“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” I say. “You’re going to abandon Earth.”
“We have to,” Sharon says sympathetically, patting my hand gently. “We can’t risk any escalation or exposure. It’s too dangerous. No one nation can monopolize First Contact. It would lead to a world war.”
I hear her words, but both she and Mark are fading from sight.
“What about the two of us?” I cry, but it’s too late. “You said you trusted me!”
I swear, I never moved, but suddenly, instead of sitting at a table on a warm alien spaceship, I’m sitting in front of a frozen concrete picnic table in Central Park. Snow flurries drift around me as Mark and Sharon float into the sky, blending into the darkness.
“Wait,” I plead, getting to my feet, but they’re gone. “Goddamn it.”
The cold bites instantly at my bare feet. Jeans and a thin t-shirt are no match for a blizzard. The wind seems to whip straight through me. Out of necessity, I run for the streetlights, wanting to get out of the snow. There’s a hotel across the street—The Astor. Without thinking, I dart into the lobby, relieved to get out of the cold, and wondering just what the hell I’m going to do next.
“Mr. Owen?” a pretty young lady behind the reception desk calls out. “Mr. Jason Owen?”
“Me? You know me?” I ask, pointing at myself like an idiot.
“Are you okay, Mr. Owen?”
I look at her sideways. I want to ask if she’s one of them, but then I notice she’s holding a printed sheet of paper with a photo on it. I move closer, leaning in slightly to take a look. It’s my photo on the page.
“We were expecting you a little earlier this evening,” she says, peering over the counter, curious at my lack of shoes.
“Ah, yes,” I say, resting the credit card and driver’s license on the counter. “Sorry, running a little late.”
“Running?” she asks, glancing at the driver’s license and scanning the credit card. She hands them back, but she’s clearly wondering about the bare feet and the lack of any jacket, gloves, or hat. “Bit chilly out there, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” I reply, rubbing my hands together. “Ah, did anyone leave anything for me?”
“Yes. Your assistant dropped off your luggage this afternoon.”
“Wonderful,” I say with a voice that screams insincerity to my mind.
“We have you booked for five nights in the penthouse suite,” she says, handing me a key fob, adding. “You’re in 1801.”
“Thank you,” I say, as though I’m being polite while robbing a teller at a bank. I walk over to the elevator, trying to keep my bare feet out of sight, feeling distinctly embarrassed.
The penthouse suite is spacious, with a large living room, kitchenette and three bedrooms, two of which have views across Central Park. The heating is on, and it feels glorious—like Florida on a hot summer’s day. There’s a massive skylight in the living room, stretching out over the couch in the shape of a dome. I can’t help but stare up at the night sky as the clouds begin to part. Stars radiate in the darkness.
“Which one are you going to?” I mumble, thinking about Sharon. I feel dejected. Defeated.
There’s a bowl of fruit on the table, along with a box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne. With just a couple of fake ID cards, I’m suddenly a multimillionaire, but all this luxury is no consolation for what I’ve just lost. What humanity has lost.
The master bedroom has two suitcases. I open them and they’re full of clothing. Shoes, shirts, jeans, shorts, underwear—everything I need still wrapped in plastic.
I collapse on the bed and sink into the soft mattress, pulling the blanket over my shoulders.
I’m lovesick. I can’t stop thinking about Sharon. Is it wrong to feel a little horny? She’s an alien. Is that sick? Twisted? And yet she looks and feels so human. I touched her skin. I ran my hands over her stomach and across her hips. I felt her soft breasts beneath my fingertips. Love? Or just lust? Is love a personalized porn show? How do you separate love from animal instincts and sexual desire? Or is one an extension of the other?
Within a few minutes, I’m asleep and dreaming of a particular sexy alien siren dancing naked in a police holding cell.
Chapter 06: Mr President
I wake feeling refreshed.
The bathroom is stocked with everything I need, including a razor and shaving cream. After having a shower and getting dressed, I grab some fruit and take the elevator down to reception.
“Good morning, Mr. Owen,” a young man behind the counter says as I step out of the elevator. He smiles warmly. I’m not going to ask how he knew I was about to step out of the elevator, I’m guessing that’s his job—to make millionaires feel important. Me, I feel disappointed, but not with him so I smile warmly.
Sharon has good taste in clothing. I’m wearing designer jeans, trendy leather boots, a comfortable cotton shirt, polar fleece sweater, and a North Face down-filled jacket, along with a New York Yankees baseball cap. A quick glance in the mirror as I pass through the reception and I look like I’m ready for drinks at the ski lodge.
“Have a great day,” the receptionist says.
“You too,” I reply, burying my hands in my pockets as I walk out through the rotating doors. It’s a beautiful day outside—the sky is electric blue. A magnificent, radiant sun warms the winter air. The day is cool, but not chilly.
I bite into an apple, leaving my banana for later. For me, breakfast is normally yogurt and granola, as I generally need something thick and heavy to sit in my stomach until lunchtime, but I’m not that hungry today. I’m focused.
Dammit. Why the hell did we have to go and blow our first chance at conversing with creatures from another planet?
A brisk walk along Central Park West has me striding past the American Museum of Natural History.
What am I doing? Where am I going? Where can I go? I’m walking in a straight line with no real purpose or destination in mind, simply keeping Central Park on my left. At this rate, I’ll end up doing laps of the park and going nowhere. But what can I do? I’m not an alien. Or am I?
Okay, let’s think this through. At the moment, DARPA is convinced I’m one of the crew. That’s the only point of leverage I have. When I lose that, and I will, I’m screwed, millionaire or not.
I stop at an ATM and withdraw fifty bucks. When the machine asks if I want a receipt with the balance, I can’t resist. Hell, yes. And there it is, more numbers strung together than I’ve ever seen in my life. Damn.
Current balance: 197,884,534
Just disappear, Joe.
With money like that, who needs a passport? Jump on a yacht, sail the Caribbean, follow your dreams. Only my dreams aren’t about money. They’re about Sharon. I can’t do it. I cannot pretend none of this ever happened. Sharon and Mark may have turned their backs on us Earthlings, they may have been forced to by whatever alien edict they’re following , but I can’t run and hide. It’s stupid, but I believe in their cause—awakening humanity from its long, dark slumber. I could never be satisfied if I took the easy way out.
I backtrack to the museum, wondering if Sharon and Mark are like the alien equivalent of Jane Goodall and David Attenborough. Venturing into the untamed wilds of planet Earth, they speak in hushed tones, describing the jungle natives for an intergalactic audience lounging in celestial armchairs.
I can imagine Morgan Freeman narrating in my head. The males are particularly driven when it comes to mating rituals, often going to elaborate lengths to entice a female’s attention with such displays as karaoke, and gifts in the form of chocolate or an impressive bunch of flowers, when often all that is needed is a kind word and some help with the housework.