Wherever Seeds May Fall (First Contact) Read online

  “What’s happening?” James asks, speaking over the commentary. “Is that it? Is that all there is? I was expecting something bigger. Like an explosion.”

  “—waiting on confirmation of the impact as we see the comet clip the planet—”

  Large black plumes appear like ink blots on water, scarring the upper clouds. Ripples form in the atmosphere.

  Sue says, “That’s really big, right? It just looks small from this far away, huh?”

  She’s talking to Nolan, looking for confirmation, but he’s speechless. His mind is set on record, wanting to shut out all distractions and absorb every detail. He nods. To his surprise, the dark clouds appear elongated, stretching out around the planet. It’s as though a series of impacts occurred, and for a moment, Nolan wonders if An̆duru finally broke up. To his surprise, a thin black line leads away from the billowing clouds.

  “What’s that?” James says, speaking over the commentary.

  “—appears to have grazed the planet—”

  “What does he mean, grazed?” James asks. “Why did he say that?”

  Nolan doesn’t know. The term ‘grazed’ is an observation, not an explanation.

  “—acute angle causing An̆duru to skim the edge of the atmosphere, skipping off the thicker, lower layers—”

  “Skipping?” Sue says, pointing at the image of the approach, the elongated impact, and the departing trail. A single jet-black line traces its way across a small portion of the planet, curving with the shape of Saturn. In the center, a series of hazy black blobs billow through the cloud tops.

  “—rebounding out into space—”

  “Nolan? Honey?” Jan says, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “What just happened?”

  “Oh, that’s very cool,” Nolan says, realizing he’s not going to get to hear the commentary. Jan wants to understand what they just witnessed. Nolan’s not sure he can describe this with scientific precision. Even so, he’s got a fair idea what the astronomers at NASA will be saying.

  “Okay. Imagine skipping a stone across a pond. If the angle is shallow enough, your rock doesn’t sink, right? It skips across the surface, bouncing off the water. That’s what just happened, but on a cosmic scale.”

  “—ARCTRIX will have a better view of the incident, but we will have to wait at least another half an hour for those images to arrive—”

  “So that’s it?” James asks. “What now?”

  “Hmm,” Nolan says. “It depends how much momentum the comet lost, but it could curl back a second time and hit somewhere else on Saturn. Or maybe it’ll keep going like a bullet ricocheting off concrete.”

  “Wow,” Sue says.

  “How did it stay intact?” James asks. “Aren’t comets like snowballs? Shouldn’t it have gone splat?”

  Nolan shrugs. “Good question. No idea.”

  “Well,” Jan says, clapping her hands together. “The timer just went off in the kitchen. Lasagna’s done.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Nolan says. “I need to make a quick call. I want to make sure Chuck caught that.”

  “Sure.”

  Nolan slides the patio door open and walks outside, closing it behind him. He’s hit with a wall of cold air but barely notices. Nolan walks across the wooden deck and taps a speed dial number on his cellphone. An automated voice answers.

  “You have reached the after-hours number for the North American Aerospace Defense Command. If your matter is urgent—”

  “Uniform Romeo Golf Echo November Tango.”

  There’s clicking on the line before another automated voice speaks.

  “Identification?”

  Snowflakes drift through the air, landing on the deck beside his bare feet.

  “Landis, Nolan. Foxtrot Romeo 19346.”

  He goes down the handful of steps to the garden. The lemon, lime, and apple trees planted by his wife last spring have all been denuded by the cold, stripped bare of their leaves. His toes press into the soft mud by the edge of the path, but he doesn’t care.

  A computerized voice says, “Challenge: Spanish rain.”

  The US military learned the folly of complex passwords long ago and switched to pass-phrases. The forced complexity of passwords with numbers and letters, upper and lower case, along with non-alphanumeric characters, creates an illusion of security. They might befuddle brute-force password-cracking programs, but they also ensure people write their passwords down. Anything outside of someone’s head is vulnerable to compromise. Instead, NORAD uses a challenge/response unique to each person that changes every month. Using conceptual association, the military can outflank even the smartest artificial intelligence.

  When challenged by the Spanish rain, Nolan replies, “French red wine.”

