Clive and Ray rode their bikes down Jefferson Street, turned on to the driveway to Clive’s house, a white three-storey colonial with a wooden facade, left their bikes on the impeccably kept front lawn, bounded up the steps leading to the front door and tumbled inside.
Clive’s brother Bruce was sitting on a couch in the living room, watching a report about a meteor shower (“...took the world’s astronomical experts by complete surprise…”) when: “What in the name of—?” he asked as he saw the pair of them come in, noticing the tears in their clothing and the cuts on their skin. “Did you get into a fight with a pack of rats?”
“Almost,” said Clive. “Lizards.”
“Lizards?”
Clive ignored his brother’s incredulity. “Is dad home?” he asked instead.
“Yeah, but he’s in ‘the study.’ Been there for over an hour.”
Clive knew what that meant. "The study" was their dad’s special room for conducting official government business. It was a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF) that had been built within their home by the Central Space Agency (CSA), the off-shoot of the CIA for which their dad worked. Neither Clive nor Bruce had ever been inside. They always referred to it as “the study” when others were around, to maintain the fine layer of secrecy the CSA required. The only thing Ray, or anyone else, knew was that Clive's dad worked for the government in some abstract (and probably boring) capacity. It was obfuscation by disinterestedness, and it worked. Even the term itself made one's eyes water and tongue go limp in the mouth.
Clive wondered whether his dad’s presence in the SCIF had anything to do with the space lizards he and Ray had encountered.
Bruce asked, “Are you guys sure you're OK? You look pretty rough. Must have been some lizards. Either way, at least get yourselves cleaned up and into fresh clothes.”
Clive assured his brother they were fine.
(“...sightings all around the world,” the woman on the TV screen continued.)
“Bruce, you work for NASA. This stuff about the meteor shower”—Ray motioned toward the TV with his chin—“it's kind of strange, isn’t it? I mean, meteor showers are usually predictable. Having one come out of the blue like that, it's freakin’ weird.”
“I was just thinking the same,” said Bruce. “And you know what else? All these ‘experts’ they're talking to, I haven't heard of a single one of them.”
“What about that guy from NASA they just interviewed?” asked Clive.
“Brombie? Oh, he's real enough.”
“So it's legit?” asked Ray.
“I don't know. I mean, just because a real person's saying it doesn't make it true,” said Bruce. “Anyway, you guys get clean and then I'm sure you'll be welcome to stay for dinner, Ray.”
“Thanks,” said Ray, and he and Clive went upstairs to Clive’s bedroom. They took turns showering and tending to their wounds, most of which were superficial, with disinfectant and bandaids, then got dressed in clothes that didn’t look like tattered rags. (Clive lent Ray a pair of his jeans and a t-shirt.) When they were done, they came back down to the living room—where Clive's dad, finally out of the SCIF, was waiting for them. He had a stern expression on his face, one that told Clive something very serious was on his mind.
“Hey, Dr. Altmayer,” said Ray.
“Good afternoon, Raymond,” said Dr. Altmayer in his gently German-accented English. “I hear you boys had quite an adventure today.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ray.
“Well, I am glad you are both whole and sound.”
“Are you OK, dad?” asked Clive.
“Indeed,” said Dr. Altmayer, “but I do have some unfortunate news. I am afraid something has come up, so the dinner invitation my son extended to you, Raymond, I must regretfully retract. I hope you understand.”
Ray's smile wilted briefly, then returned because Ray didn’t have the ability to stay in a bad mood. “Of course, Dr. Altmayer. I get it.”
“Good.”
“We'll have dinner together another time,” said Ray.
As he said this, Clive noticed something peculiar happen to his dad’s face, something rare: his eyes began to fill with the kind of sadness reserved almost exclusively for times spent remembering his late wife, Clive and Bruce’s mom. “Yes, I am sure,” said Dr. Altmayer.
Ray and Clive said their goodbyes, and Ray headed for the front door. Before he quite reached it, however— “Raymond,” Dr. Altmayer said.
“Yes, sir?” said Ray, turning back to the three of them.
“Please indulge me by doing me a small favour tonight."
“What’s that?”
“Hug your mother. Tell her you love her,” said Dr. Altmayer.
“Sure thing,” said Ray—and smiled. (Although Clive didn't know it at the time, that was the last time he would ever see his friend.) Then Ray turned back and exited the house by the front door.
“Take care of yourself, Raymond.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
As soon as Ray was gone, Clive looked at his dad. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”
“Dinner before business, my dear boys. Dinner before business.”
They ate in an atmosphere of sunken happiness. The late afternoon light streaming in through the dining room window mellowed into that of early evening, and the breeze that had been gently touching the window curtains cooled and stilled. Unusually, Dr. Altmayer reminisced while eating. About his childhood in Germany, his marriage, his early work on satellites and military camouflage. At first, Bruce and Clive interrupted him by asking questions, but soon it became clear to them that their father simply needed to talk, and so they let him. He talked and talked.
When dinner was over and the dishes cleared, Dr. Altmayer unexpectedly invited his sons into the SCIF.
“You want us to go in with you?” Bruce asked.
“I do,” said Dr. Altmayer.
“But protocol—” said Clive in disbelief.
“Trust me, the protocols will soon not matter. Please,” he said and held the door open for them.
When they were all inside, he closed the door, took a seat and quietly poured three glasses of brandy. Bruce and Clive remained standing. “Sit,” Dr. Altmayer commanded as he gave each of his sons a glass, keeping the third for himself.
Clive tried some.
“It is not to get you inebriated. Consider it more of a symbol, a drink between professional colleagues. Because, my dear boys, tomorrow everything changes. Tonight is the last night of the world as we know it. As we've always known it. Clive, you are still so young—but from tomorrow, I am saddened to tell you, that is no longer of consequence. You are a brave boy and you will be a brave man when the need arises, even if it will arise far too soon.”
