Jim found himself on the other side of the door as it slammed behind him. The secretary turned from her book and gave him a dirty look that said, ‘I hope you don’t need anything else.’ Jim wasn’t sure what he needed. He just stood in the hallway, cigar-in-mouth, dumbfounded. He had no idea what to do next.
Presidential Palace, Abidjan, Cote d’Ivorie, four months after James Miller became the first Secretary of Alien-American Affairs.
The sound of gunfire is in the air, but not the gunfire of war, the gunfire of celebration. Armed troops run through the streets of the capital. Cheers sound from their throats and they wave their weapons wildly over their heads. The populace runs through the streets as well, cheering their liberators, their brothers. Not the entire population of course, just the aliens, just the young. The human inhabitants of this town are either hiding in their cellars or have fled, taking what they could carry. Of course, even those are the lucky ones, the vast majority of the humans in this part of Africa now lie in makeshift graves or strewn across bloody battlefields and muddied streets. The revolution has come.
A faceless soldier scrawls a symbol on the wall of the Presidential Palace in blue spray paint. It is a simple symbol, three stars, arranged in a linear pattern. It is a representation of the Pliedian Cluster, not a particularly accurate representation mind you, but it will suffice for this day. Other soldiers rampage and loot abandoned store fronts looking for food or salable items. Some of these fighters were liberated from concentration camps only a few days ago. They had spent the entirety of their short lives behind rusty barbed wire. Spearhead guerilla units had been storming barracks and murdering guards around Africa for several months now. Most of those liberated from the camps were too weak or meek to fend for themselves, but a few took up the flag of the New Order. In each place the Pliedian army gained more warriors. It grew bolder and stronger and more experienced, until they were ready to unleash the coordinated master stroke. As if on cue, they transformed from a rag-tag bunch of rebels into a ten million man army overnight.
Several dead bodies lie unburied in the main courtyard of the Presidential Palace. Their blood has congealed and separated into a yellow ooze in the main driveway. Eventually they will be disposed of, but not now. Now is the time for celebrating, the revolution has come.
A van with a satellite uplink on its roof is waved past the guard post. International news agencies have been rushing to this area looking for official statements and dramatic footage for the evening broadcasts. On this day, eighteen African countries have erupted into flames. Coup attempts by the oppressed alien populations have occurred almost simultaneously. Countries in the Middle East and South America have also experienced similar events. Most European countries have experienced bombings and other guerrilla attacks in the past twenty-four hours. Rioting masses of aliens have stormed the parliament buildings of several dozen countries. Their success has been varied. In some places they are in full control, in others they have been beaten back. The battle for power still rages in hundreds of places around the globe. Worldwide communication lines have been cut, making detailed reports from many locations spotty at best.
A cameraman exits the news truck and is guided at gunpoint past the dead bodies into the main foyer of the palace. He tries to film as he walks, but the guards discourage him. Up the stairs and to the left is what used to be the office of the President. As the cameraman enters he is shocked to see the order that exists here. In a way directly opposite to the chaos and revelry of the streets, the people here, leaders of the coup, plan and plot with cell phones, satellite maps, and modern computers. Clearly these are not the same people as the main fighting force, which was composed mostly of refugees and villagers.
Through the double doors the cameraman is guided to the private office. There are only three people in here. One alien, taller than the rest and arguably noble in appearance, sits behind the main desk, which would be comically too big for him if the situation wasn’t so dire as to make laughter impossible. He glances at another alien who checks his watch and nods. The leader turns to the cameraman. “Are you ready to go? Is that on? Can you get a live feed? We need a live feed, trust us, the effect will be much better if there is a live feed.”
The cameraman nods. He is the lucky one, if you consider this luck. While revolution is occurring in many places, this is the heart, this is the center. There are a lot of journalists who would kill to have this opportunity. Of course, once actually here, most would kill just to get as far away from this place as possible.
