“Neil!” said the father rushing to the side of his youngest child who lay unconscious and bleeding on the sidewalk. The man wasn’t sure what was happening exactly, he just knew that his child had been hurt. Luckily several passers-by saw the incident and grabbed Ben before he could recover from his fall. The rest of the BKs ran past at top speed, eager to get away from the scene before the police arrived. Colin picked up the head of his child and cradled it in his arms. “Neil, talk to me, talk to me, stay with me!” he cried, but to no avail. Neil would never regain consciousness.
Colin was too distraught to feel hatred for the murderer, he didn’t quite even grasp what had happened on that small town street corner. This wasn’t the big city. These things weren’t supposed to happen here. He had decided to raise a family here because these things didn’t happen in a place like this. He rocked back and forth with his dead child in his arms, oblivious to the sirens of the police and ambulance that arrived on the scene a few minutes later.
As the paramedics separated the father and son, the police took the young thug into custody. Colin stood in disbelief as they attempted to breath life back into the boy. A policeman took Colin by the hand and guided him over to the police car. “We are going to need your witness testimony to prosecute, Mr. Hayes,” said the officer. “The kid who did this is waiting in car. We’re going to need an ID. He opened the door. “Is this the person who stabbed your boy and ran into you just now?” he said shining a flashlight in the face of the assailant.
Through blurred, puffy eyes, Colin stared in disbelief and horror as he recognized the face of his eldest child. Ben looked back, wide eyed and slack jawed. His mind whirled a mile a minute trying to come up with something to say, but words failed him.
Two weeks later, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC
The noise of the crowd is deafening. Jim’s hands are shaking with nervousness. Just an hour before, he had been a nobody, an anonymous person in the sea of a big city. He looked around for his father for support, but he wasn’t here. He looked for Jordan’s Dad, or anyone remotely familiar, but he couldn’t see a single recognizable face in the crowd. He was alone with his microphone. He cleared his throat and began to speak.
That morning, things had gone pretty much as he had expected them to. His father, himself, and the McReynolds had gotten in the night before after a really long drive from Texas. They were excited about the march. The bed of Mr. McReynolds’ truck was filled with flyers, posters, signs, and a banner that they had put together with some tempera paint and a bedsheet. All of the information Jim had sent out scheduled the march for 10am, so they arrived at the rallying point at 9am. What they saw there amazed them. Based on the few replies they had received, and their wild guesses about who would actually have the courage and motivation to come, they expected a hundred or so rallyers. An hour before the march was to start there were already over three hundred people waiting around. Many carried signs and banners of much higher quality than they ones that Jordan and Jim had painted up in his bedroom the week before. Everyone was milling about looking for something to do. Jim took out the microphone and portable amp that he borrowed from his preacher and addressed the crowd. When he announced who he was, a cheer erupted from the crowd. In the next ten minutes he was almost smothered by well-wishers and supporters. Soon after, he was greeted by none other than the Reverend Jeremiah Bentley, who was a prominent leader in the African-American civil rights movement. The Reverend introduced himself to a shocked Jim Miller. The Reverend was one of the people Jim had read extensively trying to come up to speed about the history, techniques, and effectiveness of previous civil rights struggles.
“Reverend Bentley. It’s an honor to meet you sir. I never would have expected to see someone of your stature here,” he said to the towering figure.
“Don’t be so surprised boy. This is the front line of the newest battle for equality. My organization has been keeping track of your efforts since you contacted us. I’m here to lend our support. Our fundamental goals are similar.”
“I didn’t expect this many people. I’m not sure what to do,” replied Jim.
“It is your time to step up son. Today is your day to alert the world to your struggle, to break the conspiracy of silence. Take command and become a leader. These people are looking up to you, don’t disappoint them.” He turned his head towards a group of people standing on the opposite side of the street shouting slurs, “That’s what those people want. You can’t fail today.”
