carl had no other choice in the matter. He was mad. Angry. Scared. Needing answers.
Denverbay asked why he wasn’t with his daughter. And Carl said she’s better off without him. He has a duty to the people. Denverbay told him, just from his stance, nothing.
“Be with her,” Denverbay said. “From one father to another, she needs you more than ever. No child should grow up without parents. Get your head out of the mud and be with her. Promise me.”
Carl, even dubious, promised and he was escorted off the grounds.
Denverbay turned back to the reporters and the cameras. He told them all that this was his promise. The government will provide support but only if their petty differences and prejudices of off-worlders and each other are dropped.
“This deviation from natural evolution creates un-calculated futures. From my zel to the Arcane Domains, we will provide support. Be patient, be stoic, and listen for our call.”
The conference ended at that point, and then the off-worlders entered The White House to discuss terms with the surviving administration members.
*****
Daberth closed the file.
Memory is all needed to remember, and no purpose to retain that file. In swift action, the station manager purged the file from Varen’s personal storage. A write-up of Varen will be sent with the next batch of data to the Archives.
Daberth was old enough to remember the last three First Contact rituals. They were regarded as a sacred ceremony. A rare moment to welcome new species to the greater galaxy. Any chance to exchange knowledge and goods to benefit the species is encouraged, as long as it’s not a danger to themselves or the galaxy.
Terra Firma became the worst-case scenario everybody feared. A PCPA Red Flagged planet. Dangerous without debate. Daberth remembers the list of Red Flagged species down to the pronunciations of their species’ names, but the humans were at the top of his list, capable of imagining the most destructive ways to overtake, control, and destroy their enemies with high problem-solving and dumb luck. It does not matter if it is against a species not like theirs, or their own. Too selfish to see beyond their primitive egos. If Daberth’s species had a seat in the Galactic Council, they’d campaign to render their brains to pudding before their first FTL-capable ship launches.
The GMT event made it even worse. Daberth calculated the odds. Terran magic is uncharted but still being understood. Humans, or terrans, are exploring its capabilities, yet their media outlets focus on the destructive aspects than the benefits, just to amas skewed beliefs to fight for the wrong reasons. Daberth learned much about how terran magic operates and concluded defense measures just from the data the station collected. Lock their nervous system up before they charge their mana heart. Without their magic, they are rendered as the basic flesh bags of their animal kingdom.
Will the humans/terrans finally kill everything and themselves this time? Daberth has no hope for their survival or adaptation.
None of what’s happening on Terra Firma will be public knowledge for two years. Every scrap of evidence is archived and Councile eyes only. Or Deverbay's eyes only. It’s too early to make decisions, only to observe, catalog, and calculate where the species is going.
An incoming Slipspace call alerted Daberth. The callsign location was from Terra Firma. Only three people have a Slipspace communication case, handed over by Deverbay himself, in possession.
He opened the channel and said, “This is Waystation One. State your business.”
“Hello? Can you hear me?” A female voice said. “Is this the station manager?”
“Caller,” Daberth said, “if this is not an emergency, drop the link now.”
“If you can hear me, this is Katie. Remember me?”
Daberth paused before severing the link. It was one of the “trusted” humans/terrans he was told about. Daberth never met the couple, or the female’s family before.
“Look. We need help down here. Jaruka did it again.”
“Did what?” Daberth asked.
“Jaruka got drunk. Again. Found him in a wine barrel in the warehouse the second time. Look, we can’t deal with this. Can you, like, call Denverbay about this?”
“Contacting a council member directly is not one of my tasks.” Daberth could. He has Denverbay’s personal Slipspace comm address. He wanted to end the call if it involved the Halcunac idiot on the surface.
“He’s making us lose money! Do you have something to clear his hangover? He’s been scaring off customers with a tree branch for an hour.”
“I have nothing for alcohol poisoning,” Daberth said. “I don’t consume liquids. He is your responsibility. Not mine, Ms. Walsh. Contact Zader if you have a problem. Dropping this call now.”
“Now wa…”
The Slipspace link was severed.
Daberth mentally sighed. “Fleshbags,” he thought. He programmed a script to ignore incoming calls from that case for the next several hours, then started inspecting the titan spires network, one orbiting monolith at a time.