Joe Haldeman - The Coming

“Thanks, Mal. I may need you to back me up on what the president said.”

“Count on it.” He looked at Deedee. “See you Saturday?”

“With bells on.” The chancellor nodded, snapped his attaché case shut, and left.

“Hobnobbing with the greats?” Rory said.

“He’s a tiger in bed,” she said hoarsely. “‘Administer me! Administer me!’” They both laughed. “It’s something the provost dreamed up. They’ve invited all the four-point seniors to a barbecue with all the deans and Mal. Should be fun, if Mal and I aren’t in some dungeon in Washington, along with you.”

“Any bets as to who he’ll show up with?”

“I don’t gamble with love.” There was a faint rumble of thunder, and she held up an umbrella. “Beat the rain?”

They didn’t. Halfway to Dos Hermanos the skies opened up. The umbrella kept their heads dry, but not much else.

Dos Hermanos was warm and crowded. They sat at the bar and ordered cafés con leche.

“So it’s us against the president of the United States,” Deedee said. “Where do we go from here?”

“You know, she didn’t say why she called the meeting,” Rory said. “She must have known what our reaction was going to be. So what did she gain by letting us know before a general announcement was made?”

Deedee shook her head. “Maybe it was Pauling who set it up. She pretty much does what her cabinet tells her to do.”

“Yeah, Snow White and the Fourteen Dwarfs. The executive branch has seen better days.” The coffee came and Rory stirred in a spoonful of sugar. Deedee just sprinkled a little cinnamon on top. “I wonder,” Rory continued. “What if you could get someone to claim that this was a declaration of war, and need the approval of Congress?”

“Well, she owns the House, except the Greens. Put the House Greens with the Senate Democrats, you’d at least have some noise. But I don’t think you can declare war against a vessel—or a message, which is all we really have.”

She held the coffee cup to warm her fingers and sniffed deeply at the cinnamon. “I think the key is going to be education, or propaganda. Your newscaster is probably our most powerful weapon. If the gallups tell LaSalle not to launch the things, she won’t.”

Pepe burst through the door, drenched, holding a soggy newspaper over his head. “¡Hola!” He dropped the paper into the recycle bin.

There were no seats at the bar. He stood between them and ordered a double espresso.

“How’d the meeting go? Is Fearless Leader smarter in person?”

“A regular Hawking,” Deedee said, and in low voices the two of them summed up what had transpired.

“I wouldn’t be too worried,” he said. “She’s just putting on her ‘woman of action’ hat. France is going to raise holy hell, and Russia, too. She’ll never get the Security Council behind it, and she knows that. She’s posturing. Campaigning.”

“Wish I could be sure of that,” Rory said. “Sounds too sophisticated for her.” Her phone rang and she plucked it out of her purse. “Con permiso. I have a call in to Marya Washington.” She pushed the “record” button. “Buenos?”

Her jaw actually dropped; sharp intake of breath. “Did you record it? I’ll be right over.” She folded up the phone and put it away. “That was Norman, at the office. There’s a new message from the aliens. A long one.”

They left three coffees steaming on the bar.

He thumbed in a blank crystal and made another copy, for safety’s sake. Then he sat and read the message on the wall:

We will arrive on Earth exactly one month from now, landing at Cape Kennedy 1200 Greenwich Standard Time on January 1. We will use the old shuttle landing strip. Please make sure it is clear and smooth.

We have a message that must be delivered in person. Recognizing the need for some ceremony, we will stay for a short time. Soon after landing, though, the runway must be clear for our departure. The nature of our message will make it clear why timing is crucial.

If we are delayed, your planet will be destroyed.

If any action is taken against us, every human being on Earth will die, whether we survive or not.

Our intentions are peaceful, but we know your nature well enough not to come unprotected. We will provide a small demonstration of our power as we approach, by destroying the martian moon Phobos. Be sure that there is nothing of value on that moon by Christmas.

We do come in peace, and we bring a message of hope.

Norman grinned. The third partita would be Christmas hymns, combining and then clashing, building to chaos and silence.

He would write the fourth partita after he heard what they had to say. If composer and audience were still alive.

Rory came bustling in with Deedee and Pepe, all of them drenched. They stared at the message, wordless. The phone chimed, over and over. Someone important, or the secretary would just file a message.

Still looking at the writing on the wall, Rory groped behind her and found the chair at her desk. She sat down slowly and pushed a button. “Buenos.”

“I don’t know how you did it.” President LaSalle’s face on the screen was blotchy, livid. “But it’s not going to work. We will have those weapons in orbit in a week.”

“Ms. President,” Rory said, “I just saw this message one minute ago for the first time. I assume it did come from the spaceship?”

“That’s what the NASA people say. But the timing is too perfect. I don’t know how you did it, but you did it. And it’s not going to work.”

“Why don’t you ask your NASA people how I could manage that trick?” she said slowly. “I assume they picked it up on the Moon as well as here. So by simple triangulation, you can tell how far the message has come. It was probably sent before we began to talk.”

“Impossible,” the president said, and disappeared.

“Pepe, go check on the Moon?” The phone started chiming again. Rory shook her head and stabbed the button.

It was Marya Washington, her face distorted and bouncing around the screen. “Rory, I’m in a cab to JFK. The station’s putting me on their own plane; I’ll be down in Gainesville”—she looked at the inside of her wrist—“in maybe ninety minutes. Can we have lunch?”

“Uh… sure. We have a lot to talk about.”

“That Mexican place on Main Street? At twelve o’clock?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Good. Más tarde.” The screen went blank.

“What the hell was that all about?” Norman said. “The prez?”

“That’s what our meeting was about. She wants to orbit those killer satellites. The secretary of defense’s idea, I take it. But all the cabinet’s behind it, except Pauling.”

Norman let out a little snort. “I guess this means we won’t be invading France. Just frying it.”

Pepe was mopping his long hair with a paper towel. “Surely she’ll reconsider after she calms down.” He gestured at the screen. “Or wiser heads may prevail.”

“Wiser heads better get her out of office,” Deedee said. “The woman is seriously bent. She sees everything in terms of conspiracy.”

“Yeah,” Norman said. “Poor old Brattle.”

“Who’s Brattle?” Rory said. Everybody looked at her.

“Undersecretary of defense,” Norman said. To the others: “She doesn’t listen to the news.”

“She had him charged with sedition,” Deedee said. “Sedition! ‘Moderation’ is more like it. But he’s being investigated by a closed committee. Essentially under house arrest.”