Gold Rush, page 16
Aaron likes Dr. Yakov. Will Rogers doesn’t, as is clear from the look on his face.
“But you must admit, this is extraordinary.”
“It is extraordinary,” Dr. Yakov replies, happy to concede that point.
“And unlikely.”
“And unlikely,” she says. Like Aaron, it seems she’s not clear where the host is taking his line of reasoning.
“Isn’t that cause for concern? I mean, they just show up out of the blue. Who’s next? Who else is out there? What if there are others with hostile intent? Can we defend ourselves?”
To Aaron’s delight, Christopher Higgins comes to her defense, saying, “We need to slow things down. We humans may live in a dichotomy, bouncing between the extremes of war and peace, but that doesn’t mean everyone else does.”
“This is First Contact for us,” Dr. Yakov says, “but that doesn’t mean it’s First Contact for them.”
“You’re going to have to explain that,” the host says.
Aaron nods, but doesn’t say anything. He’s happy watching from the sidelines. Yakov and Higgins are doing fine without him.
Dr. Yakov says, “Space is stupidly vast, and that makes it difficult to comprehend. Even common events can be rare.”
The host leans toward her. “Can you explain what you mean?”
“We don’t know how common life is in the universe, but we now know of at least two civilizations within reach of each other—us and them. And, if I’m understanding your concern correctly, you’re worried about how common other lifeforms could be.”
“And if we could run into berserkers,” the host says.
“Common events can be rare,” Dr. Yakov says yet again, and that gives Aaron an insight into her media experience. She knows how to handle news pundits. She’s not treating him like a child, but she is making good use of repetition to drive her points home to the audience.
She elaborates, saying, “Life could be common and yet rare. I’ll give you an example. Supernovas are among the most violent explosions in the universe, outshining entire galaxies. If one went off near us, it would wipe out life on Earth. And they’re common. Every second, there are roughly forty supernovas exploding somewhere out there in the universe—each and every second!” As she speaks, she clicks her fingers a few times. “They’re common. But are they a threat? No, because they’re also rare. And this highlights how contradictory astronomy can be. Supernovas are frequent in time, but rare in space. You see, the sheer size of the universe means common events are often also rare. We only see one supernova in our galaxy every fifty years or so—and nowhere near us. Supernovas are going off like popcorn across the vast expanse of the universe at large, making them common because the cosmos is so astonishingly large, but they’re rarely nearby.”
The host says, “So life could be common out there, but rare near us.”
“Exactly.”
“What should our response be?”
“We should embrace this,” Dr. Yakov says. “We now know we’re not alone in the universe, and that’s something to celebrate, not fear.”
“So you think we should greet them?”
“Yes. There’s so much we can learn from them.”
“And you,” Will says, addressing Aaron. “You’ve launched a private mission to Venus.”
“I have,” he says, wanting to move the conversation along. Aaron’s interested in discussing the existence of aliens. He spoke backstage to Dr. Jill Yakov and found her insights compelling. He’s itching to hear more from her and shift the spotlight away from himself.
“What gives you that right?” Christopher Higgins says with fiery aggression in his voice, but Aaron notes he doesn’t enumerate any actual infringements.
Beneath the desk, Aaron clenches his fists. Like a duck on a pond, he says to himself, reminding himself of the advice of his media coach. Ducks look peaceful even though they’re often paddling frantically beneath the surface. And on television, appearance is everything. A slight slip. A frown. A ruffled, angry brow. A stern reaction to something provocative, and he’s torpedoing himself. And that’s what his critics are looking for—soundbites—reactions—anything that can be amplified and repeated to undermine him. Just a few seconds on loop on social media, and everything else he says is wasted—ignored. Aaron’s sparring in a boxing ring. He’s got to keep his guard up. When he sees an opening, he can throw a few punches of his own, but he’s got to watch out for a haymaker coming back at him. This is an opening jab, touching lightly on his jaw. Keep your head moving, Aaron—that’s what his boxing coach would say. Keep those feet shuffling, keep your head and shoulders flexible. Don’t give them an easy target.
