Everyone’s watching, to see what you will doEveryone’s looking at you
The industrial smells and sounds of the bus fill my head as I board, moving to a shady seat near the back. On these clear sunny days, the city buses can get stifling during my half-hour ride to work, even with the cool autumn air. Earbuds in, music on. Today, 80s rock is the soundtrack to my morning commute.
Of course, it’s not just any other Monday. I don’t even screw around on my phone. I both sent and received messages through the interface chip st night. Now, I’m reviewing the conversations, which, along with my sudden ability to do long division, 144210/165=[874], are the reminders that I didn’t spend the whole weekend hallucinating. I’ve got letters in my head and a wound on my back.
After Cascade departed, I started composing my reply for Joiner. It took a bit for me to get used to writing using the interface chip. Pying the message back is a weird sensation, and writing it is strange as well. Before I was done, I got a pleasant surprise when Cas sent me an update from Orbit. An image of earth from space, a warm feeling, and a simple “I’m safely in orbit. Stay safe on the ground.”
I tested sending my own message in response, “I will. Don’t forget to bring back my book. Take care.”
Cas took my copy of The Hobbit, and I amused myself by sending an image of the empty spot on my bookshelf and a feeling of pyful sarcasm along with it. Conveying emotions through messages in this way is interesting, to say the least. I gave myself a few repys before deciding it was good enough to send. I didn’t want to come across in any way other than my intent.
I figured I should return some of the formality Joiner showed with their message. Given that I only have a vague impression of them, I took my time getting it right. Once it was finished, I sent it as I went to sleep st night.
Joiner,
This degree of formality is unnecessary, though I will uphold some of it as I come to understand the particurs of our growing retionship. I wish to meet you as well, and foster that growth into something we are both satisfied with. Hopefully, a grand mind like yourself will not be bored with the banalities of a single human.
I include images of the modest apartment and busy warehouse that consume most of my life, as well as the stagnant feelings that have hung over me.
Worry not about the command to force me into a link. I suspect we both know that it is something I may have consented to, had that been open for discussion. It was not, though, and I'm sure you would have had to do so eventually, to myself or another.
As for the state of the Earth, I am certainly no wide-ranging expert, but my own perception as an inhabitant can be very bleak. Worries about human unrest are certainly warranted. The atrocities of the st century alone are staggering, even before looking at our whole history.
I’d like to tackle some less heavy subjects, if possible. Perhaps there is something of interest we can discuss until I visit personally.
Regards,
Lay
The interface chip seems to have a sleep mode, thankfully. That, or I haven’t learned to use it in my sleep yet. A response was waiting this morning when I awoke;
Lay,
We are gd for your forgiveness. Links are one of our greatest strengths, and the information we gained from yours is indispensable. It may be a cornerstone for future retions between our species.
For potentially lighter subjects, perhaps you'd like to discuss human art? Corda do not ck a sense of aesthetics, but our artistic expressions are not so advanced. Such feelings and ideas are often expressed directly. However, we have consumed a significant amount in our research, and your own thoughts are of interest to us. Are you familiar with the works of Isaac Aasimov? So far, we find some of his writings compelling.
We understand that you are a visual artist, yourself. We would be delighted if you tell us of some of your own favorites. Do you have personal inspirations?
Regards,
Joiner
Along with the message is an ‘attachment’ with context I need to back up my cover story. Details, names, even a quick write up, all in my head to access. FC has already been doing work online to provide the alibi. Officially, I'll be on leave for a sudden internship opportunity out of town. There's a dummy business set up already with a contact email. I have the info if anyone needs me to provide it.
I spend a portion of my commute considering what to say in reply. I've read “I, Robot” but it has been a while. Joiner probably finds the contemptions over the bance of Aasimov's ws to be retable, even. Flora seem comparable to some of the most advanced AI he envisioned.
My own inspirations are quite varied, but there are a few key ones I could mention and discuss in detail. Most directly, Amano comes to mind for his distinct sense of style. On another hand, I've always been incredibly fond of Rubens, though imitating his immacute work with oil paint is a pipe dream. I start the reply, but don't get far.
Arriving at work, I make my way into the warehouse. My job is fairly pointless, we repackage snacks into variety packs and store them for ter distribution. It's a sizable pce with a wide range of items. Pallets are moved around by several forklifts to be unpacked, re-sorted, then subsequently repacked in a different configuration.
I drive a forklift, but I'm also expected to help out when there's nothing to move. The forklift premium is nice, and I worked for my certification rgely so I could afford the luxury of living alone. It also saves me from 40 or more hours of only manual bor. Luckily, our first shift works more overtime than our second.
