“Only because he’s Colonel Fordham, defender of North America, and he wouldn’t trust anybody else to save us. Remember those first transmissions? Everybody’s all excited about the first interstellar visitors on their way, and they start putting the First Contact Team together?”
“Yes.” Marley felt tingly, remembering her thrill at being chosen.
“Well, they formed the Planetary Defense Team at the same time. Why do you think they based FCT in Houston?”
“NASA. Right? They’d been preparing for interstellar contact for years.” Marley’s voice wobbled under Kevin’s derisive smile.
“Also, it would be easy to blast Houston into the Gulf if the visitors weren’t friendly. It’s a long way from the capital and all the important people. After all, they just got it rebuilt from the Aughties attacks.”
Marley shuddered, remembering those fearful days. “But they’ve never made an aggressive move. They seem to like us.”
“That’s what Captain Cook’s men thought when they met the New Zealanders. Had to send another group to clean up leftover body parts after the barbecue.”
“That was a misunderstanding.” Marley pushed forward close enough to see the tables, loaded with holiday bounty. Her mouth watered.
“I’ll say. The natives asked for Crispy with Extra Spices.” Kevin snapped the viewer closed and finished the last of his macaroons. “Anyway, if you can do something to help us get to the new year, better do it quick.”
“Me?”
“Oh, and that liaison guy from Washington wants to see you. He’s running around trying to put Band-Aids on the situation.”
“Stephen Grimsky? He wants to see me?”
“Yeah, he was over by the Bugs. You know what he said? The President wants to see the results of my ‘mind-reading’ experiments. Mind-reading! I told him we’re mapping brain functions and exploring emotional perception, so then he wanted to know if the Bugs ever get angry. I told him, ‘Initial preliminary emotional data looks promising for correlation but must be confirmed by empirical analysis.’ And this is how these people make decisions? About our lives, I might add.”
Finally they had a clear shot at the food. Marley could almost taste the meatballs. She fumbled with silver tongs as she said, “At least your bosses don’t want you to kill the aliens to get a closer look, like Martin Frobisher did with the Inuits.”
“Yes, they do, but the President said to talk to them first.” Kevin scooped up the meatball Marley was aiming for and waved to her as he slid back into the crowd.
A server swooped through and collected the meatball tray.
Marley slammed the tongs on the table and looked around. The other food lines snaked most of the way across the room. Her lip quivered. She moved away in the only direction without competition: towards the Eridanians. She understood the comments around her better now.
“They’re probably bringing their army.”
“You think we’ll attack them on their planet?”
“The President must have been planning for this.”
She smiled at Red, Green, and Blue, and they solemnly nodded back. They’d been drilled on nodding. An eddy in the crowd brought Marley a sight to gladden her heart: Stephen Grimsky, Special Attaché to the President. A worried frown cut into his delectable brow, but he still managed to smile. Looking into his Caribbean-blue eyes, Marley forgot to breathe. It was amazing, too, how much better her legs felt, like warm honey soothing the veins. She wiggled her toes, happy to feel them again.
Stephen touched her arm to bring her aside. “The President is extremely disturbed. He’s been cautious all along, but that hostile display earlier…” He ran his hair through his sculpted black curls. “He’s never been completely convinced that those deaths during the landing were an accident, you know. And that speech … they’ve never talked like that before.”
“I’m sure…” Marley stopped. She wasn’t at all sure.
“The media’s full of dire predictions and the usual conspiracy stories. They’re wondering what the government’s doing to protect us. Yesterday I saw a tabloid shot of Blue with the Pope, with the headline ‘Can the Pope Save Us?’ The President feels his responsibility keenly; he’s the one who let them land. After Christmas, if they remain peaceful until then, he’s going to insist that they leave unless he has some clear evidence of their good will. We’re depending on all of you on the FCT for that. In the meantime, we’re going to show them our strength and our good intentions. I understand they’re interested in our ‘winter festival.’”
Marley glanced at the trio. “Ever since they saw the decorations in August.”