Christopher Higgins isn’t finished. “Money buys a lot of things in our world, including political influence, but damn, who would have thought it would buy exclusive access to an extraterrestrial intelligence?”
“With respect,” Aaron says. “We launched before the announcement.”
“So you’re saying you put nine hundred million dollars on the table before you knew this was First Contact?”
“Yes.”
“And you expect us to believe that?” Senator Rafadi says, jumping into the debate.
Aaron sees an opening. With a quick left jab, he can strike the cheek and perhaps even cut the skin and draw blood. He speaks with disdain.
“I don’t care what you believe. It’s a fact. Look at the timing.”
Senator Rafadi says, “What do you take me for? A fool? Do you expect me to believe you spent a billion dollars on a hunch?”
“Not a hunch,” Aaron says.
“You had insider knowledge,” Higgins says. “Someone within NASA must have told you they were tracking the craft.”
And there it is, a right hook coming in for his jaw. Aaron’s got to sway. He needs to tuck in his arms, keep his gloves up, absorb the blow, and prevent it from striking his chin. Higgins is toying with him. As a reporter, he knows nothing sells like denial. The fight has only just begun, and Higgins has got Aaron on the ropes. With his gloves up, his opponent is free to go for body blows, striking the ribs. Aaron’s got to get back in the center of the ring. If he denies the claim, the audience will think he’s lying. But he can’t admit to something that didn’t happen. The only thing he can do is ignore the claim. Aaron needs to dance—float like a butterfly, and sting like a bee.
“Venus was always on the books. All anyone ever talks about is Mars, but Mars is the Moon. It’s a dead end. Oh, it’s a planet and it has deserts, so it looks vaguely similar to the American southwest, but that’s an illusion. Its atmosphere is only one step away from being a vacuum. It’s got no magnetic field, so it gets pummeled by radiation. And it’s small. Damn small. It’s more like the Moon than Earth. But us? We’ve seen too many spectacular science fiction movies. If Mark Whatney can grow potatoes there, why can’t we? Right?”
He leans forward on the desk, resting his elbows on the glossy surface. By ignoring the accusation, he’s opened up the boxing ring. He’s off the ropes, out on the canvas again, shuffling his feet, dazzling his opponent, denying them an opening, and that lets him land some punches of his own.
“But Venus. It’s our twin. Sure, it’s a hellhole, but so is the traffic in Midtown at 5 pm on a Friday.”
Making a joke about where they’re filming elicits a smirk from the host, and that’s all the opening Aaron needs.
“Venus is the wide open prairies of the solar system. Okay, you’ve got to float above the surface, but here on Earth, we float cruise ships on the ocean all the time.” He pinches his fingers together, knowing he needs to get to the point, being desperate not to be cut off before he can land a body blow. “But the acid—the sulphuric acid in the air—that’s the only thing that’s held us back.”
The moderator chimes in with, “And that’s where you saw an opening?”
“Yes. Our modeling showed that a comet, just one comet, like Comet Yakov, would deliver a significant amount of water to the planet. And it has enough ammonia ice to neutralize the acid.”
“And without the acid in the air?” the moderator says, leading the discussion.
Aaron waves his hands around, saying, “We can soar among the clouds like an albatross.”
Higgins says, “Do you expect us to believe you can just float in the air as though it were the ocean?”
“Yes,” Aaron says, beaming with confidence. “Think about it. We call our planet Earth, but it’s a poor choice of name. 70% of Earth is covered in water. So Venus is 100% covered. Doesn’t matter here. Why should it matter there?”
And just like that, he’s landed an upper cut. His opponent staggers and falls. They’re lying flat on their back with their arms spread wide on the canvas. The referee bends low, counting to ten as they struggle to get back to their feet. The alien angle is dead. Aaron is quietly happy with himself.