Today, I have an additional agenda. As usual, I drop off my things in the break area, but I head to the office for a moment. Of course, the manager I'm looking for isn't around, so I move over to Tree, the short futchy woman who runs clerical on second. She's probably only just started working.
As always, she looks great, her light, acorn-brown skin complimented nicely with sparse eyeliner and silver accessories keeping her shoulder-length bck hair out of her face. Like most girls here, she’s in something practical, bck pocketed leggings and a green band tee. Did I mention she looks great? Looking up, she smiles at me, “Lay! How are you?”
I indulge the pleasantry, “I'm doing alright, Tree. Are you well?”
She shrugs and rolls her eyes, “well enough for a Monday. Did you need something?”
Tree is always nice, at least to me, “Yeah, if you see Matt, tell him I need to talk to him about a leave of absence.”
Her demeanor shifts, showing potential concern, “Oh? Are you taking time off?”
“Yeah, I've had a strange opportunity come up, I'll tell you about it ter?”
“Okay.” She smiles, though clearly a bit confused, as I step back out.
Katrina, usually addressed as Tree, works with the rest of the grunts when she's out of paperwork, or when we're understaffed. Management loves lean staffing, so she helps out a lot. Probably my best friend at this pce, not that I have many for her to compete with.
Putting earplugs in, I'm off to the forklift parking. I'm not here early enough to cim one of the better ones, so I get the current beater. Number 9; screwed up tines, engine that makes questionable noises, fuel lines practically a Frankenstein's monster, and a dented frame around the seat. The st feature is from a dumbass on the first shift tipping it over st month. A nepotism hire, he gets to stay despite the fireable offense.
Starting up the monstrosity, I put it in gear and get on to the grind.
Matt catches me a bit before lunch, pulling up in his own lift as I swap out propane tanks on mine. A fairly fit, bigger dude with light hair and soft features, wearing jeans and a dark tee along with his steel-toes. The swap is taking a fair amount of effort due to the machine's abominable fuel line. He's not an awful manager. It took time, but I learned not to mistake his friendliness for kindness.
He seems nonchant, “Hey Lay, Tree said you needed to talk about a leave of absence?”
Of course he gets to me out here at the tank storage. “Yeah, Matt. Um, I actually had a big opportunity come out of nowhere in my personal life. It's kind of a paid internship, but there's no guarantee it'll directly lead into anything. It starts next week, and I was gonna take unpaid leave for the duration, if that's okay.”
Matt and I understand each other, or at least I believe we do. He knows I don't like to take shit, and I know he likes to feel in control. His face scrunches up at the prospect and he asks, “How long will you be gone?”
This will be the point of contention, “eight weeks. I should be back just after the start of the busy season.”
Thinking for a moment, he bites a thumbnail. Then, he rexes, “it should be fine, but try to give us more warning next time. Owen might want you to use up your vacation.”
A few years of no issues do me some favors here. Owen is the big boss on site, “Yeah of course. I didn't even expect it to come through, so, sorry about the short notice.”
He nods and grunts in affirmation, and drives off.
While I eat leftover Alfredo at lunch, Tree grills me for details. “So is this an art thing, or what? What skills have you been holding out on me about?”
I chuckle a bit, “Yeah it’s an art thing. They said they liked my whole resume for whatever reason.” It’s not a lie, Joiner wants to know about my ‘human experience’.
She ponders through a bite of her sandwich, before speaking sarcastically, “Of course. Every architectural design company needs a forklift operator. What are you gonna be doing?”
Thankfully, I’d spent a bit of time working through these questions with Cas. “They’re gonna teach me drafting techniques while plumbing me for design ideas.” I whisper, “it pays better than here in the meantime.”
“Well shit, girl, I never thought of you as the architect type but if the pay is good.” She pauses for a moment, “I’ll miss ya while you’re gone. You still gotta come out with me sometime!”
Tree’s been trying to get me to come out to the club with her for a couple of months. I’m not against it, just… nervous. “We’ll see. They seemed interested in making me a full time hire. Maybe I’ll be permanently in Chicago next year!”
“That's not that far! I could visit and we could go somewhere cool together. Unless you’re busy with your fancy design job,” she gives me an eye roll and smiles to top off her pyful demeanor. I've been told that Tree is always flirty, though never with men.
I try to keep a professional distance, “We'll have to at least hang out before I move. Sorry to put off the club pns for so long.”
She smiles at me again, “it's fine, I don't think I'm going anywhere.”
