An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian

"Many times? Why have they not bothered your civilization?"

"The reason should be obvious. We do not attract their attention."

"So, they have left you alone? Not attacked your system?"

"Many inhabited worlds are benign. We have observed that those attacked are deemed irrational."

"Irrational -- worlds?"

"The beings. They become irrational, they attempt to spread their irrationality between stars. The Phage react to this threat -- and stop it."

"What do you mean by -- irrational?"

"The Will to conflict, to spread conflict. You might call conquest. Also, theological constructs have been considered irrational."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, I know. Sherman had difficulty with the idea too, but ultimately she found the notion amusing."

"She would."

"Ah, there's another interesting construct. Sarcasm."

"You don't lie, do you? Or evade the truth?"

"No. What is the point?" Collins' scrunched face was all she needed to see to understand the point was lost on him. "Lies are deception, and yet all deceptions fail in the end. Suspicions deepen, even political subterfuge crumbles. From what I have assimilated so far, I've seen that your history is filled with lies, deceptions. Some accidental, many willful."

"I suppose that's true," Collins said, and he watched her watching him. Communicators would almost certainly be adept at reading all kinds of language, wouldn't they? Even body language? And if they could "see" the future, was there anything anyone could do they hadn't already seen? "So? How long have you been manipulating genomes?"

She made the jump without batting an eye. "Human? After your last Ice Age. We manipulated the atmosphere, and the waters of the oceans, using several intermediate sized meteoroid impactors. To preserve..."

"The experiment?"

"No. Our destiny is inextricably linked to another species, so our manipulations with humans have been limited to a few."

"My dolphin," Collins said, sitting bolt upright. "She has the same markings. On her face."

"Yes."

"What does that mean? Is she...has she been genetically manipulated?"

"Of course. She is not the only one."

"What has she been manipulated into?"

"A hybrid, a cross between her species and my own. She is a communicator."

"What?"

"Her kind can maintain an active link to any communicator, anywhere. And it is from her species that we found the ability to see through time."

"WHAT?"

"Her's is a unique species, Sumner. When we came to this world, when we first came to study life here, we had little interest in any other species. We came first to catalogue lifeforms, yet we continued to study -- her kind. When the true significance of their ability became apparent, after we developed the first hybrids, we came to preserve habitat. When the Phage became aware of the inherent irrationality of this ability, we were able to see, through their mind's eye, that the Phage are coming -- right here. We have come now, to this system one last time -- in an effort to save them."

+++++

Corrine Duruflé sat in the back of a yellow and black utility company van, an old, beat-up Mercedes 'Sprinter' class model -- watching an apartment building on the left side of the Rue Albert Einstein, in the town of St Denis. The Parisian suburb had developed a reputation over the last few years as a haven for Islamist terror cells and perhaps, she thought, it was the proximity to the old cathedral, the first true gothic cathedral in Christendom, that made them feel safe and at ease while they drew up plans for their assaults on Christian infidels. That might have worked in the beginning, but as pressure from law enforcement grew these groups moved -- first to the south, to Lyon, and then north, to Brussels, after the attacks of last December. And her Directorate had watched quietly as a new group returned to St Denis, and that her quiet streets were growing 'popular' again. More attacks would surely follow...

A direct metro line to the heart of Paris might have been one reason, but the working hypothesis was that there must still be a network of some sort still in place -- and that was obviously of most importance to the Directorate -- and two days before drones had sniffed the tell-tale signature of radioactive material in the air near the cathedral. Not medical material, that much was immediately obvious, and no known transits of waste through the area were on the books, so the obvious supposition was that this group had gathered enough material for a dirty bomb -- and they were assembling the device now.

CCTV cameras throughout the area were now being monitored day and night, more sniffer drones criss-crossed the area through the night, triangulating patterns in the air, narrowing the search perimeter, and now Duruflé was parked outside a pale gray apartment building monitoring live CCTV feeds, while two specialists from ASN, the Autorité de sûreté nucléaire, watched readouts spike and fade...

"Best guess," one of the techs said, "is this top floor unit -- right here -- " pointing at an image on her screen. "The one with the telescope on the balcony. Concentrations are heaviest in the air just above this unit."

