Anomaly (26 page)

Phelps waved the gun at the anomaly and, for a moment, Teller thought he might start shooting at it.

“Now, I don't know what this thing is,” Phelps continued, “but I know what it is part of, I know what it is for. It is part of the continued alien investment in our economy. They're propping us up. They're giving us all of this tech, these computers and chips, these inventions, these rocket ships. But it's a bribe. They do it so they can control us. And the government's been in on it all along, since Truman at least. Roswell was just the beginning.”

Phelps leaned down toward Teller, saying, “They want our minds. They want our allegiance, our loyalty.”

The wind picked up, a chill cut through the air. The shadows were growing darker as the sun began to set behind the New York skyline.

The pages of the mathematics textbook flicked over in the breeze and Teller's heart stopped. Phelps seemed to pick up on the change in Teller's focus, seeing his eyes looking intently at the textbook.

Complete the following binary sequence 0, 1, 10, 11, 100, 101,
110, 111

Convert the value of the dice into a numeric equation [::] [:.]
4 + 3 = 7

There were answers. But how? These books had never actually been inside the anomaly. Perhaps, thought Teller, that characterized the anomaly as a whole, something that never could fit into a box, or a sphere, or whatever.

Each of the questions, the equations and diagrams, had answers written next to them. The writing was neat, the characters and numbers were crisp and consistent, as though they had been typed into the book.

Phelps didn't understand. Teller could see that from the look on his face. Somehow, Phelps could see Teller saw this as important, but to him it was just math. Teller fought not to give anything more away in his facial expression, knowing he'd said too much already with his look of wide-eyed surprise. Phelps kicked the book, twisting his boot on one of the pages, tearing the corner off it. A dark smudge marred the rest of the crumpled page.

“What is it? What do you see?” he demanded.

“Nothing.”

“You're lying. You're fucking lying to me. What is it?”

“It's just a kid's book,” replied Teller, trying to downplay the situation.

Phelps flew into a rage, kicking Teller with his steel-capped boots. He crushed both the textbook and the dictionary under his feet, stamping on them, bending the spine of the book back and tearing several pages.

Teller looked away, looking at Cathy. Their eyes met, he could see tears streaming down her cheeks. He wanted to say something, to let her know what he'd seen, to let her know there was hope, but he couldn't.

“Nothing can save you,” said Phelps. “You must know that. Nothing. You're dead. You hear me? You are dead.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Teller could see Phelps holding the gun out at arm's length, just inches from Teller's head. Teller refused to look at him. If he was going to die, he wasn't going to give this madman the satisfaction of terrorizing him. Teller held Cathy, pulling her head over near the couch, hoping she wouldn't see this, hoping that somehow she'd make it out of this alive. He closed his eyes tight, the muscles in his body seizing as he clenched, waiting, wondering how quickly he would die, wondering whether he'd feel anything, hoping he wouldn't, hoping it would be quick. Seconds passed, and then a minute. When Teller looked back, Phelps was gone. The madman stood some twenty feet away, talking with one of the other men.

“You're so stupid,” said Cathy, crying. “You should have never come for me. You should have left me. You're so silly.”

Teller simply held her tight as she sobbed. There was nothing he could say. Cathy's hands ran over his aching chest. Teller reached out and picked up the math book. Blood marred the pages, deep red fingerprints marked where he held it. His shoulder ached, throbbing with the pulsating rhythm of his heart.

Complete the prime numbers: 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13,
17, 19

Convert the Arabic number 25 into Roman numerals
XXV

“What is it?” asked Cathy, not seeing anything significant.

“Answers,” said Teller. “It's giving us answers. In the midst of all this, the anomaly wants to give us answers to our questions, anything we ask of it.”

He put down the math book and picked up the dictionary. The damaged spine had caused the book to fall open in a strange manner. There, in the margin, was a large red asterisk next to the definition for the word Trust.

Noun: Firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something.

Verb: Believe in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of.

“What does it mean?” asked Cathy.