Over the next half hour, the crowd grew exponentially in strength; the marchers, the counter-protestors, and the police. Just before 10 o’clock Jim’s group had grown to several thousand. They were clogging streets for several blocks. The police were standing around, trying to keep the counter-protesters at bay. There were a lot of them; many were people who were just on their way to work and saw Jim’s group queuing up.
A police sergeant came up to Jim. “Is this your rally?” he said in a harsh voice.
“Yes officer,” replied Jim meekly.
“Well, it’s off. It ain’t happening you hear. There’s too many people and there aren’t enough police. Tell the crowd to disperse.”
“But I’ve got a permit.” Jim held out the slip of paper he had received from the D.C. Clerks Office.
The Officer took the paper and ripped it into shreds. “No you don’t. Now tell this crowd to disperse or I call in the riot police.”
Jim didn’t know what to do. His father was on the other side of the crowd issuing instructions to the marchers. Jim looked to the Reverend for support, and the man stood quietly, with a look of seriousness. His body language said enough. It screamed, “Take charge boy! Don’t let them stop you.” Jim was about to say something when another figure in a business suit arrived on the scene.
“Officer, my name is Greg Stubman. Congressman Greg Stubman. You’re going to let these people march.” The policeman backed off and started talking into his radio. He was trying to get confirmation from headquarters on what to do.
“Glad to meet you Mr. Miller,” said the Congressman, leaning over to shake Jim’s hand. “I’ve been reading your newsletter. My daughter is HS-positive, and I can’t stay silent any longer. I’ll march with you today.”
Jim smiled. The Reverend leaned in. “Jim, now’s the time to go, the police won’t wait long, but they can’t stop the march once it’s started.” Jim took the advice. He turned on his microphone to the maximum volume and shouted out orders to begin. All of a sudden, signs and banners arose from the crowd and people began moving down Pennsylvania Avenue in an amorphous mob. At the front of the line were Jim, the Congressman, and the Reverend. Jim looked around, but he couldn’t see any of the people he came with. The crowd was so thick that it wasn’t going to be possible to find them for a while. The three leaders pressed forward, each carrying a part of the large, hand-painted banner that called for equal rights for ALL Americans.
As the march moved forward, more and more counter-protestors began lining the streets. They finally had a target for their hatred. Up until that day, there was no focus for their anger, it was diffused throughout the world in the wombs of millions of disparate people. But now there was a group, a central point, something that they could use to coalesce their hatred around– something to shout at, to throw bottles at, and to curse about.
The group made their way down Pennsylvania Avenue to the steps of the Capitol. Every step was fearful for Jim, who wasn’t used to having things thrown at him. But he marched on, partly out of fear of disappointing the figures on his right and left, but also partly because he wanted to help the thousands of people behind him. He wanted to give them a focus too. He wanted to provide them with something to dream in, something to believe in, something to call on in times of need. He felt alone and scared, and he didn’t want others to feel the same way. The only thing that they could do was march, to show themselves on the TV cameras, and put up a brave face so that all of his Alien-American peers could find the strength to do likewise.
As they neared the Capitol steps, Jim became more anxious. He had never spoken in front of a crowd before, but he knew that these people came to hear someone speak. As he mounted the steps he unfolded his speech and prepared to address the marchers. He looked out over the crowd. It was much larger than it looked when they started marching. There were also television cameras and news reporters crawling all over the place. Jim swallowed as he realized that what he was about to say might be broadcast all over the U.S. He cleared his throat, turned up his mike and took one last glance at his two illustrious compatriots.
Then he turned and began to address the crowd.
At almost the exact same moment as Jim Miller started his march. The Senate Subcommittee on Handel’s Syndrome Research, Washington, DC
It’s always funny how news tends to come in spurts. For weeks, the anchorman only talks about filler and fluff, and then one day, several major events happen all at once.
The doors to the subcommittee chamber burst open as if a hurricane had blown through. That hurricane was named Ray Johnston, and he was on a mission. As the discoverer of the alien threat, he had led the vanguard towards building a defense against invasion and against the viral bio-weapon that was turning the population into the enemy, one child at a time. He created this subcommittee, he nurtured it. He hand-picked all of the members. It was the personification of his political career, and the focal point that Americans used to rally around his banner. It was the perfect place to make the announcement.