“I’m arranging trips to some traditional activities, starting tomorrow night. The Bugs have asked for you as interpreter.”
“Why me?”
“They say you most nearly reproduce their language. Quite an honor, wouldn’t you say?”
Marley’s voice squeaked. “But my son’s in a Living Nativity tomorrow night.”
Stephen nodded. “That’s a good holiday function. We’ll put it first on the schedule.” He clapped a hand on her shoulder and flashed a smile before he escaped into the masses.
A server passed by with several trays, and Marley grabbed an egg roll. She munched to “Deck the Halls Cha Cha Cha,” as grease dripped down her fingers and onto her only silk blouse. “Happy Humbug,” she muttered toward Stephen’s broad back. The end of the world was coming, and she had to work overtime.
* * * *
Marley drove home as fast as she dared, anxious to hold Curtis close. She turned on the radio in hopes of soothing music, but all channels were covering the President’s first meeting with the Eridanians and his abrupt departure. The commentators had even less material than the party guests, but they had plenty to offer in past coverage of Colonel, later President, Fordham. His war record. His ending the war—on American terms. The background of violence on home ground, shifting borders and allies, and a loss of faith in the West’s supreme technology. The clamor for a forbidden third term.
Not electing President Fordham would be like firing your father. As a small boy, Curtis had come home from an encounter with a school bully and sobbed, “I’m telling President Fordham!”
Fordham’s mighty declarations—”I renew the pledge I made to you when I took office: you will be safe in your home, safe in your work, safe in your play from any who dare to oppose us. Wherever Americans walk, they’ll walk in safety”—had the opposite effect on Marley, and she urged the old car faster. If the world were going up in smoke, she wanted to go out holding the only family she had.
Curtis wasn’t home. Marley substituted the cat instead, clutching the old tabby in a vociferously unappreciated hug. In the ensuing struggle, she noticed her wrist phone glowing softly with a recorded message that she’d missed at the fear-soaked party. Her most dependable terror—a call from the police—flared. She held her breath until she heard, “Mom, where are you? If you’re not here by the time the last parent’s gone, Bob Chang will bring me in the church van.”
She slapped her forehead. How could she have forgotten to pick up Curtis after the Living Nativity rehearsal?
When he’d announced last summer that he wanted to attend the Church of Light and Harmony with his friends, she’d rejoiced because (1) he had friends; (2) they went to church; and (3) though it was a far cry from St. Agnes Catholic Church, where she’d been terrorized into morality, at least it wasn’t Church of the Satanic Vampires.
Deep in her conditioning lay the notion that families went to church together, so she went too, when she didn’t have to work. The first week she’d heard a sermon on miracles being a shift in perception. When she’d asked Curtis the topic of his Sunday School lesson, he’d said, “The Force.” In her mind, Saints Teresa, Francis, and Pio, their sweet stigmata dripping as they pointed accusing fingers, declared her a bad mother when she didn’t ask again.
She made herself a cup of tea and forced her mind to things that had seemed important a few hours ago.
Christmas: Forget decorations. She hadn’t been able to find them since the move, which seemed incredible, considering the tiny apartment’s closets.
Presents: not a happy thought either. With credit cards still maxed out from the move and Curtis’s various emergencies, she’d have to postpone shopping until the Christmas bonus showed up.
She hadn’t written her court-required progress letter to Josh either. Maybe the Living Nativity would be something positive to mention. She didn’t have much good to say. “Grades in tank. Attitude same. Prospects worse” about summed it up. She resented the effort she put into the probably-unread reports—after all, Josh found writing a check too taxing—but she kept hoping that something she wrote might make him want to know his son.
She collapsed in the once-velour-striped rocking recliner that Josh had given her on Mother’s Day when Curtis was a week old. She pressed the hot mug against her forehead. She had been so sure that their lives would turn for the better with the move to Houston and her new job. Curtis had shared her excitement about meeting the first interstellar visitors, despite leaving the friends she was glad to get him away from. But what did it matter now, when her own country planned to scrub them off like a cosmetic blemish?