Revelation, page 9
Oh boy, here it comes. Monica thought. “What is it that you want from us Michael?”
“We come offering gifts to mankind. I need to demonstrate those gifts to your studio audience.” He paused. “The one that I think will get the most positive response is the medical technology. We have cures for cancer, we even have the ability to heal people who have suffered spinal damage. We can regrow limbs. We can even revive people whom your medical technology has declared dead, assuming of course that we can get to them in time.”
Monica said, “Those are big claims that few will believe. How do you propose to do this?”
“I would like to heal someone on your show. What I don’t know is how to do it convincingly. Is there someone nearby that your audience knows to be sick? Someone close enough that we could get them here in time and for which the cure could be confirmed?”
A pause… “You know, there might be…” Hayes started flipping through her notes. “Yes! There is a group of disabled vets who will be here today. In fact, one or two are reportedly terminally ill.”
“Is there any way we might get to speak with one or more of them before the show? I would like to help them.”
The elevator had come to a stop at their floor. The party had been very quiet coming down the elevator, listening to Michael and the director talk.
“Michael, I’m worried about this. There have been too many fake healings in the history of show business. It would destroy your credibility and our show if this isn’t 100% on the up and up.”
“How soon before the show is the studio audience seated?”
“The doors close 30 minutes ahead of show time. We are still an hour and 45 minutes out and the crowds are lining up. In fact, we may need to close the doors early today. Word is out that you’re going to be here, and security is reporting people lining up on the street hoping to get a glimpse of you on your way in.”
“How about this… Arrange to let the vets in first. I’ll come out to meet them and have my scanner with me. If I find a suitable candidate, I’ll heal him before the show. If you are convinced and there are additional suitable candidates, your call whether we heal them on the show.”
They entered the conference room and quite a few people were already there, including the hosts. On a multi-paned screen at the end of the table, the various sets on the stage were visible.
Ms. Hayes quickly called the meeting to order. Michael noticed a lot of eyes on him. He also noticed the numerous glances being shot at Noelani and Kale.
“Team,” Ms. Hayes said. “We have had a huge change in plans for today. We did not have time to cancel the guests previously booked for this morning, but for all intents and purposes the whole show today will be Michael Baker. We will fit in others as we can, but Michael gets most of the time. So here is the challenge… What will our flow be?”
Sarah, the lead host scheduled for today, said. “I think the first thing we need to do is introduce Michael, explore his background, then ask the question everyone is asking… ‘How can a 35-year-old guy from Texas be an ambassador from an intergalactic confederation?’” The sarcasm in her voice was palpable.
Hayes looked at him. “Michael?”
Michael smiled. “Good question. But, the problem with it is that no matter what I say, skeptics will not believe. A verbal explanation simply won’t work.”
“Why not? Surely you have an answer?”
“Anyone can say anything they want,” Michael said. “You can’t solve a paradox with words. You can only solve it through actions.” He pointed at the monitor showing the stage. The image of the stage faded away and a video started playing. “The man you will see brought in is an FBI Agent that was part of an ill-conceived raid on my ranch in Hawaii yesterday afternoon.”
The images played across the screen of Kale carrying Agent Marshall in and laying him on the dining room table, of Agent Ryan declaring Marshall dead and railing on the stupidity of the raid, of Agent Long’s stricken face as the man was laid down, of Michael saying this was going to be difficult, and eventually of Agent Marshall sucking in a deep breath.
“Words are saying that you were or were not there. Action is bringing back to life the adversary that kills himself in an attempt to harm you.”
The room was silent. Shawn Terry, the one who had booked Michael for the show, whispered, “Holy shit!”
“I’ll tell you what Sarah. Before the show starts, I’m going to visit with the disabled vets that are attending the show today. If you still believe I’m just a 35-year old guy from Texas when I come on stage, then ask your questions your way. But, let me tell you what I think we should do.” Michael went on to lay out his proposal.