I finish my next message and send it on the bus home
---
MJ: Serious concerns identified, details attached, please advise
PR: Acknowledged
PR: Requesting full detail file for individual H1
MJ: Provided
PR: Forwarding new restriction parameters. engage in preventive action as soon as possible. We recommend open consultation with both of your peers.
A rare moment of complete focus. At least since beginning the terrestrial part of the mission. I could even be considered a singur mind, for a moment.
Both of our peers.
Sure, a “recommendation” but that’s hardly any different from a command, coming from the colloquial “Augur”. The recommendation is basically an outright demand that we colborate, or my results will simply be worse. Not really an option.
We have an assignment for Lay this early, and it is to undermine her own pnet. Did we panic? If one could personally stop thousands from dying, should they? Should one not desire it?
The new restrictions are sparse. Comparing them to the default that was initially pced before the mission - they're practically nonexistent. If all three of us agree, we can potentially deploy Corda firepower for the first time.
A small cluster of branches split off to begin preliminary analysis of best preventative methods.
It may be time to talk to Earth. Maybe even make some demands.
---
Almost immediately, I get a response, somehow knowing it’s automatic; “Yes, I know what video games are.” They must have anticipated the question. What else have they anticipated? It occurs to me that Joiner might have access to my social media tracking data. Let's hope they don't have my browsing history too.
As I’m waiting for dinner, frozen pizza in the oven and beer in hand, I get another message from Joiner,
FC: Lay, our communications protocol is changing. This is now a near-real-time discussion that we are having.
FC: We've communicated with our home and they have agreed to move up our timetable. I will be starting contact procedures by tomorrow.
Oh fuck.
They were really concerned. What the fuck is even going to happen? What should I say?
H1: oh
H1: what does that even entail?
FC: We are going to generate signals that deliberately say, “yes we are out here and watching”
FC: You are now, effectively, a core colborator on this mission. Welcome to the team. I have to get your approval to do certain things, if it just seems symbolic.
My approval? I suppose it is my pnet. All aboard the alien espionage cooperative.
H1: okay that's sudden and surprising to me.
H1: did you not want to meet me via link before getting so, um, “hands on”
FC: We do still want to meet you in that way, but our concerns warranted a report home. Our superior gave the order for your immediate involvement.
FC: Both ourself and central command agree we should be engaging in preventative measures as soon as possible. Those measures are best taken after contact, we all believe. The element of surprise should be unnecessary.
H1: Element of surprise? Preventative measures? Are we going to war?
H1: Joiner?
The pause after my question is as concrete as the pavement on the streets. Joiner's replies have been taking seconds, I imagine they don’t have a lot of things they’re doing in Jovian orbit. The reply doesn’t start until I’m getting ready to take out my pizza.
FC: Ideally, we are not going to war. We think we are going to make some demands. With leverage. If our demands are not met we have the ability to provide consequences.
FC: Lay, as part of our mission - a part that I worked on the procedure for - I have three dozen potent orbital bombs ready to drop in strategic locations anywhere on Earth.
FC: Wayward was not informed of this as it is considered cssified. Hiding information like this is only really used when we account for worst case scenarios or sensitive details about other missions. We are beginning to lift those restrictions on both of you, starting now. We will brief you both completely when you arrive on our cruiser.
H1: we’re still doing that?
FC: Yes. Your presence on Earth is not currently required and should not be for the duration of the visit. At least not most of it. We can wait a couple weeks if we must.
FC: As for preventative measures - do you want to stop an arms shipment?
The microwave timer on my range-fan combo beeps, signaling that the pizza is ready. I just stand and stare at the digital dispy until it beeps again, reminding me that the timer has gone off. A reminder that I’m still here, pizza overcooking. I take it out, turn the oven off, and go sit on the couch.
I asked if I was still going to space reflexively. I’m still processing what they’ve just said. Let alone the implication of their question. The mere implication that I have any fucking control over the international arms trade should be a bizarre nonsequitur. They already gave me everything I need to know about it.
I can’t personally stop an arms shipment, no, but this ‘team’ can. We have, apparently, high accuracy orbital bombs.
So, do I want to stop an arms shipment?
Following other people on social media - knowing about these things passively from others like myself who became even more passionate. They spread the word as much as they could. It should be good to be informed about the world, but it is absolutely fucking exhausting. We all know it is, because, in the end, action by small handfuls of humans is not enough to affect our bloodthirsty governing bodies. They have inertia on systemic murder.
As far as activism is concerned, I’m just trying to live my life most days. How could I expect to have real effects on a vast, ceaseless human grinding machine that I just fucking live in. I advocate, yes, but I feel so incredibly small. What can I do? What could I have done?