Senator Tash Rafadi is stone-faced. She’s in her early sixties and has aged gracefully, avoiding Botox and embracing wrinkles. As she purses her lips, the lines on her face converge on her mouth. Her nostrils flare. Aaron’s not the only one to notice. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees one of the cameras turn to her.
Aaron feels a chill run through him as she speaks. It’s the lack of emotion. She’s not sparring, not anymore. She’s stepped out of the ring, and that scares him. It’s at that moment that he realizes she came here with a hidden agenda. Aaron clenches his jaw, holding his lips tight, determined not to give away any reactions that could be used against him on social media.
“Be that as it may,” the senator says, “the situation has changed.”
Christopher Higgins hangs his head. It’s slight, but he clearly knew she was coming in with a nuclear option. Even with just those few words, Aaron knows she’s done playing games. This might be a current affairs panel show for him, but not for her. He tries not to grimace as the realization hits. For her, this is a platform. She came here to announce something. She’s going to steal the limelight, but why?
The senator opens a folder in front of her. She holds up a piece of paper, but not for the cameras. She’s reading this for herself, perhaps to jog her thinking and reasoning, but from where Aaron is, he can see the Great Seal of the United States of America. Thirteen stars cluster together, representing the original thirteen colonies. Beneath them, a bald eagle spreads its wings wide. In one talon, there’s a cluster of arrows representing the might and resolve of the United States of America. In the other is an olive branch, suggesting peace is preferred over war. The words United States Senate are displayed in an ornate font with flourishes and lines depicting the austere authority of the US Government.
Aaron swallows the lump rising in his throat.
Senator Rafadi says, “Pursuant to the Defense Production Act of 1950, I will be introducing an amendment to the Senate floor tomorrow to provide congressional oversight of any and all missions to Venus conducted by the US Government and/or any US corporations, with the right of control being retained by the Senate Committee on National Security.”
Aaron’s mouth drops open. Try as he may, he can’t hide his shock at what’s being proposed.
Tash Rafadi says, “After discussions with the Senate and House Majority Leaders this morning, I expect the bill to pass with bipartisan support and be sent to the President to be signed into law early next week.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” the senator replies, and Aaron gets a taste of real power being wielded without mercy. “Blue Origin and SpaceX have stood down their private missions, but you… Your arrogance is sickening. Your wealth is second only to your ego.”
Every camera in the studio pivots, turning to face Aaron. Dark lenses catch each and every detail on his face. He raises his hands to his mouth, desperate to hide his reaction while knowing the effort is futile.
Senator Rafadi isn’t finished. Her voice is stern, unwavering.
“The US Government will not be dictated to by private enterprise. You have gone too far. First Contact is too important to be entrusted to the hands of billionaires.”
Aaron can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re effectively nationalizing RockX?”
“If we have to—yes. When it comes to the interests and security of the United States of America, there can be no debate.”
“Fuck!”
As that one word slips from his lips, regret sets in. That’s it. That’s the soundbite. That’s the point of humiliation. That’s the GIF. That’s what is going to be replayed on social media over and over again. That’s all anyone is going to take away from this meeting.
“I know you mean well,” the senator says, and for a moment, Aaron wonders if she’s angling to soften the blow. “But you’ve gone too far. You. You’re lost in the forest of your own ego. This? This is bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than any of us.”
And just like that, Aaron’s lying flat on his back, staring up at the bright lights mounted above the boxing ring.
Physically, Aaron’s still sitting in the news studio nodding thoughtfully at the senator’s comment and desperately trying not to show any more emotion.
Inwardly, Aaron’s down for the long count. The referee is leaning over him, rocking his arm back and forth. The numbers rise toward ten. Aaron tries to get up, but his body gives way beneath him, and he sinks back to the canvas as the referee waves his arms, signalling the end of the match.
Mentally, Aaron can hear the referee calling, “And that’s it. You’re out. The fight is over. The winner by knockout is Senator Tash Rafadi.” The referee takes her right hand and raises it high above her head as Aaron lies there blinking in the brilliance of the overhead spotlights.