Corrine looked at another screen. The apartment was leased to a physics professor, a woman from Grenoble married to a Saudi national. She ran a search, read the dossier then looked at her watch, called the university where the woman was employed and asked to speak to her department chair. She introduced herself as a reporter for Agence France-Presse working on a story, and understood the professor was well regarded in the field, and she wondered if the Chairman could facilitate an interview.

"I would be happy to, madame, but the professor has not been in class for the last week, and has not called in..."

She left her name and number, then rang off. She called headquarters, relayed all she knew.

"Approaching the residence will be next to impossible," she advised. "Too many known elements are in the area, warning would be instantaneous. Even something as ridiculous as an airstrike would be counter-productive, radiation would be released on an even more massive scale."

"The decision has been made. A NATO Predator will fire a modified Dart. A biologic agent, a neural-disruptor will be released, death will result in less than two seconds. To soon for anyone to react."

"The area we can expect to see fatalities?"

"The approximate kill radius could be up to a kilometer, depending on winds, perhaps two on one lobe."

"Laser designator?"

"Yes, the team is on the way."

"I see."

"Clean up your site and leave the area, and do so immediately."

"Yes, director."

+++++

Jennie's head snapped away from their conversation, a sudden, jarring discontinuity -- like she was receiving a message of some importance. He was getting used to these interludes -- when she was receiving information from...somewhere.

"A nuclear device will detonate. In five minutes, thirty eight seconds."

"Where?"

"Paris. Just north of Paris."

"Can you stop it?"

"Of course."

"Would you do so now, please?"

Jennie jerked away for a moment, then looked back at him. "There is an incoming projectile. Shall I stop this as well."

"Here's what I'd like you to do," Collins said, grinning.

She smiled her understanding when he finished, and for a moment she simply looked away.

◊◊◊◊◊

When the Dart failed to detonate, Duruflé and two assault teams ran up to the fifth floor apartment -- and crashed through the door. Tools scattered everywhere, take-out food containers piled on a small table just off the kitchen, the professor's duct-taped and shackled body hustled quickly from the building, but no terrorists -- and no terrorist's bomb -- were anywhere in the vicinity. The 20 kiloton warhead -- recently acquired from Russian agents in Belarus -- had simply disappeared too.

Duruflé had no way of knowing the warhead had appeared moments before -- inside the Kremlin -- in the old Armoury Museum, resting gently inside a large, trough-shaped urinal in the men's room near the museum's main exit. Four of the five terrorists appeared at the First Southern Baptist Church of Topeka Kansas, in the middle of a Gay Conversion Therapy workshop, while the fifth terrorist, and the leader of the group, appeared -- naked -- on stage at a Klan rally in Tupelo, Mississippi -- his mutilated body found later that afternoon in a dumpster behind a nearby Kentucky Fried Chicken take-out restaurant.

+++++

'What about the future?' Hope Sherman wondered. 'If the past casts a shadow so deep it reaches the future,' she thought as she looked at Moe and Larry, grasping for context, 'what then of the future? Can the future cast a shadow on the present? To the past, in effect? Can the past really become so fluid?'

Moe's 'body' shifted slightly as he/she/it pondered her thoughts -- and Hopie once again 'felt' the impression he/she/it was looking at her, trying to come to terms with her thought processes. Ten meters tall, his body roughly pyramidal in shape and perhaps fifteen meters circumference at the 'base' -- his scaly 'body' did not move, not at all. This ship had, in effect, been built around him, so that he was physically connected to the ship in almost every conceivable way. And the scales on his body? Those had been hardest for her to get used to.

Translucent blue near the top, then reds and browns in progression the lower she looked, the scales detached frequently and zoomed away on some errand or task. The blues were of course communicators, the browns negotiators of some sort, while the reds were somewhat analogous to a security team. All genetic hybrids, all hyper-specialized entities with essentially no free-will of their own, the 'scales' resided on Moe's 'flesh', drawing energy, taking sustenance from 'him.' A part of him, in other words, yet somehow not quite.

She still found the idea disturbing, just as she had the first time she saw one detach and zoom away, when she first encountered one of the Masters.