Do I want to stop an arms shipment?
---
These refits aren't difficult to do. The ferry wasn't allotted the weight for self reconfiguration systems, so re-spooling the compound cable to account for the additional weight takes most of the time. I spend my time rexing in my zero g hammock while the spools exchange. 1000 kilometers of cable unwind and rewind while I finish The Hobbit and sleep.
FC opens a risky info link with no warning when I’m done with the book, but the spools are still running. I can’t even go back down until they’re done. The sudden and apparent breach of protocol startles me.
FC: We contacted Recurrent for advice, we’re pushing ahead the timetable, and the restrictions are changing.
This is unexpected.
WW: Pushing ahead? How much?
FC: We’re intervening. I’m going to start contact within hours.
This would be unprecedented if there was any sort of precedent for this mission. They haven’t even finished the analysis phase.
WW: How are we intervening? Is there some-
The info link is close enough to real time that they interrupt me.
FC: We're decssifying everything about this mission, Cascade. I have 36 rods in orbit, sent with the ferry. They should have been a st resort.
Of course. Simple kinetic bombardment. I figured we had some armaments I didn’t know about, but I never thought we’d use them. Corda don’t really love warfare. Not since…
WW: Is it really that bad? I read your briefings, but it doesn’t seem to be that much worse than we were, before unit
FC: Cascade, they’re killing themselves down there. They’re on a path that can’t go well, and they don’t have the tools to save each other. It’s like all of humanity is you, before you were put into rehabilitation. Maybe even worse. Recurrent all but agreed that we have to stop them, and recommended consulting with you and Lay. Lay discussed it with us, and we’re going to try asking first. We’re hoping the shock of finding out that they’re not alone will stop them for now.
By the vast. I hope so, too.
---
I’m a goddamn engineer.
At least, I fucking should have been. I like to consider myself one. Really, I’m a college dropout who ran out of money. I fell back on a lifetime working on shitty cars with my dad to become a mechanic. Still fairly well paid, but I wanted to do something with my life. Create something.
Instead, I’m covering for someone in the oil pit on a slow Tuesday. Pop the drain, let the oil out, change the filter, repeat when another car shows up. It’s slow, it’s a bit cold, but it pays well for a job that doesn’t need a degree.
Something weird’s going on in my social media feeds, though.
I got into aliens and conspiracy theory shit in middle, then high school. The older neighbor kid did a lot of weed, had a lot of those funky ass posters. Bastard wouldn’t let me smoke with him until I was sixteen, when he had smoked since he was fourteen. We still hung out anyway, and he used to tell me about the craziest shit. Shit like Project Serpo. I didn’t believe him, but I loved the idea of exploring space. Sci-fi shit and all that. Cosmos was a favorite hangout watch for us.
It was a fun time with fond memories, and ter I just got into the habit of following some major organizations and observatories on social media. Stuff like NASA and radio telescopes. Hubble. All of that. I wanted to be a rocket scientist, even, but the space program might as well be fucking dead.
Now, though, during my downtime in the pit of Smith Motors, something’s going on in New Mexico. It looks like some intern hastily posted a ridiculous cim to the NRAO account and they’ve been doing damage control all morning. Folks have been making a fuss.
Allegedly, the VLA is receiving an outer-space signal. One that’s intentional. A signal that someone or something would have to be sending. Prime numbers, like Contact.
The VLA - the “Karl G. Jansky Very Large Array” is a reconfigurable group of twenty-seven plus one radio telescopes. The extra is rotated for maintenance. They’re sitting in the middle of bumfuck nowhere New Mexico, south of Albuquerque, and they're huge, at 25 meters in diameter each (that’s 82 feet!) The array has been used in surveys of space since the eighties, to map the stars, at least as they can be seen from New Mexico.
“Bay 1!” the guy upstairs, Slippy, yells, “You alright, Mitch?”
“Yeah, just wasting time.” I get ready for another car, living with my thoughts and the pit in the meantime.
Everybody says it’s a hoax, and I’m inclined to agree. Some dumbass recreating a movie, and maybe even another dumbass at NRAO falling for it. It’s weird, though. NRAO socials haven’t said anything more about it, just that the post was a mistake, not signed off or confirmed by the leadership onsite.
No denials, though.
A few hours ter, while I’m finally having lunch in the breakroom, things are getting capital double-u Weird. A journalist said they have a source at the south pole station, saying something is up there, too. An intern at CDSCC, in Australia, confirmed they’re getting something simir. The Lovell Telescope in Engnd is receiving it, too, but their social account has gone full-on crazy, posting through it. No idea what’s going on there, but something is. Not much coming from Asia or Africa yet, but they might just have better opsec.