His vision, his dream, his passion, they’re all gone.
Pizza
The next day, Special Agent Mitch Borwin unlocks the door to an abandoned pizza parlor on Connecticut Avenue. Although it’s kitty-corner across the road from Lafayette Square, the shop is in an alley, although the term alley is a stretch. It’s a walkway between buildings rather than a driveway. Some enterprising entrepreneur saw an opportunity in what was originally a storeroom. They cut a hole in the wall to act as a pick-up counter and must have focused on takeout orders, as Jill can’t imagine there’s much room for customers inside.
In the distance, the White House is visible through the park. It’s little more than a sliver of white peeking through a tangle of branches. In summer, it wouldn’t be visible at all.
Alex asks, “What is this place?”
“A safe house,” Mitch replies, opening a rotten wooden door. A sheet of plywood has been fixed over the serving window, obscuring the inside from view. It’s clear the store hasn’t been used for years, if not decades.
Jill hoists her laptop bag a little higher on her shoulder. When she was asked to remain in Washington until the impact of Comet Yakov, hiding out in an abandoned pizzeria was not what she had in mind.
Stepping inside, she sees that the pizza parlor is a long, narrow room. Tables line one wall, but they can only seat couples. Adding a third chair would block the walkway. At the end, there’s a sign marking the toilets, but Jill notes there’s no gender designation and suspects it’s one-size-fits-all. Overhead lights flicker as they come on. The posters on the wall are old.
“Is this really necessary?” she asks, looking around at the chest-high serving counter and aging stone pizza oven in the kitchen. She runs her finger along one of the tables, collecting dust on her fingertip.
Mitch replies, “It’s temporary.”
“And it’ll keep you safe,” another agent says.
“This will allow you to continue working while keeping a low profile.”
“Okay,” Jill says, knowing better than to argue. She pulls her laptop out of her bag and places it on one of the tables near the door. Alex sits opposite her with his laptop.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Pizza,” Alex replies, clearly joking.
“Coffee would be great,” Jill says. “Creamer and one sugar.”
“I’ll take mine black,” Alex says.
“On it,” the other agent says, leaving the three of them in the parlor.
“Anything else?” Mitch asks as they sign into their laptops.
“Can we take the wood off the window?” Jill asks, wondering if she’s asking too much. “I mean, a little sunshine would be nice.”
Mitch thinks for a moment. From the stony look on his face, it’s clear his concern is safety over comfort, but he relents.
“Sure.”
Jill looks at her email inbox as he pries the wood away from the window, allowing a little diffuse light to seep into the restaurant. She sighs. There are almost two hundred unread email messages.
“That bad, huh?” Alex says.
“Yeah.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, most of mine are death threats.”
“Really?” Jill replies, genuinely surprised. It takes her a moment, but a quick scan of the subject lines in her inbox reveals at least fifteen to twenty threatening emails.
“People are afraid of change, I guess.”
“But us? Why would anyone want to kill us?”
“We’re proxies—substitutes. People want someone to blame.”
“But us?”
“It’s fear. We’re the messengers of the apocalypse.”
Jill shakes her head. She takes a deep breath and jumps into her email inbox, wanting to sort out the genuine messages. Like Alex, she deletes the cranks—don’t feed the trolls.
And this is it, she realizes. For now, this is her life. There’s roughly a month to go before Comet Yakov hits Venus. Between now and then, her job is to refine calculations, review plots and trajectory lines, examine spectroscopy results, and look at the latest imagery from NASA and ESA.
“What about…? you know,” Alex says.
“The aliens? Rafia at SETI told me they’re attempting to communicate, but I have my doubts.”
“Why?”
“We’re noisy. Ironically, we’re far too loud to be understood. Have you ever stood beneath a tree with roosting parrots? The noise is unbelievable. You have to shout to be heard.”