“I don't know,” said Teller. “It's trying to talk to us. Trying to tell us something. They want us to trust them.”

“But how can we?” asked Cathy. “How can we trust the anomaly if we don't know what this means?”

Teller didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. All his conjecture, all his opinions, all his speculation, what had it accomplished? Nothing. His hit rate was low, and he knew it. Somehow, he'd stumbled upon the nature of the anomaly, and a bit of guesswork had helped him figure out why hydrogen sat at the heart of the anomaly, but that felt like years ago. Back at the mall, Cathy had come close to uncovering the truth and he knew it. Ego. Flattery. It felt good to be important, to be needed, to be valued. And all he had to do was to sound convincing, but it was shallow, hollow.

Cathy believed in him, he could see that. She trusted him, even now, even when they were about to die. Teller looked at that word; trust. So much depth of meaning, so much application in life, but all too often trust was misplaced. Trust had to be earned.

She looked into his eyes. He could see the intelligence behind her brown eyes, the sense of hope she held. What a waste, he thought. What a tragic waste to be snuffed out like a candle, to take something so beautiful, so fragile and precious, and to tear it apart in a moment.

“I'm sorry,” said Teller. “I wish I knew what it meant, but I don't.”

Phelps was raging, yelling, taking his moment in the spotlight, and Teller knew what was coming next. Phelps held his left hand high above his head, as though he were reaching up toward the sky, holding the dead-man's trigger as high as he could while he cried out in anger at the world.

Trust, thought Teller. If only he could. He tossed the child's dictionary to the ground, even at a distance of a few feet, the large font could be clearly read. Trust, the word was so simple, but the intention was unclear. How?

A gust of wind swirled around them. Cathy tugged at his arm, gesturing toward the dictionary as the pages turned in the wind. Teller looked down, another word had a large asterisk next to it, the word Now.

Adverb: At the present time or moment

Teller's heart leaped in his throat.

“Do you trust this thing?” he asked.

Cathy didn't hesitate. “Yes.”

“I don't know if I do, but we have no choice,” he replied soberly.

Grabbing hold of the lounge, Teller struggled to his feet. The gash on his leg ached. The searing pain caused him to grimace, slowing his motion. The bullet wound caused his shoulder to throb. Cathy helped him stand.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“Something really stupid,” replied Teller, making his way around the side of the lounge, keeping his eyes on Phelps. “But I think I finally know why this thing is empty.”

“Why?” asked Cathy, taking his arm over her shoulder and helping him as he limped.

“Because it's waiting to be filled by us.”

One of the terrorists saw them standing and called out. Phelps turned.

“Run,” cried Teller, as he pushed his body forward, half limping toward the anomaly, pumping his legs as hard as he could. The swirling mass rose up before them, bulging out and towering hundreds of feet over them. Teller could hear Phelps yelling. Gunshots rang out, but it didn't matter. In just a few feet they'd run into the soft blue of an alien world. But the pressure inside was thousands of times greater than that at sea-level on Earth. Either way, they were dead. For Teller, the risk was worth it. The anomaly was trying to communicate something to them, something about trust. He only hoped this is what it meant.

___

The wall of compressed air that reverberated out from the terrorist detonation took everyone by surprise. Cameras recording the event showed a visible blast wave spreading out from the point of the explosion, crushing everything in its path. The research trailer crumpled like an empty coke can, as it was tossed aside and crushed against the UN General Assembly building. Although the chemical reaction unleashed in that nanosecond caused the rapid expansion of a variety of gases, most notably nitrogen and carbon dioxide, the flash at the heart of the blast appeared as a burst of flame, one that seemed to rival the intensity of the sun. In less than a second, the pressure wave spread out over two thousand feet, thumping barriers and cars, knocking them backwards. Windows shattered on the surrounding buildings. Pebbles and specks of gravel shot out like shrapnel, raking the cars and building facades, radiating out from the blast. Fragments of the lounge suite were launched hundreds of feet in the air.