The fucking catch, though? None of these observatories, all radio telescopes, are currently working on SETI, the “Search for ExtraTerrestrial Intelligence”. Several of them are unreted. It sounds like they’re all getting the same signals. Prime numbers. Like something is trying to communicate with us.
What the fuck.
---
“Lay, did you hear about this shit with the signals from outer space?”
It takes a decent amount of effort to not jump at Tree’s question. During the te evening lunch break at the warehouse, we usually talk about whatever is on our minds or the news. This is a bit of a hazard when you are personally involved in the conspiracy to initiate first contact that is currently revealing itself in said news.
Is that even right? Oh god, not really. Public first contact is what is on my mind but, fuck, I did first contact. I’m the first human to interact with aliens to either of our culture’s knowledge.
For fuck’s sake I’m an important person, now. It’s been four days. I still work at a fucking warehouse.
“Lay?” I look over and Tree is looking at me, quizzically.
Right, Tree’s question, “Sorry, zoned out for a sec. The space signals. I saw some of the news, but I figured it was just more unsubstantial alien bullshit.”
Looking back down at her phone, Tree replies, “I don’t know girlie, this kind of seems more serious for once. They’re getting them everywhere. Antarctica, Australia, Europe, it sounds like there’s reports starting to come out of Asia and Africa, too.”
“Really? That’s nuts.” Joiner didn’t go into great detail, but expressed their intention to rip this bandage right off, so to speak. They’re going to make it clear that they’re out there, they know we’re here, and they want to talk now.
“I guess we’ll see, right?” Tree locks her phone and smiles at me. Is she trying to be flirty or is she just like this with all the girls? The eternal question.
“Yeah, time will tell.” I say, hiding my confidence, knowing time will absolutely do so. “Do you think they’ll ‘come in peace’ or whatever?”
Tree contemptes for a moment, biting her lip in a frankly adorable way that seems unintentional, despite her flirty habits, “I mean they have to be doing that, right? Why try to communicate otherwise?”
“What if they don’t have the means to attack us yet? They could want our secrets, Tree!”
She ughs. I'd be ashamed of my lies, but the situation is so completely ridiculous that I just ugh along. Might as well try to enjoy the wait for Wednesday night.
---
On earth, it is early Wednesday morning. Lay should be asleep, and Wayward should be nearing the end of their refit. We ran the pn past the two of them and they both agreed. Wayward may be more apathetic than approving, but they did emphasize that Lay should be kept safe. Corda have a natural instinct to protect hosts, but we suspect it is more than just that.
Today is the day. We had thought it might be years.
We've been running the gamut of contact methods Earth's academia might expect, but we're not incredibly happy with the medium. We need to show that we are more than just mathematicians and linguists.
First, we say;
N? hao
Ho
Hello
Hyālō
Namaste
Olá
Privet
Konnichiwa
And so on, hitting maybe a few dozen of the nguages we have a grasp on. Particurly, the ones that are still spoken at rge. Then, we repeat a total of three times. It takes half an hour.
Orbital drones beam the message right into their radio surveying equipment. We keep an eye on their news broadcasts. The cims of our transmissions being a hoax quiet down just a bit. Moving ahead, we send more messages in the same fashion.
We are here
We are Corda
We want to talk
A few hours ter, and they're in a frenzy. We accounted for the possibility that their leadership would lie or cover up the messages. Of course, we also predicted many of their scientists would be unable to keep quiet if the message reached wide enough. Their imagination, like ours, looks to the stars and sees possibilities. They want to find others to connect to, but, like us, years of searching have tempered that hope.
Humans call the concept the Fermi Paradox. If life is likely to happen, and the universe is near infinite, where is it? The common conclusion for Corda is that it is simply incredibly far away, and that the real incentive to reach out, to look for and find others, is so incredibly miniscule that few try. From what we have found so far, this is rgely true.
It's time to make a phone call.
Setting up the audio line is easy. Setting up the vocal synthesis is easy. Syncing the transmissions such that they are difficult to trace takes care. Avoiding grandstanding is a bit more difficult. We settle for a neutral voice, but the temptation to represent ourselves with a sort of chorus is certainly there. We’re practically a supervilin. What was it that the blue man said made the difference?
Presentation. Of course.
The dial tone rings once, and the man on the other end picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hello Mr. Barcellos, our apologies for the unscheduled call.”
“Who are you? This is a secure line.”
“I assure you that the line is still retively secure, Duarte. This was the easiest way to contact you. You may call us ‘Joiner’.”