“Ok, are you ready? Give me a signal.” The cameraman switches on and presents a shaky thumbs up. A red light begins to blink just above the lens.
“Greetings. My name is Franklin Trinity, and I am the leader of the Pliedian Spearhead. As you may know by now we have just stepped up our operations. While before we were content with random hit and run tactics and some symbolic gestures, we now have the manpower required to make our presence known on a more... global basis. Humans, your time on this planet has ended. We are now in control. Today, the Spearhead has smashed the governments of almost a dozen countries. In the next few days we will begin attacks on a dozen more. I call on all Pliedians to follow my banner, to join in the cause to liberate yourselves from the domination of these doomed apes. To the remnants of the human race, I warn you that today is
our
day, now is
our
time. Your oppression of my species is over. We are your enemy. We are here to prepare the way for the day when our true parents come and guide us to our destiny in the stars. You can’t stop us, every day we grow stronger. Even by your own estimates, eighty percent of all births are now of our race. Our numbers grow as yours weaken. This war is over before it has even begun. Today, we drive the final nail in the coffin of your species’ evolution. Not with bullets, but with the sword of your own creation. Now is the time to reap what you have sown. Today, your final chance for salvation dies in a brilliant white fire. There is no hope left.”
Franklin stared into the camera with the disconcerting eyes of a zealot as Enoch reached behind the cameraman and switched off the feed.
That moment. Niue, South Pacific.
The plane had left Vladivostok nearly three weeks ago. These things can’t be rushed after all. No suspicions could be aroused. There was only one hope, one opportunity. If this failed there would be no chance for a second try. The small plane meandered past various islands, always staying to the prepared flight paths, always landing where friends waited. The package was precious. There had been some concern that it wouldn’t arrive in time, that it would get here too late and the place would be too well protected, but the fears were unfounded. The package arrived in time for the event.
Everything had been timed. Franklin wanted it like that. He knew the value of spectacle, he knew how to draw people to his cause. Failing to achieve objectives in front of a worldwide audience was not acceptable. The crew of the plane had been chosen carefully. There were so many to choose from, so many willing to do the job, so many willing to die for their species.
The pilot listened to a small radio as the aircraft flew through the trade winds. It had short-wave on it. He knew exactly what time he needed to arrive. He checked his watch as he saw the faint outline of the island rise over the horizon. For the last hour he worried that the revolution in Africa had failed, that Franklin would not be in a position to make his declaration on cue. The pilot was supposed to proceed anyway, but he wanted to hear how his brothers were doing before....
A newscaster broke into the music. He spoke for a few seconds in an unfamiliar language, and then cut to the live broadcast of Trinity’s declaration of war. The pilot listened, smiling as be began his decent. He looked over to the passenger’s seat where the device was strapped in like a child. As the small plane came downward towards the center of the island, he reached over and pulled the red safety switch, just like he had been taught. He turned the key. A small beep sounded, almost inaudible over the engines. As the speech ended the pilot kept an eye on the altimeter. He watched it read lower and lower– 1300 feet, 1200 feet, 1100 feet, 1000 feet. He waits for the barometric fuse to kick in.
Below, in the courtyard where she had tried to calm the nerves of young Benji Lawson, Nancy Collins was walking with Dr. Mensen. The two were talking about recent progress that had been made in understanding HS-virus protein coats. They heard the sound of a plane descending fast. Planes make a much different noise when they are about to crash then when they are landing. Nancy looked up, but the aircraft was lost in the bright sun. “I didn’t think that a plane was coming in til this afternoon,” said Dr. Mensen, shielding his wrinkled eyes from the sunlight.
In a burst of atomic fire, seven thousand scientists, two thousand islanders, and the last, best hope for the HS vaccine were lost.