The normally staid conference room was thrown into chaos at the Vice President’s arrival. He never came to these meetings, and was unexpected by all but a few in his inner circle. He arrived in large fashion, followed by reporters and hangers-on. Without saying a word, he marched straight up to the podium. This guerrilla style of speechmaking was a trademark of his. It harkened back to his pre-politics days as an intelligence agent.
General Hudson, who had recently taken over as committee chair, stepped aside knowingly and Ray stepped up to the microphone. Many of the uninformed committee felt that this intrusion was somewhat inappropriate, but it was always exciting to meet someone famous. Dr. Mensen held a silent protest by ignoring the Vice President and instead concentrating on editing a draft of his latest scientific paper. No one noticed.
One man who did know about the Vice President’s upcoming visit was Colin Hayes. He received a phone call two nights ago, directly from Ray. “Colin old buddy. As you know election season is coming up and it’s time to announce my candidacy. Potter’s had his eight years, now it’s my turn. I’m going to do it at the next committee meeting. It seems appropriate. That’s where it all started after all. I want you to be there. I want you to stand next to me. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you. You’re part of the ‘Johnston mythos’ now. It’s only fair that you get some face time in front of a national TV audience.” It was a good thing for Colin that Ray couldn’t see his face. His eyes were puffy and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in a long time (which he hadn’t). Ray didn’t know about the incident the week before between Ben and Neil, how could he? Colin didn’t say anything. He had always kept Neil’s condition an open secret so as not to interfere with his career. Now he wished that he had spoken out, wished that he had stood up and railed against General Hudson’s proposals. He wished that he had figured out a way to stop the tide of rhetoric that had led to fratricide. Now it was too late. There wasn’t much he could do now. He choked out an ‘ok’ and hung up on the Vice President.
Secret Service agents took Colin from his seat at the committee table and brought him over to the podium. An anonymous campaign manager pulled him back and to the left a bit, even going so far as to bend down and show Colin exactly where to plant his feet. More people of various positions came up on stage and were guided to their prescribed locations. Within ten minutes all was ready. Ray motioned to the cameras to start rolling, and started to speak.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are at war. It’s a subtle war. It’s a war that hasn’t been declared. It’s a war in which our enemy has yet to fully reveal himself. But never forget that it
is
a war. And this war is the biggest war we as Americans, we as
humans
, will ever have to fight. It is a war for the very survival of our species. Yes, we are at war. A war fought not with guns but with science, a battle not fought on the field but in our wombs. And we are losing this war. Day by day our numbers shrink while their numbers grow. We are literally being eaten alive from within. Since the election of President Potter we have done much to stem the tide of HS infection. We have done much to develop a military force capable of resisting what is likely to be a technologically advance foe. But it is not enough. We are on the correct course, but we haven’t done enough. President Potter has led the fight, but his eight years in the White House are almost up. Someone else needs to take up the banner against the enemy. This is why I am formally announcing my candidacy for the President of the United States of America. Who better then me to fill President Potter’s shoes? Who better than me to hold the line against the special interests that would have us believe that the alien threat is fictitious, that the alien children living in our very homes are just malformed humans? The special interests that would have you believe that any contact with an alien race will bring economic opportunities instead of annihilation.” Some of the public watching the event from the gallery shouted cheers. Dr. Mensen lifted an eyebrow and noted that the gallery was usually empty during sessions, so he concluded that the politicians had brought their own cheering section with them. He returned to his editing.
“What will I do as President? How will I stop this horrible flood that threatens to engulf our genetic legacy? I think that my credentials are clear. I was the one who beat my way through the system to expose the threat in the first place. I was the one who formed this very panel that I now stand before. I am the one who enacted the legislation that has increased research dollars for the search for a vaccine. I was the one who forced the Senate to triple the defense R&D budget. I was the one who enacted the legislation to send foreign aid across the globe for HS prevention programs, for as we know, this is a global problem.”