Chapter 33: Show time

“Everything is set with Viktor’s connections? They’ve set up the website and the streaming video links, and there will be enough server capacity so it won’t crash when it gets hit with a tsunami of connections?” Mike asked.

“Oh, yes, no doubt. Viktor pulled out all the stops with his contact who owns a huge chunk of the network capacity in the U.S. Apparently the guy doesn’t have a clue about what is going to hit the air, but Viktor’s pulled a double whammy on the guy. He offered so much money as a guarantee, and hinted at financial armageddon if he didn’t come through, that the tycoon doesn’t know whether to celebrate a flood of new riches, or run for his life.

“But to answer your question, yes, most definitely. The internet server links are in place, and nothing short of a nuclear strike can bring it down. It’s already patched into all the major news feeds for live streaming; all the stations need do is interrupt their normal programming and switch to our feed,” Steve explained.

“Good, that’s a big deal. It’s nice not to worry about that end; we’ve got enough on our end to catch and uplink all the action,” Mike admitted.

“I’ve taken it on myself to talk to Rhys and Martha. They went back to Twin Falls right after Marie’s folks let them know that Viktor’s group was stood down, and were now allied with us. Martha has excellent connections in the Twin Falls community, and she’s going to use them to reinforce her credibility when she makes an offer to the news director of the local TV station. It’s a small station, but is a CBS affiliate, so they have two-way feeds into the national network.

“She’s going to offer herself and Rhys for local live interviews. The news people will be clamoring for all the background they can get, once they realize what’s going on, and that it’s for real. I’m thinking that if they can talk to a couple of solid, down-home folks who aren’t clamoring that it’s the end of the world because we have some alien refugees on the planet, it might inject at least a thread of sanity. That’s our hope, anyway,” Mike explained.

“Good idea, except after the interviews I think they’d better get out of town and stay lost for awhile. They’ll get crushed in the stampede of news crews from everywhere else, trying to get their own footage, after the local feed airs,” Steve warned.

“Right. I think they’ll go back down to Salt Lake City for awhile; they have some very good contacts there, too, and if it’s really necessary they can ask for help from the folks at Bonneville Broadcasting. They’re the church corporation that owns and runs KSL-TV. There’ll be no problem at all with their credibility once our antarctic scenes have aired, followed by their Twin Falls interview. It’s a cinch they’ll be safe in the hands of the KSL people both on and off the air. Since it’s a church station, they have a lot of influence in that city and I don’t think Rhys and Martha will have to worry about getting overwhelmed in a mob. They’ll probably be put up in a penthouse suite and given 24-7 security to keep them safe and exclusive to KSL!” Mike laughed.

“No doubt,” Steve chuckled. “I forget the unique cultural qualities of your mountain west, sometimes. No, I don’t think they’ll be in any danger with the entire resources of the city to protect them.”

“There’s another angle I’ve given a lot of thought to,” Mike added. “The LDS have always been viewed as a ‘fringe’ religion by most, and as a ‘cult’ by a few Christian fundamentalist groups. So they have some experience with bigotry and estrangement. Most folks don’t realize that part of their theology has an element of other worlds, at least in the Celestial sense. “Many rooms in my mansion, and worlds without number” is a fairly common expression in their beliefs. So I’d be willing to bet they’re less likely to see our visitors as a threat. Especially the first time the church elders get a good look at Dee’rah in her angel maiden form!” he mused.

“Steve, if you and Marie will hang out with our skipper and his radio tech to make sure everything stays connected at our end, I’d better go visit with Dee’rah for awhile. I need to consult with her parents, and the ship’s leadership council. As the juggler said while he tossed live hand grenades in a circle above his head, Timing is everything!”

The Council

Mike’s head no sooner hit the pillow after he’d secured himself alone in his cabin for privacy, than Dee’rah joined him.

Are you still frightened, love? he asked her.

No, Michael-mine. No longer. I forget sometimes, we have many capabilities. My father assures me we have little to fear from those bombs that your President has ordered dropped on us, she answered.

I thought not. But as long as the President and those who support him remain in power, there will always be a threat. Perhaps the worst threat will be their ability to generate hysteria through fear-mongering, and to incite hatred and bigotry. I have a plan to defeat them, but I must visit with your father and, I hope, perhaps meet with the ship’s council of leaders?

Of course, Michael-mine. You are now one of us, you need not ask. It is your right—it will be given!

