Adopted Son (29 page)

“And I mean, you know, it’s all for a shag. I thought that my parents were going to hit the roof you know? I mean, I’m only 16. Stacy’s a year younger. Oh god, I was so embarrassed when I found out that we’d be the first, I mean, who wants that kind of publicity you know?” He spoke rapidly and nervously. He was wringing his hand together over and over. Nancy’s cell phone rang.

“Hello?” Benji Lawson couldn’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, but he knew what the call meant. It was beginning.

Meanwhile, in the gallery above the main operating room, Dr. Mensen and many of the department heads sat speculating about the upcoming event. Sonograms had given an indication, but you can’t really tell a lot, and of course x-rays were out of the question. On the operating table lay a young alien woman. It was still hard to judge their ages, since none were over thirty, but something about her looked quite young. The large distended stomach was quite out of place. She was conscious and in some pain. They had given her the standard painkillers of course, but most drugs developed for humans had reduced effects on the alien metabolism. A section of the research staff here was busily developing new drugs targeted to alien populations, but that work was years from completion. Three of the best obstetricians in the world had been flown in for this procedure. No one knew what was going to happen here. As far as anyone could tell, this sort of birth had never occurred before. Complications would be inevitable.

“Remember Paul, we have $20 riding on this,” said Dr. Mensen.

“And you’re going to lose you old kook. I’m telling you, as Chief Virologist, I can almost guarantee that the HS virus doesn’t do its entire job in one stage. There’s no way a virus could have that much effect on genomic DNA. The child of an alien-alien mix is going to be some sort of different alien.”

“But there was no difference when the first human-alien mix occurred last year,” replied Dr. Malcolm, who ran the Microbiology department.

Dr. Mensen cut him off, “Shut up Hans, I’ll fight my own battles.” “As for you Paul, you seem to keep forgetting the fact that the aliens pulled from the Roswell wreck have the same genetic markers as the first generation HS kids. There’s no reason to assume that the second generation kids won’t have the same genes.”

Dr. Helena Raskolnikova broke in, “I’m just surprised that these HS kids aren’t all sterile. Hybrids are almost always sterile. In my department we have no idea how these kids even conceived.” Helena was a former VECTOR scientist who now ran the reproductive technologies laboratory.

The girl on the table screamed in labor-induced pain. The obstetricians were trying their best, but were working in very unfamiliar territory.

Dr. Mensen responded. “Well, I for one am glad that they aren’t sterile Helena. It means that life will go on. That our legacy will continue. Maybe in a different form, but the sentient population of this planet won’t die out in the next fifty years.”

“I wish I shared your enthusiasm Heinrich,” said Dr. Paul Willard. “I don’t think that our legacy is going anywhere. What’s going to happen when these aliens show up like they promised? Those kids are going to have to fight to protect our memory, and why should they care about us? They’re not like us at all.”

“I’m not so sure about that Paul.”

Dr. Malcolm got everyone’s attention. “Well, either way folks, the future is coming right now!” he pointed to the scene below. The doctor had just cut the umbilical cord and held the sticky child up by its legs. A soft pat on the behind and a cry echoed through the operating room.

Russia, in a place that doesn’t officially exist, near the border with Kazakhstan.

Snow is falling. This place used to be bustling with activity. It used to be bristling with guards, but no more. Now it is decaying, decrepit, and lonely. The fences, once ominous and foreboding, have mostly fallen down. The hundreds of guards that tended the gates have been reduced to a mere dozen people. One tramps through the knee-deep snow around the backside of the facility. The Russian government still denies their alien citizens the opportunity to serve in the armed forces. “It’s too much of a risk,” said a member of the Duma recently, “We don’t know where their loyalties lie.” So, the military dwindled as the percentage of alien births increased. There are very few eighteen year-old humans left to recruit, and even with stringent drafts, not a single unit has been able to maintain full strength for some time. With growing international cooperation in the face of a possible extraterrestrial threat, much of the mission that the troops had during the Soviet days has disappeared. Money has gone elsewhere, units have been stationed elsewhere. And here, out in southern Siberia, the depot lies almost forgotten– a relic of a war that never happened.