“Dad, tell us what's wrong,” said Bruce.
Dr. Altmayer put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “My eldest boy. My first born. I have not told you this often enough, but I am so profoundly proud of you. The man you are. The work you do. All you have accomplished.”
“Dad…”
“You will need to pack this evening. Before morning you will be recalled to NASA.” He looked at Clive. “And you—you, my son, shall accompany me to Washington D.C. for a meeting of the highest level. Perhaps the highest ever assembled.”
“The lizards. The meteor shower,” said Clive: out loud, much to his own surprise.
Dr. Altmayer finished his brandy; set down his empty glass. “There was no meteor shower. Not in any real sense of that term. The news is misinformation. Quite desperately crafted, if you ask me. And there will be much more misinformation from now on. Disinformation too, I am afraid. What has occurred is what you yourself experienced, Clive. Attacks on humans by swarms of small reptilians—numerous reports from all around the world—although that itself is misleading, for reptile, as a descriptor of a group, would seem to me to be applicable only to organisms that evolved on Earth. What we are faced with is something radically other than that. Creatures from outer space.”
“Jesus!” said Bruce.
Clive felt a strange mix of vindication, surreality and fear. “So we've had first contact?” he said with youthful enthusiasm.
“It appears so, but there is more to it. Significantly more. A mere few hours ago, the CSA—and undoubtedly many other organizations that keep watch of the skies—detected the sudden presence of three space objects headed for Earth. These are of a kind we have not seen before. They are not natural formations. They are intelligently-made. One could even describe them as colossal—”
“But how on Earth could we not have detected them?” said Bruce.
“The answer is simple. They had been cloaked.”
“And chose to decloak?”
“For whatever reason, yes. They have chosen to reveal themselves. There is the possibility their cloaking systems failed, of course, but I do not think anyone seriously entertains that possibility.”
“The impact… If they hit Earth,” said Clive.
“It would be apocalyptic.”
Clive threw himself suddenly into a hug of his father, reminding both that for all his independence and bravery, Clive was still at heart a boy. “We do not believe that is their intention,” said Dr. Altmayer after a few seconds. “If what we faced were projectiles, a form of engineered-asteroid, so to speak, there would be no discernible reason for these to reveal themselves until the very moment of impact.”
“Maybe they don't have the energy to sustain the cloaks? Maybe they need it for something else.”
“Astutely observed, Bruce. That is currently the leading theory. That the objects are in fact vessels—spaceships—on which other systems are at play. Decloaking could be a form of intimidation, a way of sowing panic, but it could also be the consequence of something more mundane. For instance, a landing procedure.”
“How far away are these things?” asked Clive.
“Months. Perhaps weeks.”
“God…”
“And there are three?” asked Clive.
“Of which we know. Granted, six hours ago we did not know of any, so we should act on the assumption of three-plus-x.”
“And the space lizards, they're connected to this?”
Dr. Altmayer looked lovingly at Clive. “What do you think, son? Reason it out.”
“I think it would be a huge coincidence if the two events were unrelated, so it’s smart to assume they are related. I guess the space lizards could be some kind of advanced scouting?”
“Or fifth column,” said Bruce.
“And more could be coming,” said Clive.
“Night falls,” said Dr. Altmayer. “First contact has arrived with somewhat of a whimper. Second contact may yet deliver the bang.”
“We don’t know for certain what their intentions are. Maybe they’re not hostile. Maybe they’re friendly, or something in between. Something less directly confrontational. Childhood’s End,” said Bruce.
“The space lizards me and Ray came across seemed damn hostile to me,” said Clive, touching the wounds on his arms.
“Yet you got away.”
“That,” said Dr. Altmayer, “is a consequence of means, not intention.”
“Man, if the space lizards had been a little bigger…” said Clive, without elaborating on the thought: Ray and I would be dead. “And they just hatched. Who knows what they’ll grow into—and how fast.”
“We must not panic. But we must plan. That begins tomorrow in Washington. For now, all we can do is prepare ourselves for whatever lies ahead. Thank you for sharing dinner and drink with me, my dear sons. Bruce, if I do not see you in the morning: goodbye and good luck. Clive, we rise at 0600. Goodnight to you both."
Clive followed Bruce out of the SCIF into the darkness of the hallway, and down it into the living room, where the TV was still on, playing a sitcom. Clive wanted to say something—anything, but nothing felt appropriate. Eventually he gave Bruce a hug and told him he loved him. That he’d been a good brother. Then Bruce went to pack and Clive went to his room and tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come. Instead, Clive lay in bed trying to come to terms with having encountered aliens, actual aliens; imagining the size and purpose of the spaceships heading for Earth; picturing who or what was on them: humanoid, machine, plant, vapour or a hundred other possibilities, each image flickering briefly in his mind before going out to be replaced by the next; trying to soften the reality that in a few weeks or months, some of his myriad questions would be answered. And then what?
Unable to keep his eyes shut he wandered outside, down the street and through the neighbourhood. It was late and most people were asleep. Few windows were lit. The sidewalks were empty. Cars sat vacantly in their driveways, dogs slept and only a few nocturnal animals scurried this way and that, hunting and scavenging for food. Otherwise, the world surrounding him was quiet and tranquil. It was an atmosphere he had always enjoyed: found calming. Tonight, however, that tranquility was infused with an almost unbearable tension. The quiet felt leaden. The future hung above him—above all of humanity—like an anvil. And most of them didn’t even know it. A shiver ran through Clive, and with that shiver came tiredness. He went home, locked the door and fell asleep.
He dreamed of annihilation.