A blue scale detached from Moe and drifted down to her lap -- and she tried not to recoil at the sight of this new one. Two feet tall, he was a miniature of her brother Ted, only hairless and translucent blue. His voice even sounded somewhat Ted-like, though diminished by stature, and now he sat cross-legged on her thighs.

"Hey kiddo," this urTed said, his familiar mannerisms completely unnerving her. "We need to talk."

"Do we?"

"About the Phage. Wanna go grab something to eat?"

She turned in her chair, rolled from the chamber -- trying to hide her face from him. She knew they were getting better at reading emotions through body language and understood the implications of that mastery, but her mission here was a tenuous one, her grip on Moe's loyalty conditional. She had to keep this alliance together at all cost, yet the communicator's presence was jarring -- and Moe would know that, instantly.

'Deliberately so?' she wondered. Keeping your adversary off-balance was a key tactic in any negotiation. 'Well, that answers that question...' But of course, now he knew her thinking too.

She rolled to the living module off the docking platform and cycled the airlock, went inside her private cubicle.

"What would you like?" urTed asked. "Burger and fries again, a chocolate malt?"

"How about eggs Benedict with smoked salmon, from the Place Pigalle at the Pike Place Market?"

"You're homesick today, aren't you?"

The plate appeared on her table a second later.

"I need a fork and knife, please."

And there they were. She picked them up, started on her breakfast.

"The Phage are now at light-speed times ten to the fourth. At that velocity that will reach this system in twenty years, but they are still under heavy acceleration. We will revise their arrival time when we have more accurate data."

"Okay. So what's bothering Moe?"

"There is no work underway on colony ships for your people. What you call political gridlock has stalemated all your governments. There are threats. Much posturing, that which you attribute to too much testosterone. Attempts have been made on Smithfield's life, also on both Collins and your brother. There appears to be no awareness among vast numbers of your population of our existence, while various political factions are uniting against our alliance. We think this is pointless, we think a renegotiation of terms is warranted."

"I do too."

"Excuse me? Did I hear you correctly? You do too?"

"Yes. And I have an idea..."

+++++

Perhaps controllers under Cheyenne Mountain were first to spot the object, or those at Baikonur II were first, but within moments NORAD increased it's defense posture from DEFCON 4 to 2 -- and Secretary of Defense Donald Burke notified a still-shaken president that the Hyperion Contact was emerging from behind the moon. Twenty minutes later, NORAD radar sites along the Labrador Sea picked up seven new targets in formation -- and all had simply appeared 'out of nowhere' -- and all were now closing on earth.

"How big are they?" the president asked Paul Kirkland, his National Security Advisor.

"The Dark Side object appears to have a diameter of roughly twenty miles; the seven new targets appear identical in size, but their field displacement is different -- heavier mass I'm told." Kirkland's encrypted line to NORAD chimed again, and he answered, listened to the general in command as he updated information, then Kirkland cut the connection. "Mr President, a ninth object has appeared. About 5800 miles above Antarctica. Uh, sir, the apparent diameter of this ship exceeds 1500 miles."

The president turned and looked over the White House lawn. "Did you say 1500 miles?"

"Yessir."

"Antarctica?"

"Yessir."

"Stationary?"

"No, sir. Descending, moving north northwest, projected to skirt the Chilean and Peruvian coasts, then continue offshore until it moves up our Pacific coast."

"Interesting."

"Mr President?"

"No way we'll be able to keep a lid on this any longer. My guess is they'll pull an Independence Day. Position over our major cities, try to scare the shit out of the general population."

"That's a possibility, sir."

"Okay. Let's prepare to shut down the stock exchanges, close the banks. Three hundred dollar ATM withdrawals only, initiate full DEFCON ONE guidelines."

"Air traffic, Mr President?"

"I said full DEFCON guidelines, Paul. Air and rail traffic, shut down the interstates, activate the emergency broadcast network. Full emergency food distribution using the National Guard, the whole nine yards."

"Martial Law, Mr President?"

He leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling. "Let's see if we can get the media to contain the story before we go with this, but if a panic starts, we'll give 'em a half hour then pre-empt, cut 'em all off and announce. Just replay the policies on air," the president said, "give people a few days to habituate, get used to the threat..."

"If we have that long, sir."