  Nolan hates red wine. To his palate, it’s insipid, which makes it perfect for his challenge association. It’s not something someone would guess about him. Why French? Why not? Rain knows no national border or lines on a map. It’s his association. He can associate Spanish rain with anything he wants. The point is for him to remember something unique from one month to the next so he can be identified remotely. To others, Spanish rain might inspire a quote from Don Quixote or My Fair Lady. The variations are such that, with only one chance to pass the challenge, it’s impossible to beat.

  “Verification complete,” is the electronic reply.

  Seconds later, a human answers. “Duty watch, Sergeant McAlester. How can I help you, sir?”

  “I need a broad spectrum social media sweep against the following accounts and anyone that works for them. Keywords: Saturn, comet, An̆duru, impact.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Nolan rattles off organizations he’s certain are following the events around Saturn. “NASA, JPL, SETI, IAU, ESA, Roscosmos, the Astronomical League, Planetary Society, ALMA, ESO, and SKA.”

  There’s silence for a few seconds before the sergeant replies.

  “Sir, there are over ten thousand accounts associated with these organizations.”

  “I know,” Nolan says. The sun dips below the mountains, plunging the landscape into the shadows. “I’ll need you to feed these to me by 7 am Monday. Anything unusual or out of the ordinary and I want to know about it.”

  “Understood.”

  “Thanks,” he says, ending the call and turning to go back inside.

  Lizards

  Andy’s angry.

  In a low growl, he says, “There are lizard people among us.”

  Forty-eight years old, overweight and bald, he slams his hand on the desk in front of him. The microphone shakes as he yells, “I’m not kidding! I’m not making this stuff up! I wouldn’t lie to you! I couldn’t! I have a duty to tell you the truth.”

  Fifty webcams record his every word from a variety of positions. A wide-angle shot takes in his desk, along with a wall of video screens behind him. The other cameras are set to capture different angles from headshots to side-profiles. Andy’s vain. Any shot that accentuates his jaw is perfect. Motion-tracking ensures he’s always center-of-frame.

  He points at nothing in particular, but the audience won’t know that.

  “That thing out there. That comet that flew passed Saturn. Yeah, they tell you it’s a comet. That ain’t no comet. It’s an alien spaceship! It’s a warship! I’m telling y’all right now, they’re on their way here. The lizard people! They’re coming for their own.”

  Although his online videos appear studio quality, Andy doesn’t work with a production crew. He uses a machine-learning algorithm to automagically pick the right shot. The computer’s decisions are based on various inputs, from the cadence of his speech to his physical gestures. Automated shot changes act like a drug, lulling his audience into acceptance. Andy needs to keep them pliable, passive, and open to suggestion. His videos are theatrics mixed with conflict. He’s an actor on a virtual stage.

  Veins bulge in his neck.

  Spittle flies from his lips.

  “They call it An̆duru, but that’s not its name. Can
’t you see what they’re doing? Already, they’re trying to bury the truth. Call it what it is. An̆duru Kumārayā. The Prince of fucking Darkness! Make no mistake about it. This thing is satanic!”

  Andy understands the need for pacing. He can’t keep his performance on turbo boost or the heights of his rhetoric become meaningless. There have to be lows. He softens, looking thoughtful, changing the dynamic, calming himself as he explains.

  “Listen. A lot of people trust me. They tell me secrets that could cost them their lives. Those on the dark net. They know. They’ve seen them—these reptilian monsters. They have risked their very souls to get me this information so I can share it with you. I need you. We need you. Humanity needs you to understand.”

  As the intensity in his voice increases, the computer algorithm decides how to frame his tirade. It selects low shots, looking up at him to make him appear dominant. A monitor is set below his teleprompter, showing him what’s being broadcast.

  “The end is coming, my friends. This is how it starts. But most people are blind. They’ve got their nice new car, their cell phones and computer tablets, their trips to the mall. All the while, an invasion is underway. But you. You understand.”

  A red LED indicates how the primary shot is changing, being passed from one camera to another by his AI.

  “Lizards, people! Lizard people! Hybrids! Part human, part reptile. That’s what I’m talking about!”