It isn’t totally forgotten. The men that work here certainly remember. The villagers in the town several miles away sit by their fires and curse the Muscovites for taking away their source of jobs. A lone figure approaches the front gate by foot, clad head to toe in a thick fur coat. It is cold out here, and winter is coming. The figure approaches the front gate where a bored soldier waits inside the guard shack. Guarding this gate is all that he has ever known. He’s been doing the job for almost fifteen years now. The way the system works out here, no one gets promoted, no one gets new assignments. Some months he doesn’t even get paid. Of course he makes ends meet with some odd jobs in town. Scraping and saving for the day when he can move his family out of this god-forsaken wasteland and to someplace more vibrant, someplace where life still exists. He smiles sleepily as the figure passes through the gate unmolested. Today is his last day on the job.

The figure, not even five feet in height, is carrying two bags with him. As he ducks under the gate he quietly lays the larger, fuller bag on the stoop of the guardhouse. He then proceeds inside. The buildings here are all made of metal sheeting. It’s just a storage facility after all. No one really lives here. The figure passes two guards huddling around a fire burning in an old oil drum. They should be patrolling the grounds as well, but it is cold, and they have patrolled the grounds here for many years without seeing anything more suspicious than some errant deer and curious village children hoping to catch a glimpse of a tank. They don’t even look up as the lone figure slides past them. They don’t really care. All morning they have been discussing where they will go tomorrow. One intends to get to America, although he doesn’t know how. The other is heading towards the oil fields of the Caspian, where there is work and opportunity. Today is their last day at the base.

The figure knows exactly were to go. He has been given a map. The signs are all in Russian, but he can tell the building he needs to visit just by looking at it. There is a second guard shack, and a double-fenced perimeter surrounding it. There are security devices all along the fence that in days long ago used to detect intruders by the vibrations of their footsteps, but they no longer work. There are security cameras that perpetually scan the front gate, but the tapes broke long ago, and no fresh ones have been sent from the supply depot, even though multiple requests have been made. The three guards that should be protecting this final barrier are inside playing cards. They don’t even see the slim man walk past. They are busy gambling away their fortunes, making bets that are far larger than their monthly salaries. They laugh heartily when they lose, knowing that there is plenty more.

Not ten minutes after entering the main storage facility, the figure returns to view. This time, the empty bag is full. Something heavy is inside, and the small man has a hard time carrying it. None of the guards help though. That would be wrong somehow. Plus it would involve doing work, which they all despise. Somehow the little man manages and is soon passing the front gate and headed back towards the town where his compatriots await him. He notices that the bag he left on the stoop is now gone. It is inside with the first guard, who is busy rubbing the contents all over his face. He has never in his life seen this much money before. He wonders to himself if he must share it with his co-workers, or if he can skim some from the top before they arrive to collect their cuts. He laughs out loud.

A few hours after the Alien-American Rights Act was signed. The White House, Washington, DC

Jim was sitting by the secretary’s desk just outside of the Oval Office. He was actually sitting in the same chair that Ray Johnston once sat in many years ago, although he had no way of knowing that. The alien had been sitting there for some time. He had examined his commemorative pen as much as one possibly could, he had sampled two candies from the jar on the secretary’s desk, and he had paged through the pile of last month’s magazines. Several men in business suits walked rapidly through the antechamber, and occasionally someone would stick a head out of the door and ask the secretary for something or other. Every time Jim heard the latch turn, a level of excitement pushed itself up into his throat. He had been told by the Press Secretary to come to a private meeting with the President after the signing, but he had found himself rather unceremoniously dumped in the waiting room.

Jim risked a short call to his office. He wasn’t sure that he should be making long-distance calls without permission, but he figured that no one would really care and he didn’t want to seem like a rube for asking the secretary. He phoned the main office of the JHADS in Dallas and spoke to Jordan who was holding down the fort while Jim was in DC. Jim really didn’t have any specific reason for calling, but being on the phone made him feel less awkward and out of place than just sitting there.