"Oh, we have time. Remember what Smithfield said? What he said we should do? 'Tell 'em about building ships. Let the people know' -- remember? This is a pretty good opening move; cut off our policy options, incite hysteria, breakdown public confidence in national institutions. Yes...an interesting first move."

"And? How do you want to counter it?"

"Counter it? Are you kidding me? That's the goddamn Death Star up there, Paul. I'm not sure there's anything we can do -- that wouldn't simply piss them off."

"So? How do we defend against them?"

"We listen. Listen and learn, because that's about all we can do. If we make a stupid move they'll shut us down. They'll begin a disinformation campaign. We'll lose that, too."

"How do you know that, Mr President?"

"Because that's what I'd do," he said, pointing at the sky, "if that was me up there -- with five Aces tucked up my sleeve."

+++++

Amanda and her friends were in a funky-festive mood -- but finally, it was time to celebrate! After being grounded the first month of summer vacation, this was her first night out, and her mom had just dropped her off for a sleepover at Kiley's mom's house. Amanda and Kiley had been best friends all through elementary and middle school -- but next year? The really big adventure started: High School! Still, she was pissed -- her mom had nearly ruined everything, caught Kiley and all her friends in the pool out back the afternoon school let out -- with a bunch of beer -- and Justin Landry, with his hands where they weren't supposed to be. Now, after spending a month at the Westside Pentecostal 'Vacation Bible School' -- she was...free at last--Gawd-almighty--free at last!

"So, what'd they make you do there?" Kiley asked.

"If I ever see another Charlton Heston movie again, I'll die..."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter...I hear the fifth Independence Day sequel is pretty good...think we can get your mom to take us? I think it's playing at the Westside Galleria?"

"Uh-huh...and Justin's going to be there too, I suppose?"

Kiley's mom was so-o-o kewl! Dropped them off with plenty of money to see the movie -- even some leftover for snacks, but Look At That Line! Sheesh! The four thirty showing was sold out, so now they'd have to wait a whole fifteen minutes to get into the four forty-five! And...where was Justin?

Then people were gasping, looking at the sky and pointing, so of course Amanda and Kiley turned and looked too. No boiling, flaming clouds this time, just a really big -- spaceship -- looking thing. She yawned, looked around -- hoping Justin was going to make it in time for the show, then turned back to look at the advertising thingy up there floating by.

"Man," she heard someone say, "I wonder how much the studio had to pay for that thing?"

"Gets your attention though..." someone else said.

"Wow!" Justin said, and Amanda wheeled around to see him and did her best to appear bored. "That thing's really big."

"Just one of those blimp things. No big deal..."

But the mass of the ship was huge, and as no measurement protocol was available to quickly calculate a mass this large, let alone distortions to the earth's 'gravity well' it's passing caused, what happened next came as a surprise. As the ship closed on the southern California coast, people, cars, cats and dogs -- even garbage -- anything and everything not firmly affixed to the earth -- began to float free -- weightless as the ship passed.

And as the ship faded from view, still heading north along the coastline, the temporary distortions in the earth's 'gravity well' dissipated, and everything and everyone simply settled back to the surface...

"Wow, that was SO kewl..." Amanda said. "I hear they're going to -- like -- have a ride like that at Magic Mountain this summer! Oh! This is going to be such a -- kewl -- summer!"

And so she and Kiley -- and Justin -- walked into the theater, all jazzed about seeing a bunch of aliens coming back to earth on the silver screen -- "I bet they're really going to kick ass this time!" she said -- all while Justin wondered if he'd be able to slip a finger inside...

+++++

News outlets were curiously silent about these brief sightings, and what imagery and commentary that did "come out" did so through less conventional 'online' channels. Most of this smartphone based imagery was grainy enough to allow experts to debunk the entire affair, and reports of distorted gravity were put down to h-h-hysteria -- and nothing more.

The President had called in a lot of favors to get this done, and he was happy with the results. "Money well spent," he told his staff.

+++++

Hope Sherman conferred with her translator, her urTed, or as Sumner liked to call her brother -- Spud. The eight remaining transports -- Moe's colony ships -- had been given coordinates and times, and Sherman smiled at the allegorical significance of her choices. Moe apparently had a sense of humor too...either that, or he was a real gambler.