That evening, the E-Ring of the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
The only sound that could be heard was the timid footsteps of the Air Force captain who silently went around the table filling water glasses. Each of the generals sat absorbed with the latest reports that were streaming in from overseas. In typical fashion the normally sleepy intelligence community had gone from not having a clue about the Pliedian Spearhead to producing thousand page reports about them in under twenty-four hours. Actually, it would be unfair to say that the ‘community’ was totally unaware of Franklin Trinity. He had a file at the FBI, filed deep in a vault. A half-written biography of him had gone unfinished for several weeks because the analyst had been taking a mid-career training class. Trinity had mostly fallen through the cracks. At the Central Intelligence Agency there are multiple, separate organizations to handle different types of threats. The Counterterrorism department considered his movement to fall under the domain of ‘Cult Activities.’ The Cult Activities department figured that he was more of an international terrorist. Since Trinity was a U.S. citizen, the CIA felt that the FBI was handling it. Since he was operating mostly overseas, FBI felt that CIA was handling it. No one in the Counterproliferation department was consulted about the rumors coming from Russia that someone had stolen one of the suitcase-sized nuclear bombs that were intended for special operations missions.
But whatever the excuse for not exposing the threat beforehand, government analysts began pouring out report after report, examining every piece of data they could find again and again in hopes of being the first to break the story and prove that their agency was the only one not caught with their pants down. Careers would be made tonight. All of these hastily written reports have made their way to the War Room of the Pentagon, where the generals, who were just getting ready to go home for the weekend, are furiously reading them so as to not look stupid and uninformed in front of their commander-in-chief.
“Well?” said President Talbot. There was no answer. “I said, ‘Well?’” Again no answer. “You, what’s our situation.” He pointed to General Landon, the Air Force Chief of Staff.
“Well Sir,” she flipped though some more pages, “It seems that this organization, the Pliedian Spearhead they call themselves, is fully in control of about fourteen countries, mostly in Africa and the Middle East, they have considerable power in about ten other countries where it seems fighting is still going on.” She smiled nervously and turned her eyes away. She handed a map to the nameless captain, who presented it to the President.
“What’s our domestic situation? You, talk,” he pointed to General Abrams.
The Army General responded, “It seems that there have been some acts of terrorism in several states, rioting and looting here and there, but it’s mostly low key, isolated stuff. We can’t confirm that any of it came directly on his orders. But one thing’s for certain, it seems that aliens in the U.S. aren’t heeding his call to arms en masse. There is no major revolution to speak of. At least not yet.”
“And Europe? Asia?”
“Again sir, random acts of terrorism, revolts and rioting in certain countries, they burned down the new parliament building in Berlin. But for the most part, it’s under control. Who knows how long that will stay that way though? The more this kook broadcasts, and the more victories he wins, the more people will start to follow him.”
The President sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling contemplatively for a few seconds. “General Hudson, what do we do about it?”
“Well sir, this is war. This is the war I’ve been talking about for almost ten years now. The balloon’s gone up sir. I’ve already got a basic contingency plan.” He tapped a large pile of reports on the table in front of him. He dealt them out across the table to all but one person. “You can read it if you like, but I’ll give you the gist of it. First we organize what we’ve got left of the military, and along with what we can salvage from NATO, we go after that son of a bitch and slaughter him. They’ve got antiquated third world equipment for the most part. On the other hand we’ve developed all sorts of nifty gadgets in the last decade, I don’t think that victory will be a problem as long as we can keep our troops loyal. In order to do that we’re gonna have to kick all those bug-eyed freaks out of sensitive government positions and military service which, as I told you last year, was a bad idea in the first place. Then we...”
“President Talbot I have to disagree. General Hudson is only going to create divis...” Jim Miller was cut off by the General.
“That’s the first guy to go sir,” he pointed at Jim. “We’re in a war here, and we’ve got one of the enemy sitting at our table. That is unacceptable. How do we know he hasn’t been in cahoots with Trinity all along? They’re wily, those little bastards.”
The President cut him off. “Secretary Miller is here because I want him here. Go ahead Jim.”