Chapter 32: Intercession

She did not say where she was going?

No, beloved. Only that there is a matter of grave urgency, but we must not follow or interfere. She was most insistent.

I fear she conceals some knowledge from us; something that would cause great distress among us. She is capable, and certainly the best informed when dealing with humans and assessing their motives.

Take comfort that there is little we could do, even if we did know her mind, mate-beloved. But now I must return to the council; we are reviewing preparations to free the ship from the ice covering us. We have taken energy from the heat vents of the volcano. We have sufficient for ice fracturing and dispersal.

Our crew tests the focusers and emitters. My concern is with perfect synchronization and application of force to break and scatter the ice clear of the ship. We expect success, but mate-mine, it has been many generations since such a thing has been done. There is no history where a ship of ours lay buried like this, for so long.

Forgive me, love. I prattle with worry. Soon we will break cover and lift free. Our astro-navigators report that the fleet from home will be here soon, very soon. We will rise and greet them properly.

Jon’a-ren touched his forehead to that of his beloved wife. He left to tend to his duties.

May your efforts bring satisfaction in measure with your skills, mate-beloved. But our daughter! I do wonder. She is so involved with these humans. May she realize joy with her soul-mate; surely her efforts for good between our races must be rewarded with success.

She recalled the portentous events since Dee’rah, her amazing daughter, revealed her compassion for a human who lay helpless and dying on the ice above. No one dared guess at what the future held. She sensed that all would be well for her daughter, and her race.

President Stinson reviewed the action summary for the bombing strike. General Adamson, General Masterson’s replacement, sat with Chief of Staff Barnes in the Oval Office.

“You are certain of success with this mission, General? The mid-air refueling, the navigation in those extreme polar latitudes, the weather, the ground conditions, any possible interference from outsiders, all of the factors that could cause problems?”

“We have considered all those factors and more, Mr. President,” General Adamson assured him. “We anticipate no problems that we can’t handle, and we certainly expect no outside interference. As I’ve explained, we’ll be using a flight of five stealth bombers, and that is a double-guarantee for us, as no one should be maintaining high-angle radar watch over the ocean or the south continent. Our greatest exposure will be the air tankers, and they’ll be outside anyone’s territorial limits and nowhere near the target continent.

“Very well, General. How many deep-penetrating bombs will be dropped in total?”

“Considering the distances involved, they’ll be flying with a light load of five bombs per aircraft, for a total of twenty-five, Mr. President.

“And that is sufficient?”

“Mr. President, that is sufficient to reach and break into small pieces anything that could be laying within the zone that the Agency outlined for us.”

“Very well. Is there anything else before I order the strike ... What! What the ... who the hell are you? What are you doing in my office? Guards, marines... intruders ... intruders!”

The President rose halfway out of his chair but sat quickly down again when he saw his men frozen in their seats, their faces stiff, mouths open, eyes open but not blinking. They seemed paralyzed.

Four figures stood behind them: two short, elderly figures wearing buckskin clothing and headbands with beaded symbols. Shimmering figures stood on either side. Dee’rah glowed white and golden with her wings upraised. Raven stood tall and proud, her ebony wings upraised, magnificent in her power.

The president blinked at the impossible scene. He stared again at the General, at his Chief of Staff. Neither man reacted. He couldn’t see if they were still breathing but they looked lifeless in their seats.

“Marines! Guards! Secret Service! Help! he screamed loud and long. His throat hurt with the effort. He screamed again and again, frantically pushing and punching at the alarm button under his desk. He swung his head around, looking wildly to the corners of his office. The security cameras that should have brought armed guards swarming into the Oval Office were not working. Their red status lights were off. They were blind.

He looked toward the glass doors. People moved about on the other side; one or two glanced toward the doors but acted as though they saw nothing unusual in the office. He swung his eyes to the side doors. Nothing there. No one heard his screams, no help would come.

The old Indian and his mate stepped between the men frozen in their chairs. They stopped at the desk’s front edge. They stared at the President with dark, accusing eyes.

He stopped screaming and shouting. His throat burned from the strain of his shouts; his lungs ached.

Are you finished, or do you wish to scream for a while longer? the old man asked. No one will come until we allow it, he said.

The President stared at him, disbelieving. His eyes shifted wildly about, seeing everything but understanding nothing. Nothing he saw could be real. It cannot be real! his rational mind protested. He tried again to leap up out of his chair, to flee headlong for the door, any door, to shout for help. Again, he could not move. His legs, his arms, nothing would move.

I should explain that we have time. We will wait and watch you waste yourself with this foolish hysteria until you exhaust yourself and collapse. It matters little to us. It would be better, perhaps, that you stop your cowardly screaming and hear our message. We are here only because of your actions. You threaten the future of this planet. You endanger the progress of humanity. But we have time. We will wait until you compose yourself.

The figures waited, as unconcerned as if watching butterflies flit across a field of flowers on a warm summer’s day. They watched while the President increased his struggling, screaming himself voiceless. He finally collapsed face forward onto his desk, smashing his nose. He lay face down, gasping, hyper-ventilating hysterically in his panic.

The air smells foul, old woman. You may want to rub some scented ointment under your nose. I fear he has shit himself, her husband observed.

It took a long, long time for the President to raise his head and lever himself back upright in his chair. He leaned back, his head held at a disbelieving angle. He looked through rheumy eyes at the scene before him. Nothing had changed; they stood silently waiting.

You may want to wipe your face and tend to your nose. You are a terrible sight. I am sure you do not wish anyone to see you in this shameful condition, the old woman spoke.

The President looked at her, then roused himself. He pulled a cloth from his suit pocket and wiped his face. He flinched in pain when he daubed at his nose. When he’d cleaned the mess off his face, he looked at them again, the two apparitions and the old indian couple. All stood patiently waiting for his attention.

“P-p-please say what you have come to say and ... and then, get the hell out of my office,” he moaned.

You are ready to hear us? the old man asked.

“Yes, goddamn you! I said, say what you have to say! Then get out!” the President gasped. He tried to shout but only a raspy croak came out of his mouth.

It is a good thing that you are ready. You have shit yourself and the air in here is most unpleasant.