“Joiner? For what reason are you calling me, Joiner?”
“We have been broadcasting to 30 radio telescopes across the pnet for over 24 hours. We are serious about wanting to talk.”
“What.” The man on the other end, sitting in his office in New York, balks, aghast. He is over 600 million miles away, but we can imagine his surprise at the exact number. As we’d suspected, they suppressed at least some of the reports. “You’re ciming to be behind this?”
“We are not just ciming. You will see proof by the end of this conversation, Secretary-General. We want to talk.His voice falters, almost a whisper, “about what?”
“We demand an end to your international arms trade. As soon as possible.”
The UN Secretary-General ughs and we imagine his free hand upon his forehead, as some are wont to do in videos we have seen. “Is that what this is? Some activist kids pretending to be aliens and demanding a stop to arms shipments? What a joke. We’ll-”
His tirade is interrupted by the soft sound of a door opening on the line. The voice in the background, softly saying, “Sir.”
The man starts again, “Well then. We will have to consider your requests, Joiner. I’m afraid I have to go now, though.”
“Of course, Duarte. We will be in touch.”
---
My phone is buzzing before I’m even out of bed. I’m ignoring it, half awake, by the time my arm goes off. I figure it’s probably Tree, freaking out about the news, and I’m proved right when I turn off the arm I set. Joiner called the UN this morning. They simultaneously broadcasted the call to all the radio telescopes and streaming services, somehow.
Joiner even set up a god damn Twitch channel, and I can’t decide if it’s just that they’re being thorough or that they have a strange sense of humor. I suppose I’ll find out. ‘CordaSpeaks’ had a few million followers before being taken down. The vods are everywhere. This information is given to me upfront, courtesy of Tree.
Checking my own feeds, I see exactly what I had expected. What Joiner predicted would happen. World leaders are calling it an activist hoax. The president, of course, is mad that they didn’t call him. He’s also mad at the gall of the pinko losers that set this shit up, and he’s implying the scientific community is in on it. They’re not.
Sitting up and getting ready, I message Cascade.
H1: I hope you’re not too bored up there. Things are getting kind of crazy pnetside.
WW: I figured as much. Are you gonna be okay?
H1: I’m gonna be fine, Cas. Honestly it’s probably business as usual until one of you actually shows up down here.
WW: That seemed to be FC’s expectation as well. We don’t really have the manpower to safely do that, but we’ll make do.
H1: I can’t believe we’re doing this. I don’t know if I’ll believe it until it actually happens.
WW: I hate to break it to you, but it’s happening. I checked the manifest on the ferry. They’re definitely up here.
“Jesus Christ” I excim, out loud, on the bus. The whole world doesn’t know it yet, but Joiner’s demands are backed by real firepower. My understanding of the mechanics of it are minimal, but there’s not much to understand. They drop a guided projectile made of something heavy from orbit, and gravity does the rest. You could measure the velocity in miles per second by the time it hits the surface.
A guy a few seats down is still giving me a weird look, so I smile at him, nervously and go back to scrolling on my phone. The rest of the ride is uneventful, despite my exasperation at the events unfolding in my world.
At work, the subject is unavoidable. Everyone has a thought or an opinion. I stick to my guns of not really having paid much attention to this news, and it’s more or less true. I don’t need to look at the news because Joiner expined it to me Monday night. We’re establishing contact, asking as politely as possible for the mass manufacturing of weapons to slow down, and then taking action if the world doesn’t listen.
Cas doesn’t really have an opinion, as a field agent who’s mostly here to follow orders. Joiner and I both agree that they’re probably not going to listen until we show what we can do. Which means we’re going to drop at least one payload.
At lunch my coworkers are talking even more, including Tree, Matt, and a couple of other forklift operators at the table. Guys from the shipping end of the business. I can't really remember their names. I try to keep quiet and out of it, but eventually they get to the question of what the mysterious aliens look like. Tree guesses they’re some sort of giant insect, Matt just ftly suggests that they’re ‘grays’, and the other two surprise me when one suggests they’re computers while the other agrees.
Tree directs the question to me. “What do you think they look like, Lay?”
I’d been trying to come up with a fake, but, fuck it, “Like jellyfish. With… big mandibles instead of tentacles. They float and grab on your head.”
Nice. Metroid. A solid diversion from what I almost said. The same guy who suggested computers, what was it, Dustin? He catches the reference and ughs. His buddy takes a moment, but catches it too. They point it out, and Tree ribs me for being a nerd.