In addition to the terrorists and the hostages, the blast killed several soldiers and a police officer caught in the open. The blast barriers proved woefully inadequate, collapsing and crashing into those they sought to protect. The thump of the explosion threw everyone back. Several cars were overturned and left lying on their side.

The noise was deafening, leaving the survivors stunned.

The trees lining 1
^st
Avenue flexed, being thrown forward by the ferocity of the outbound pressure wave. The partial vacuum that formed in that instant collapsed as the pressure dissipated outward, and the trees were flung back in toward the heart of the blast with the inrush of equalizing pressure. A dark mushroom cloud rose into the air, folding in on itself as it billowed into the darkening sky.

From the video footage it was clear the anomaly was gone. Whereas the alien structure had once towered over the area as a smooth, curving sphere set in contrast to the sharp, hard angles of the surrounding buildings, now the street was empty. In its place a thick haze of smoke and dust hung in the air.

Finch was one of the first to rush headlong, foolishly into the street. He ran madly forward from the police line, while most others were still recovering from the blast. Finch staggered like a drunken man fighting to stay upright, his arms flaying out beside him as he fought to keep his balance. Blood ran from his ears and nose. For once, he didn't have a camera on his shoulder. With heavy steps, he dragged himself forward, weaving as he pushed through the smoke. His lone figure cut a stark silhouette against the muddy, gray haze. He fell a couple of times but got back to his feet and pushed on toward the spot where the anomaly once stood, the spot where Teller and Cathy had been before the blast. Around the area, voices called out in pain, crying out for help. The medical and police teams that had been held in reserve on East 48
^th
street began moving through the outer cordon, creeping forward slowly as they tended to the wounded.

Finch fell to his knees and sat there, his head bowed toward the ground. His shoulders slouched. His arms lay limp by his side. For someone who had spent a lifetime behind the camera lens, this was the first time he'd become the subject. Those network cameras that survived the blast zoomed in on him, catching his stoic figure from various angles. The blur of helicopter spotlights cutting through the smoke gave an eerie, almost dreamlike quality to the images, making the loss surreal.

A medic came running up to him, looking to tend to his wounds. A few minutes later, the distinct silhouette of Director James Mason appeared beside him, standing tall, his shoulders back, his hand resting on Finch's shoulder. Finch was crying, that much was clear, even from the grainy video.

“I ...”

“I know,” said Mason, holding out his hand and helping him to his feet. For all his bravado, it was obvious Finch was devastated by the loss of Teller and Cathy, particularly Cathy, given their love/hate professional relationship. Finch had a reputation for not caring, for being bullish and brash, but he was shaking in the aftermath of the blast.

“She was a good kid,” he said, looking Mason in the eye. For his part, Mason was tight-lipped.

“You saw how she tried to get Anderson to safety,” Finch continued. “She was like that, always thinking about others. Not like me. She had some real class. She deserved better than this.”

Mason swallowed a lump in his throat.

“And Teller,” Finch continued, struggling with his words. “Neither of them deserved this.”

“No one did,” replied Mason.

Finch sobbed.

It was over.

Mankind's first interaction with an intelligent celestial being had come to an abrupt and violent end. Finch was distraught. What had shown such promise, what had held such potential, had been destroyed. The hopes and dreams of those who dared had been dashed. Even those that raged against the appearance of the alien intelligence were left hollow and empty, without an object for their anger. It seemed everyone had lost, but no one more so than Finch.

Teller had his eyes closed tight. He grimaced, expecting to be crushed within the anomaly, but somehow he had survived. He could feel rough concrete beneath the fingers of his right hand. His left arm was still draped over Cathy's shoulder. They were lying on the road.

“What happened?” Cathy asked.

Teller could feel the warmth of the sunlight on his face. He opened his eyes and saw the concrete stretching away into the distance, with buildings lining the road. He was confused.

Cathy got to her feet, looking dazed. She stood there, turning slowly, looking around them.