Michael moved with Dee’rah as she pulled his spirit-energy self with her; they emerged into the familiar surroundings of the great hall of the ship where he’d first met her parents. Jon’a-ren (Masi’na, male) and her mother Lyn’na-ra (Masi’ah, female) were waiting.

Michael-friend, it is a joy to see you! Jon’a-ren welcomed him. I sense that we have much to discuss, is this so?

Yes, my revered friend, we do. Has Dee’rah informed you of the bombing strike my nation’s leader has ordered? And of our failed attempt to stop it?

Calm yourself, Michael; there is nothing to fear. I trust that you already believe that, or you would not appear so calm.

True. But yet I must visualize what I have seen of these particular aircraft, and the exploding devices they will drop. In our conflicts these devices have a unique and destructive effect on anything buried underground. They are intended to shake the earth, and collapse any subterranean structures.

Michael brought to mind the military film footage he’d seen of such penetrating bomb strikes, and their effects. He also visualized what little he’d seen of the delta-shaped stealth bombers that would be making the attack run.

Can your ship shielding be extended to stop these devices? Michael asked.

Not quite in the way you think, Michael. We cannot stop them exactly, but we can ensure they will do us no harm. But we will discuss that in greater detail. I understand that you wish to consult with the Mas’shi-dul, the ship’s council. You are most welcome as a respected friend, a consultant, even as a valued envoy of your people. Come, Michael, we will go. They are assembling to receive us; as I am a senior member, I can assume they will not begin without us, Jon’a-ren smiled.

A joke! Sir, Dee’rah explained that you find our sense of humor and levity to be enjoyable—and you have spoken a small jest! Are you learning from us, so soon?

Perhaps we teach each other, Michael. Perhaps we learn much of great worth, together. Jon’a-ren smiled again.

So it is possible to do this ice-clearing at any time? All is ready, and you have only to command it done?

Jon’a-ren nodded his head in a gesture he’d found pleasing in Michael’s habit; the other council members seated around the great table smiled in return.

And the ship may then rise, emerge from this trench that will lay open to the sky; the ship may lift and safely remain aloft over the island? With no hazard to it or yourselves, answering to her commands? he asked.

Jon’a-ren nodded again. There is no doubt, Michael. All can be done with perfect control, and quite safely. As for the rest of what we’ve discussed here, yes. We have communicated our requests and intentions, and we’ve made preparations. Do not fear, Michael. I trust we do not weary you with our assurances. We have many capabilities.

Later, meeting with Jon’a-ren, Lyn’na-ra, and Dee’rah in their private quarters, Michael asked the big question.

Dee’rah, your father helped me explain my plan to the Mas’shi-dul. I intend to accomplish two things. First, we will expose the crimes our President is committing against your race, the treaty protecting this continent, and against my nation’s people. I believe this will be sufficient to remove him from power. My second hope is to introduce you, your race, to the world in a way they will never forget, yet will have no reason to fear. I believe they will see you as I see you: a people who may be our mentors and guides, that we of the earth may eventually evolve to join you as citizens of the stars.

Steve stood with Corky and the helmsman. They approached the edge of the ice shelf surrounding Siple Island. Nervous and cautious piloting brought their ship through the floes and bergy bits, nudging slowly between the large bergs and broken floes, leaving a trail of gray-black water behind through the smaller ice chunks.

“We’re about five miles from the island itself, and that will give us an excellent view of anything as large as that ship when it emerges,” Corky commented. “Steve, you better go stand watch with Lee in the radio shack. We can hold the ship in position with no problems. I see no danger of anything moving to pin us; the ice melt and breakup has been extremely favorable to us.”

“Aye, aye, Corky. I’ll holler for you when we get to the exciting stuff,” Steve replied.

God bless Viktor’s vodka-guzzlin’ black heart, Steve thought to himself. I still can’t believe it, even though I’m looking at it. A damned live video feed, courtesy of an encrypted, compressed, and secret video stream coming into our monitors. God only knows how many up and down and cross-links it takes to get here. Unbelievable!

Steve watched Lee’s 23-inch monitor as it displayed a low-light enhanced satellite view of Mount Siple in all of its 10,000-foot glory, and the long, wide snow pack surface of the island stretching to the southeast of its base. He was looking at the entire area where the Masi’shen ship would blow open its grave and emerge from the dead. He was seeing it courtesy of the squadron of Soviet spy planes that Viktor Lucenkovich had “borrowed” and parked in a sub-orbital flight pattern over Antarctica for the event.

Lee talked on his satellite telephone to technicians in Russia and the United States through a conference link. He was feeding video from their own camera mounted in an enclosed rotor housing on a high corner of the pilot house. He aimed it at Mount Siple.