Almost forty-five minutes after being asked to wait, the door finally opened and a whole gaggle of people rushed noisily out into the hallway. The Press Secretary waved him in, and Jim followed. Inside sat President Talbot, who was on the phone. The Secretary guided Jim to a chair opposite the President’s ornate wooden desk and then closed the door. The President hung up the phone, stood up, and then extended his hand to the young alien.

“Jim Miller, glad to finally meet you, I apologize for keeping you so long.” Despite the nice words that President Talbot had said about Jim a few hours ago, and the handshake they had performed for the cameras, the two had never met before. Jim had been guided to the ceremony by staffers, and only got to see the President for the first time when he stepped onto the dais and shook Jim’s hand like they were old friends.

“That’s ok Mr. President. I know that you’ve got a lot of important stuff to deal with, Alien-American rights is only one small issue.”

The President sat back down in his chair. “Yes, one small issue. You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I told you Phil, this guy’s on the ball.” The Press Secretary nodded in acknowledgement. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you see. This is an issue, it’s a big issue, it’s an important issue, but you’re absolutely right, I can only spend a small part of my time dealing with it. That’s why I told Phil here to send you on over after the ceremony. Isn’t that right Phil?” The Press Secretary, who was standing uncomfortably close behind Jim once again nodded.

“Now, Jim, I can call you Jim right? This here act that we’ve just passed today, well it’s revolutionary, in fact, it’s more than revolutionary, we’re talking a whole new paradigm here, but hell I don’t have to tell you that, you practically wrote the thing didn’t you?”

Jim tried to choke out an answer, but the President spoke so fast that Jim was mentally still trying to answer the question about his name. He opened his mouth, but it didn’t matter, the President had already moved on. “Now this bill is going to call for a new executive branch agency to deal with these human-alien issues. That’s the part where you come in. I’ve discussed this with my staff and we all feel that you would be the best person to handle this task. We’re talking cabinet post here, Secretary of Alien Affairs. That’s a great title isn’t it? Don’t like it? We’ll change it, it’s up to you.”

“Well, this is a great honor sir, I’m not sure that I’m up to the...” Jim was cut off.

“Sure you are son, hell, you’ve been a thorn in the side of the federal government going on seven years now. If you can be that much of a pain in the ass from the outside, think of how much you can do from the inside. That’s why I want you on my team son. You see, I figure that group of yours is going to be criticizing the hell out of this new Secretary now matter what he does. I’m going to deflect that by putting you in charge. Brilliant huh? You’ll have to deal with the pro-alien lobby, you’ll have to deal with the anti-alien lobby. You’ll have to give input on our foreign relations, that sort of thing. Hell, I don’t have to tell you. You get the picture. You probably know what you need to do even better than me, I’ve never even read that thing I signed this morning. No time you know? So how about it, do we have a deal?” He leaned back over the table and stuck out his hand.

Jim was stupefied by the offer. For the last ten years, he had been an outsider, someone who fought against government policies. To now become part of that government was something he had never considered. While waiting he had been thinking that the President wanted his advice on how to interpret the new Act, he didn’t imagine that he was going to be offered a cabinet position. He struggled to put forth an intelligent sounding answer. “Mr. President, I’d be honored to help you in your efforts to...” Again the President cut him off.

“Great great great. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Have a cigar,” he opened a cedar box on his desk and handed a giant cigar to the alien. “Phil, you know what to do, go!”

“I’ve got the press release right here,” he held up a piece of paper and then rushed out of the room.

“This is one hell of a day ain’t it? Welcome to the team son.” The phone on the President’s desk rang. “I got to answer that, we’ll talk later.” A staffer walked over to Jim and helped him out of the chair. The two walked towards the exit. As the staffer opened the door to let Jim out, the President called out, “Hey Jim!” He covered the receiver with his hand. “Of course, anything you can do to help with this re-election campaign would be greatly appreciated. Give me some ideas.” He then went back to the conversation.