“Some folks feel desperate to stop a Message from going out,” Major Bamford explained late that night, around 1 a.m., between gulps of reheated stew. “Seeing public opinion shift, they decided to act.”
How could Dad be so calm after today’s near disaster? Mark’s gut still churned over what he had witnessed first hand, a few hours ago, before landing in a harsh tuck-n-roll between two Pleiades hybrids. While the X Crew gathered what they could of his scattered backpack, Alex helped Mark nurse a sprained ankle into the lounge at Marshall Motors, where a crowd watched televised coverage of the attack. Which by then – thank heavens – appeared to be over.
Soon, the military released scenes of violent havoc, the remnants after more than a hundred ground-hugging robot aircraft had tried to swoop in from several directions, equipped with stealth technology. All of which suggested powerful backers with lots of funding.
One drone, filled with high explosives, had managed to swerve past the defense guns to strike next to the Contact Facility, demolishing a hangar where hybrid aircraft were being tested with morsels of alien science. It was the flash he saw, while riding the balloon.
Dad works there.
That had been his sole thought while watching images of the smashed, burning facility. He could hear distant ambulance sirens through the open door while, on TV, their strobe lights diffracted through clots of roiling smoke onto charred bodies. For a while Mark feared the worst, for his father and for the guest from the stars.
Then word came. Na-bistaka had remained comfortable the whole time, under those inflated domes. And Major Bamford sent hurried instructions –
Safe. Have dinner without me. Do homework as usual!
Then, much later over post-midnight cocoa, the tired officer described today’s attack as only a close eyewitness could — starting with the sudden wail of alarms, followed by a crump and hiss of departing anti-aircraft missiles, then the brittle hum of close-in defense lasers and rapid-stuttering Vulcan guns and finally — deafening explosions. Though the attackers failed in their main goal, Dad’s squadron lost two colleagues in the struck hangar. Working deep inside one of the experimental jets, they had been unable to take cover in time.
Hours later, clearly furious over the fatalities, Dad also seemed strangely composed — almost serene.
It’s how you’re supposed to act in a crisis, Mark thought, wishing he were made of the same stuff.
“I can take comfort in one thing,” his father said. “The bastards have already lost.”
* * *
That was the latest news, announced even as Major Bamford drove home for a late supper. The assassination attempt only served to consolidate world opinion. Shortly afterward, the International Contact Conference on the island of Malta took its vote, achieving that most remarkable accomplishment — consensus.
Planet Earth’s human civilization, acting in unison, would help a stranded castaway from the stars.
The Message would go forth.
And immediately. So no one else could view murder as a viable alternative.
Like it or not, for better or for worse, humanity was committed.
“So … what do you think will happen now, Dad?”
Mark’s father smiled. The corners of his eyes creased near streaks of gray.
“Who can say? I know just one thing for sure, son — the world you’ll live in will be different from the one my generation knew. We better hope that we succeeded in raising you kids well — to have agile minds and resilient souls. ’Cause it’s a sure thing you’ll need both.”
Staying up till the wee hours, they watched televised coverage as workers prepared to cast forth The Message, from an antenna that had been prepared a few hundred miles north, in an isolated valley near the Nevada border.
Then came the phone call.
In all honesty … Mark had been half expecting it.
* * *
This time, Barry Tang had permission. So did Tom Spencer and Chloe Mendel, from the geeky group that first recovered Na-Bistaka from his desert crash site. All five were invited to come and observe. Rushing to meet in the pre-dawn glow, they climbed aboard an Osprey II tiltrotor aircraft — one of eight in a convoy protected by two squadrons of Marine fighter jets.
Mark had no idea which of the other Ospreys carried the Interstellar Guest. In fact, there was a grim satisfaction in knowing: one of the functions we’re serving is as decoys, in case someone else tries an attack.
At one point, peering through a dusty window pane, Mark felt certain that he recognized Major Bamford as one F35 cruised easily past. And Mark wondered. What are those ‘modifications’ that Dad spoke of? Are we really making strides in adapting alien technologies? It can’t have been very much so far. Not yet, with the little dribbles that Na-Bistaka’s given us.
The trip took less than an hour. Few words were spoken. Not many could be heard over the engine noise. Indeed, all five students were tired; few had slept much in 24 hours.
So they sat, pensively feeling the weight of history being made, each of them wondering – as were eight billion other human beings – is this the right thing we’re doing? All the way to a landing strip in Southern California’s Owens Valley, under the shadow of several giant radio telescopes.
There, a new construction towered, a spiral-shaped funnel of gleaming white and gray ceramic – it looked like a gigantic soft-serve ice cream cone — with great cables leading to three of the huge, steerable radar dishes. They were already aimed. Pointing at a particular corner of the deep-blue sky.
Funny, I would’ve pictured this happening at night, when you can see which stars, which constellation …
Alex helped Mark limp out of the aircraft, and handed over the cane he had borrowed for his sprain. Only when he thanked her, she turned away. Clearly, Alex was still miffed over the way he had used unfair – both logical and emotional – tactics to seize the balloon ascent for himself. And maybe Alex had a point. They might never know if his maneuver with the backpack had been helpful in destroying that sneaker-drone. Or (more likely) just a silly gesture. Who knows? Maybe she was miffed over that picture of Helene, floating down to fall onto the winch even as Alex struggled to control it and save Mark’s life.
Well, well. There were levels of upset, and he knew this mood. She was already getting over it and would be fine, soon. So long as he was extra nice for a bit.
A massive bunker lay beneath that spiral tower. Mark never even glimpsed the alien till they were all inside, taking assigned places in a control room that seemed half NASA Mission Control and half the bridge out of some Star Trek movie. Then he spotted Na-Bistaka, a small figure in silken red, surrounded by dignitaries and senior technical people, like Alex’s mom.
Nobody seemed much interested in ceremony. The decision had been made. Time now to implement the world consensus. The alien handed the Chief Scientist a small block, like a sugar cube, containing a coded message, which she proceeded to drop into a slot … and a countdown began as dials showed energy levels building.
“Yipe!” Barry Tang muttered to Alex. “Do those dials really measure in gigajoules?”
Alex whistled in awe, then glanced at Mark, who nodded in sage wonder, wearing his own look of amazed appreciation … and making a mental note to find out, later, what a gigajoule was.
Only during the final countdown did the hooded, silken robe turn as Na-Bistaka scanned the human beings lined up along the tiers behind him. That narrow snout seemed to pause, briefly just once, as those large eyes spotted Mark and the other kids from Twenty-Nine Palms High School. That strange, double-elbowed arm lifted. A knobby, wandlike finger pointed, briefly.
And Mark Bamford tried not to think of his old nickname.
Then, it was time.
The moment that the pulse launched forth, Mark felt a sudden tightness in his throat. There were no other signs for the uninformed visitor – no spectacular special-effects sounds or flashes. Nor sparking, overloaded circuit boards. Did the abrupt crawling sensation along his spine come from some side effect of quantum tunneling when the signal burst forth?
Did everyone on Earth feel the same thing, at the very same instant?
Or was it a psychological thing — a symptom of realizing at last...
That’s it. No turning back.
One thing he sure didn’t expect … and he doubted that anyone else did either.
He never imagined the Garubis would reply so soon.