“Clear? Good feed? Excellent! We’ll maintain the link. As soon as our guests arrive, I’ll swing our camera to point to the foredeck. We’ve rigged a microphone and we’ve already tested it; you should get excellent audio with our camera feed.” Lee smiled at Steve and gave him the universal thumb and finger circle ‘Okay!’ sign.

“They tell me that all of the network links are up and ready. So, Mister Barrington, sir! The Ocean Endeavor video production company is ready to make history whenever you folks are ready!”

Celestial Celebrities

Volgograd television, fer crissakes! What the hell am I doing here, sitting on my ass, bored out of my skull for the last ... oh, hell, it’s been over half an hour now, staring at this monitor.

Fred James was one of several assistants to the producer for special events for WGZD-TV, New York. Orders came down from the General Manager the previous day to monitor a hookup into their studios for a special news feed, content TBA ... to be announced. The instructions were unusually specific: a producer was to monitor the feed from the moment it came live, and to be ready to interrupt normal programming the moment anything unusual was seen over the special link. Without fail! This order must be given the highest priority, the General Manager explained.

Ernie Thomas, the producer, was a skeptic, a cynic, and a hard-boiled veteran of the streets who had bullied and browbeat, back-stabbed and cheated his way into his producer’s chair which his fat backside was holding down somewhere on the other side of the newsroom. He flirted with a perky little brunette who hoped fervently one day soon— “very soon, honey,” Ernie had crooned into her ear—to realize her moment as a news talent in front of the cameras. Ernie’s priorities this day were not the General Manager’s priorities. What the hell could come from Volgograd! We ain’t at war with the Russians! was Ernie’s rationale for stroking Betsy’s ambitions; hopefully her motives would merge with his motive, and...

“Holy Shit!” Fred exclaimed to himself, as the video feed swung from the boring view of the snow-capped volcano somewhere in frozen penguin-land to show several figures standing on the broad, stubby bow of a ship surrounded by water and broken ice. One of the figures was a tall, rugged-looking man in arctic clothing. The other three figures were not wearing arctic clothing. He couldn’t tell what the hell they were wearing. They were glowing too brightly!

“Mr. Thomas! HEY, Mister Thomas!” Fred called as he jogged across the studio set, trying to stay out of camera range and avoid tangling with the maze of cables on the floor. He looked for but couldn’t find his producer anywhere. He reached the other side. Grabbing another assistant, he spun him around to get his attention: “Amos, Amos tell me, where the hell is he, Mr. Thomas! He’s gotta be here ... he’s gotta see this! Oh, damn ... the GM’s gonna have our ass! Where the hell did he go, Amos?”

“Jeezus, Fred, get a grip! Thomas was schmoozin’ with that new intern, the little brunette. He’s pulling the old you’re gonna go far if you stick with me routine on her. They left to go get lunch. He said he might be back a bit late.”

“Oh damn! Oh shit! ... crap! ... Dammit all to hell! Amos! We’re fired! The whole damned lot of us are fired! Just as soon as the GM sees what we ain’t got goin’ out on the air like he ordered, we’re all in the shitcan! Come look ... come with me, right now, and look at this. I’ll show you what that asshole Thomas just missed, and it’s gonna dump everyone’s career in the crapper!”

Fred dragged Amos with him across the studio, where two other assistants and a junior producer gathered in front of the corner monitor that Thomas had left Fred to watch.

Beside the rugged man in a parka and the three glowing figures that caused Fred to have his panic attack, everyone was watching and listening to a fourth figure, a petite native American woman dressed in dark leather, decorated with sparkling beaded designs. She introduced the glowing figures as a family of space voyagers who were waiting for their ship to emerge from the ice.

“Somebody get this damned feed on the air! Now, dammit! We gotta break into programming and get this up now, live!” the junior producer yelled at them.

“Can’t,” somebody else yelled. “Only one in the studio with the authority to do that is Thomas, and he’s out. He won’t be back for an hour, at least. An’ he left his cell phone layin’ on his desk, so nobody would be callin’ him. He didn’t want to be disturbed; he had a feeling he was gonna get lucky.”

At that moment, a frantic technician came bursting in from the adjacent editing and control rooms. “Hey! Everybody, come see this! You ain’t gonna believe it ... the other networks broke into their programming and they’re carrying a live satellite feed out of Antarctica. It’s on all the other stations. They’re on camera, LIVE! Space people! They’re here!”