  Andy points at the primary camera. The broadcast algorithm detects his gesture. The camera zooms in to capture the expression on his face. Veins bulge on his neck. His cheeks flush with anger.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me. They’re real regardless of what you believe. I’m just the messenger. I’m delivering the warning. You decide what you’ll do with that, but I’m telling you, they’re here to enslave you.”

  For a moment, he's frustrated. He looks, but there’s no one else there with him in his garage studio. His voice echoes off the concrete floor.

  “They came here. From Space. They came here to take over. But there are too many of us. That’s the problem. There are billions of us. So how do you take over hundreds of different countries and cultures containing billions of people? You don’t. You can’t. So you adapt. You infiltrate. You manipulate. You lie. You steal. You cheat.

  “You see, they have to stay hidden because if people saw them and their lizard skin, they’d rebel. These creatures would have a revolt on their hands. No. They don’t want that, so they scheme. They slither. They entice and bribe. They use the systems of this world. The money! The power! The prestige!”

  Andy lifts a water bottle and takes a quick swig, just enough to wet the back of his throat.

  “Make no mistake,” he says, rounding out his online show. “They’re watching you. They’re watching me. They’re watching this goddamn video. They will do anything to discredit us. Anything to get at me. Anything to make me look like I’m crazy. But you know. You’ve followed me over the years. You know I’m honest. You know you can trust me. You know I’d never let you down.”

  Andy glances at notes he scrawled on a sheet of paper over breakfast. He wants to be sure he’s hit all his points. Once he’s satisfied, he says, “Stay safe, my brothers. Be vigilant. Watch for signs. Look after yourself, ’cause no one else will.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect. The wall of interlocking video screens behind him displays an American flag fluttering in the breeze. It’s computer-generated. Stars dominate a blue background. Blood red stripes alternate with white fabric as pure as the driven snow. Were it a real flag, it would be twenty feet high.

  “This is Andy Anderson for Truth@War, signing off.”

  With that, Andy flicks a switch beneath the desk, shifting the broadcast to a set of ads. Infomercials will fill the remaining twenty minutes of the Angry Andy Anderson’s Hour of Truth. His tirades rarely reach sixty minutes. Yet another machine-learning algorithm will pick between almost eight thousand video clips he’s accumulated over the years. It’ll match the content with this morning’s material and keep his channel flooded with relevant clips.

  Andy steps away from his desk and the illusion is shattered. Just out of frame, the wall screens give way to a wooden door leading from his garage to his overgrown backyard.

  Beyond the glare of the studio lights, his garage looks distinctly suburban. The cameras are mounted on an intricate scaffold surrounding his desk like a cage. Behind them, there’s a workbench with a soldering iron, along with a row of tools mounted on the wall. Paint drips and new drywall reveal where Andy repaired a roof leak last summer. A lawnmower and grass trimmer sit idle near the far wall along with an empty gas can.

  Andy hits another switch, killing the lights and the air conditioning. The cameras have already powered down. The computer server running his website is on a separate circuit. Dozens of red LEDs flicker in the shadows. He steps into his kitchen, leaving the illusion of his virtual world behind him. Dirty dishes fill the sink. A dog rushes up to him with its tail wagging. Andy scratches its head and rubs its ears as he walks into the lounge.

  “Good boy.”

  Mail has piled up beneath the slot in the front door. One of the envelopes is caught in the flap, forcing Andy to pay attention to the bills and advertising brochures scattered by the entrance. He flicks through them just like all of his neighbors, only instead of being an accountant or a store clerk, Andy makes his money selling merchandise. Most of his money comes from direct sales, meaning he’s selling in name only. Some chump orders a Truth@War t-shirt or a hat saying, “Loud and Proud American,” and Andy’s bank balance goes up. The entire transaction is handled by some faceless company and an equally faceless fan. All Andy has to do is sit back and watch the money roll in.

  Oh, he’s met plenty of fans at gun shows and conventions. Autographs are obligatory, as are vigorous handshakes. Fuck the politics of COVID. That goddamn mess was just a stunt, or so he told his audience. As much as he denied it, there was no way in hell Andy was going out of his house without a mask and a bottle of hand sanitizer. Besides, wearing a mask made it easier to hide his identity. God forbid his fans learn otherwise. But that was yesteryear. That’s over now. Except when it isn’t and the damn thing flares up again.