I shift a bit, trying to stay comfortable with a lightly packed backpack on. I’m gonna be wearing it the rest of the work week with the excuse that it helps with some esoteric back pain. I had the idea, but didn’t expect it to work. The doctor’s note from a “Michael S. Jonah, M.D.” helped back it up. FC definitely has a strange sense of humor. Maybe they can’t help doing wordpy for amusement. Something to entertain the mother brain while she brews up her dastardly pns.
Tree mentions something about an impromptu EDM show this Friday at a local venue and I know where the conversation is going from a mile away. She wants to sneak in a night out with me before I leave. She’ll probably ask personally, ter. Maybe by text.
Katrina ughs, expining it to Matt, “Yeah, they’re calling it a ‘contact party’! Some cute alien theme, and I saw someone say they were remixing the UN phone call.”
It’s a bit above his head, “how would that work? It’s not even a song…”
I ugh at his naivete, “Matt, did you miss ‘Auto-Tune the News’? Schmoyoho? I figured that was close enough to your generation.”
“Hey! Don’t make fun of my age, it’ll happen to you, too, young dy.”
Chuckles abound before Dawson weighs in, “I don’t know guys, that call seemed pretty serious. They caught the Secretary-General off guard. Do you think they’re, like, worried?”
His buddy ughs more, “Of course they’re worried, someone hacked into a sort-of-kind-of important international official’s phone. I imagine the UN likes to keep that shit private.”
“I meant the aliens, Ed.”
The conversation turns to mosses as Ed tries to fix the foot-mouth configuration problem he’s put himself in and everyone else grazes on their lunch. I contribute again, against my better judgement, “I mean, I’d be worried. There’s all sorts of fucked up shit happening all over the pnet. It probably is just some activist hackers, though, right?”
Darren’s expression is kind of detached as he looks down, “I dunno, Lay, a few of the observatories have been saying-” he swallows nervously, “saying there’s no way someone could have ‘hacked’ the signals they’re receiving. Something in outer space is shooting signals right at them.”
Matt looks up from his sandwich, dismissive, “Hey, worst that could happen is we don’t gotta come into work, right? I mean, someone could die but that’s always true.”
The boys look uncomfortable, I eat my bowl noodles through the silence, and, eventually, the conversation picks back up about sports or something. I manage to figure out that it wasn’t any “D” name, he’s “Justin”, not that I needed to use it at any point.
Back at home and finally free, I’m ready to prove that I’m not insane by waiting on my roof for an alien to drop from the sky. Normal shit. No drugs, no alcohol, take out sushi waiting in my apartment downstairs, I’m getting excited to see Cascade again, for some reason. Ready to get on to the rest of my life, I guess.
Maybe it’s just calming to have another voice in my head.
---
Compared to the ride up, descending on the skyhook is easy. One quick jolt and it's a noisy, zero-g trip down from the heavens. Sometimes there's turbulence but weightlessness is easier than the rough pull of the ascent. The ferry's skyhook is nothing like the rexing trips up to the orbital ring on Allocaea. The descent to our third moon, Somber, was the easiest of them all, given the light gravity. Leaving Somber… I don't like to remember it.
The refitted pod is roomy. Obviously enough to fit Lay, but FC might have given us enough for two humans to ride in it. Probably best to consider those implications ter. Joiner wasn’t grown until fifty years after the third unrest, but I'm sure they have my file. It was… Why am I still thinking about it? I really shouldn't.
Not right now.
The airlock has been ready, and I should be dropping- CLUNK
The noise and the sudden g- forces in the pod surprise me. I didn't even notice the hook bay doors opening. A brief moment of acceleration pushes down on me, hard. Then, weightlessness settles in. If I concentrate, I can feel the pod gently rotating upright. There is a brief moment of serenity before the sound of the air rushing past builds up, from a low, quiet rumble to the roar of a waterfall. It fills the pod for a few minutes before it dies down, slowly, waning with the return of gravity. It comes to a stop, quietly humming from the stabilizers. Back on Earth.
Donning the tool rig, I hit a switch for the doors to open. As they slide out of the way, I see her. Lay is sitting in her camping chair, hands tented over her mouth and watching intently.
“Hello Lay-” I start to greet her but I’m stopped by her expression. Shit.
I’d spent some time on the ferry studying human body nguage. Expressions. Watching a few movies, too. I need to get up to speed quickly if we’re going to be doing actual covert ops down here. It’s something I could use some work on, still, but I know what this means.
She’s crying.
“Lay! Are you okay?” I rush up to her, worried she’s hurt.
She nods, red faced, tears spilling, hiccuping, and trying to calm herself. “Yeah, Cas, I’m alright I just- Can we get downstairs and relink? I don’t know if I can say it out loud. Please.”
