“Yes, these are actual aliens,” Nancy said.
The camera swung back sharply, locked on Nancy and George.
“They were discovered by this man, George Pelton,” she said. “He was here on a hunting trip with his friends. Mister Pelton, could you describe what you saw the night this ship crashed?”
The camera’s small light burned brightly, nearly blinding George. How did reporters stare into that night after night? Was he on local TV? Or was this signal carried across America? Across the world? He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be in the other room with his friends helping get Mister Ekola through the deep woods and to the ambulance waiting by the cabin.
“Mister Pelton?” Nancy said. “This is a live signal. I’m told we’re being watched all over the globe. Can you describe what you saw?”
George took one look behind him, at the children. Cowering, terrified. He looked at the walls, at the crash seats the children’s parents had used to keep their beloved little ones alive. And in that moment, something deep inside of George awakened.
Awakened and took over.
He looked dead into the camera.
“These kids haven’t done anything to anyone,” he said. “They’re helpless. They’re innocent. Everyone watching this, we can’t let the government get them, cut them up, study them. What if they were your kids? Would you want your babies butchered?”
The cameraman moved again, tried to get an angle. The children were too many to fully hide behind George, but they tried anyway.
George took one step toward the camera, leaned toward the lens.
“They’re just kids,” he said. “I’ll stay with them, try to keep them safe, report to the world however I can, till we know they won’t be killed for some experiment. I’ll stay with them. The government lies — I don’t.”
If only he had known the way the world would interpret his words. If he had, would he have said them?
“Mister Pelton, ready to go in?”
George stared at the airlock door, at the guard standing next to it. Behind that door lay the ruined ship. In a matter of days, the Army had built a huge pole barn around the wrecked vessel; within a week, they’d built a second building inside the first, one that covered the alien vessel like a shell. That was where George was headed now.
The dead bodies had been removed, the debris cleared away, and the wreck had been scanned for radiation, poisons, gasses, anything that might harm a physiology humans knew very little about. Nothing dangerous had been discovered. Not knowing what might hurt the aliens, the government scientists had decided to leave them in their own ship.
“Mister Pelton?”
“Yes,” George said automatically. “Thank you, I’m ready.”
Thank you . . . ever the Midwestern boy.
The guard nodded. He wouldn’t be coming. Another guard would be waiting inside, this one in a hazmat suit. Everyone entering the wreck wore one. Everyone except George. The children had been exposed to him, after all, and he’d been exposed to them.
George knew that if he left to see his own children, he wouldn’t be allowed back in because of potential pathogens he might bring with him. New bacteria. Contaminants. The government would have a reason to cut him out of the picture, to tell the world that he was now a potential danger to the children instead of their protector.
If not that reason, they would find another. If he left this place, it was over.
George often wondered why he’d said the things he’d said when that camera light flicked on. He’d never been very political, never believed in any conspiracy theories. At least not before this had started. He’d never been involved in local government. He hadn’t even watched the news. Yet that diatribe had flown out of him almost as if he’d written it in advance. It had made him a global sensation: the brave, selfless protector of alien children.
It also made him very much alone.
The airlock door opened. As expected, inside awaited a hazmat-suited guard.
George knew the children would be happy to see him. They would cling to him as they always did, ask him questions in a language he didn’t understand. The few words he’d learned weren’t enough to convey thoughts of any complexity. But he didn’t need to be fluent to understand what they wanted — they wanted to know when they could go home.
Trouble was, they were home. They were never going to leave.
If George stayed true to his word, neither was he.
He stepped forward. The airlock door closed behind him.
Scott Sigler is the New York Times bestselling author of the Infected trilogy (Infected, Contagious, and Pandemic), Ancestor, and Nocturnal, hardcover thrillers from Crown Publishing; and the co-founder of Empty Set Entertainment, which publishes his Galactic Football League series (The Rookie, The Starter, The All-Pro, and The MVP). Before he was published, Scott built a large online following by giving away his self-recorded audiobooks as free, serialized podcasts. His loyal fans, who named themselves “Junkies,” have downloaded over eight million individual episodes of his stories and interact daily with Scott and each other in the social media space.
PROTOTYPE
Sarah Langan
My transfer orders arrive nine months early, and I’m not happy about it. Can I have more time? I request.
Radio silence.
So Rex and I pack my best prototypes, break down my lab, and wait. He licks too much, but otherwise he’s a good dog. The second-best I’ve ever had.
A few hours later, a sand ship’s masthead pokes up from the desert horizon. I pull Rex close. He’s been showing his age lately, shitting in odd corners, eating just half his food, needing his name called more than once. I’ve overlooked it until now, just like I’ve overlooked the bald patches on his scalp, poor guy.
The rig floats closer. Its sail, about eighty feet tall and Mylar coated, is embroidered with a Kanizsa Triangle, the emblem of the Pacific Colony. A Class C driver waves from the deck. He wears a modern sand suit with liquid stitching; much better than I’d expect for his low rank. The colony must be thriving.
I bend down next to Rex and take his jaw between my thumb and third finger. Turn his head to one side. I cleaned his breathing apparatus just yesterday, so it doesn’t make those bark-sounding exhales that dogs are known for.
“They have no respect for the past in the city. No one there knows what they come from. They’re not like us, Rex. We don’t belong there.”
Rex laps my thumb. I lean into his wet nose. “You think we’ll be okay?”
Rex nods. People think I’m crazy, but I know he understands me.
The ship pulls astride my laboratory’s dock. Rex and I walk along the clear, sand-proof gangway, and board.The hull’s enclosed in porous, wind-resistant plastic, with holes about ten microns wide. It’s great for short trips, useless for long-term survival.
Pretty vehicle for Nevada, I say.
My driver shrugs. Class Cs are literal half-wits. They follow orders and that’s about it.
He drives. What he lacks in social graces he makes up for in creepiness. Most of us add a little personality to our suits. His is shining black with just a single C-Class insignia across his left breast. He looks like a six-foot tall, man-shaped oil slick.