  Andy opens the envelopes one by one. Bill. Junk. Junk. Junk. Interesting offer. More junk. Another bill. All anyone is ever after is money. One letter catches his eye.

  Municipal Court:

  Summons: Driving Under the Influence

  “Fuck.”

  Andy tosses it on the kitchen table. He can’t ignore that one. Bill. Junk. Junk. Junk.

  District of Columbia Family Court

  Custody Hearing

  “Fuck this shit!”

  Andy slams the thin sheet of paper onto the kitchen table. Anger is all he knows. Muscles flex in his arms and shoulder. Veins appear on his forehead. He grinds his teeth, but it’s all in vain.

  “Damn it!”

  He pounds the table with his fist. The dog jumps, disappearing with its tail between its legs. Andy breathes deeply, slowing himself. He doesn’t understand. To him, this is an insult, an affront to his pride. The world should bow before him, but it doesn’t.

  A truck rumbles by outside. A robotic arm picks up his trash can, emptying it. Hydraulics surge, crushing the waste. The brakes ease and the truck moves on next door.

  Andy doesn’t want to relent, but life moves on. He doesn’t want to surrender to the moment, but time compels him. He has to give in. This isn’t one of his videos. There’s only so long he can stand there enraged.

  Although he doesn’t want to admit it, Andy’s forced to give in. His muscles ease. If he hasn’t won, he’s lost—that’s all his mind can process. To lose is more than he can bear. Andy sulks to the fridge, opening the door and pulling a beer from the shelf. He’s hungry, but all he sees is wilted lettuce, an empty milk carton, and a half-eaten carton of Chinese takeout. For a brief moment, he sees his life for what it is and he do
esn’t like what he sees.

  Andy pops the top off the beer.

  Tabletop

  Nolan is always early on Monday mornings. For him, it’s the best way to attack a week rather than feeling overwhelmed before it’s even started. Today he arrives at Fort Carlson before seven. Coffee in hand, he walks into a nondescript building in the heart of the military base.

  ECW. Electronic Counter Warfare. It’s a lie, but there it is on the door leading to his floor. Information is the oldest weapon in war. Even in modern times, information has been more useful than bullets or bombs.

  Lies win wars. During World War II, the British built tanks out of balsa wood to fool German reconnaissance. The Allies misled Hitler about the location and size of the force being deployed on D-Day.

  When Iraq invaded Kuwait, the US deployed fake military bases, scattering them across the desert. They ran smoke machines and loudspeakers to divert attention from the real attack.

  Back when SEAL Team Six was first conceived, there were only two SEAL teams, but the Soviets didn’t know that.

  Deceit saves lives. In the same way, Nolan and his team work on everything but electronic counter warfare. They often joke that the real meaning of the acronym ECW is End of the Civilized World, as their job is to plan for the unthinkable. If the world is going to end on Tuesday, the US government would like prior warning.

  Nolan knows before he gets to his desk. He can see the pile from the walkway. Damn, there must be three to four thousand pages stacked in front of his chair. Fuck. That’ll teach him for not being more precise in his request. He should have said he wanted electronic copies of social media posts. A spreadsheet would be ideal. He needs to be able to search and arrange the results, but no, he’s assailed by a mountain of paper. The US military prides itself on being effective, not efficient. He has all the information he wanted but in hard copy format. Sigh.

  Nolan ignores the pile for a moment, pushing it aside and logging into his two desktop computers. NORAD runs several independent computer networks. SECNET is rated top-secret. Far from being a cliche, the top-secret network is physically isolated and requires a separate computer to access. Nolan’s SECNET computer has no Bluetooth or wireless connectivity. There are no ports into which anything beyond a keyboard and mouse can be inserted. Still, it’s not as bad as the poor bastards in charge of the nukes. Down there, they’re running green screens with data stored on eight-inch floppy disks. To Nolan’s delight, these near-mythical pieces of flexible plastic are not merely save icons after all. The launch teams don’t even get a mouse. Their system runs in an archaic form of DOS, but that’s all that’s needed to destroy entire civilizations—coordinates and a command.