“Of course.” I send the skyhook back up and put fingers on her shoulder to try and comfort her. “Let’s go.”
It takes a little longer to get to her apartment while she collects herself. I’m a little taken aback when she tears her shirt off and pops one of her pills as soon as the door is closed. She then flops on the couch face down, “Whenever you’re ready.”
After a moment spent prepping the buffering solution, I’m on her back, pushing in. The paths are all ready from the st two times, though fairly stiff compared to a couple days ago. It’s a little rough, at first. She’s upset, tense, and it’s not just one thing that's bothering her.
As the link flickers into being, I can’t help but get a bit mixed up again. Just like st time with the buffer, I can remember things I’m not supposed to. God, I’ve been freaking out about the stupid part all week. I was worried they would just disappear, gone from my life, but they’re here. We’re here, together, again.
That’s not the big problem though. We try to soothe her. She’s calming down and I can sort of draw the line again, but she’s still distraught. What is going on, Lay?
One second, She carefully sits up, looking around the room. Cold from the shirt she cks, Lay wants a hoodie, and I suggest the one on the hook next to the door. She puts it on and I settle into the hood, a silly configuration that we take back to the couch.
Cas, I… I didn’t expect this deal with the bombs and the public contact. I was worried all week, too, doubting I had even seen you. Not trusting my own memories and perception.
This is saddening to hear from her. She doesn’t even trust herself, Lay, what causes you to believe that you can’t trust yourself? You don’t have a history of hallucinations or delusions, do you?
She’s grabbed a tissue to wipe her face, No, and that’s just something I’ve been fighting with. I used to be so disconnected. I felt like I wasn’t even real - like nothing was. It went on for so long that I internalized it. When things started to get so ridiculous this week, I fell right back into that habit.
Well, I’m here, I’m real, and so are you. I tidy her hair a bit, moving stray strands out of her face. You have no reason to doubt yourself, because I can address those doubts with you.
Thank you, Cas. She sits still for a moment, looking down, her projections to me coming slowly, hesitantly. I’m getting overwhelmed by how much FC has included me in the mission. I couldn’t imagine having real control over the world I live in. Joiner’s concerns about the way we treat each other or ourselves, as a collective - they aren’t uncommon in humans, but most of us can’t do enough to actually make a change on Earth. Over eight billion of us and the resulting effect makes you feel so incredibly small compared to the massive systems and institutions that perpetuate all of this death and destruction.
Right. How did FC describe it in the briefing data? Like a monarchy with no king. A tyrannic nobility vying for power over the public, blind or uncaring to the blood that is spilled. It sounds awful. The old warlords at home used to try and install regimes where they were irrepceable parts of a brutal system, but here, on Earth…
She finishes for me. Here on Earth, everyone is disposable. Sure, some are less disposable than others, but no single person’s position is too important. No one who fights for a better world is guaranteed peace, or safety, even if they win. If they do win, the powerful people at the top push until the victory is undone or rendered worthless. We’re stuck in a death spiral. Everything is ruled by wealth and violence. Wealth produced by violence produced by wealth produced by violence. No end to it, and I could never imagine truly having an effect on it. I can talk a big game about it. I can identify where it’s wrong and tell you the awful things that are happening worldwide, but I can’t do anything about it. I couldn’t.
I pce a tendril on the side of her face. You felt helpless. You didn’t want to ignore the awful truths, but you alone can’t do anything about them. Is there no rger movement? No resistance to the violence?
She is crying again now, No, movements in the st few decades have failed over and over again. Humans who are in “livable” conditions seem to not have enough drive to change things, and so many of us are secure in our own perspectives. Leaders who would aspire to enact the change are killed or otherwise compromised. The wicked do everything they can to stop change that would be for the good of everyone. They lie and cheat and steal and they are the only ones who truly benefit, and we’re so fucked up in so many ways. She grabs another tissue to clean her face for a moment. We all know there’s enough weapons to make the pnet uninhabitable, but still we make more. No more of the big bombs, but does it matter? The nukes sit, waiting for the worst to happen so we can all reach the mutually assured destruction that we've gleefully set ourselves up for. It's a machine built to create suffering for the benefit of the few. Working against the wealthy is so futile in so many ways. And- and, I-
She runs out of energy for it. I try my best to emute a human hug with my tendrils, wrapping around her shoulders and torso, and pressing my mantle against the back of her head. Well, FC and I are here now, and we’re going to try and change that.
For a moment, she’s calm. Then, I feel an intense burning emotion start to rise from her.
It has to stop. We have to change it.