GOOD MORNING AMERICA AUDITORIUM
The auditorium was packed. About 20 disabled vets in wheelchairs had parked in the front row in an area set aside for them and their guests. Noelani came in through a side door next to the stage, walked down the stairs, and started greeting the vets. As she continued down the front row, every eye followed her. She had such girl next door charm. Michael used the distraction to come down the same set of steps and walk up behind Noelani without the audience really noticing. She stopped in front of one of the men, held out her hand and said, “Sergeant Butler, thank you for your service.”
Butler blew into the straw mounted to the wheelchair, so it would turn slightly to face Noelani. Sergeant Butler was a quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down. He’d been injured in combat in Afghanistan. Sargent Butler’s mother had accompanied him to the show and said politely, “I’m sorry young lady. But he can’t shake your hand. He’s paralyzed.”
Noelani leaned in and gave the Sergeant a hug. Then, kissed him on the cheek, saying, “I am so sorry for your loss.”
As she released the sergeant, Michael stepped up. “Sergeant, do you know who I am?”
The Sergeant replied. “Yes sir. You’re the one they say is an alien.”
“Would you mind if I scanned your wound?”
“Nothing can be done for it, sir. But sure, scan away.”
Michael passed his scanner over the Sergeant, pausing for a while near the top of his neck. This is heartbreaking, Michael thought. This injury is so minor, yet a life has been destroyed for lack of acceptable medical technology. Michael noticed a little chafing where his neck rested against the seat.
“Sergeant, I see there is a little chafing on the back of your neck where it’s been rubbing against the chair. Would you mind if Noelani rubbed a little ointment on it?”
“I’m stuck in a wheelchair unable to move and you ask if I want some ointment for chafing that I can’t even feel?” The Sergeant said with some heat.
“Now, dear,” his mother said. “Let the pretty girl put some ointment on. You know you will enjoy that.”
Noelani pulled out a tube of what appeared to be white cream and started massaging it into his neck. No one noticed that she was not rubbing it into the chafed spot. Neither did anyone notice Michael’s machinations with his scanner on the other side of the Sergeant. Every eye was on Noelani.
Although he couldn’t really feel what Noelani was doing, the Sergeant closed his eyes and sighed at the smell of Noelani’s sweet fragrance and the light touch of her hair on his ear.
Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in his neck. He hadn’t felt anything there since just before the explosion. The pain spread and was soon so crippling he could barely breathe. “What the hell did you do to me?!” he shouted, arching his back.
His mother saw the movement and couldn’t understand what was happening. “What…” she started to say as the Sergeant let out a massive groan.
“OH MY GOD IT HURTS!” the Sergeant screamed and lifted his arms.
The room that was moments ago loud with nervous energy was now riveted to the scene being played out in the front row.
The Sergeant’s mother started to stand up, then sagged to the floor as she fainted.
Michael gripped the Sergeant’s arms. “Relax into it, Sergeant. Your nerves are being revived. It feels like pain because your brain has forgotten how to process signals from your nerves. This will pass in a few minutes. Just hang in there.”
…
In the control room, Ms. Hayes yelled to the crew. “We’re getting this. Right?”
“We’re getting it. Four cameras getting it all.”
…
The pain had started to subside, but the Sergeant was starting to faint, the stress on his system too much for his weakened body. Michael nodded to Noelani and she started rubbing a different cream on a wider area of his neck. This cream was rich in nanobots that could penetrate the skin and accelerate nerve repair. Charles had come down the steps with a glass of what appeared to be water and gave it to Michael.
Michael looked the Sergeant in the eyes and said, “George, drink this. It will help with the pain and also help restore your strength.”
By now, one of the auditorium ushers had come to Ms. Butler’s aid. The smelling salts brought her back to consciousness. The usher righted her chair, which had fallen over, and helped her get back into her seat.
“What have they done to my son?” she asked, tears streaming from her eyes.
“I’m no expert. But I think they’ve healed him.”
Sergeant Butler was coming back to his senses, but it didn’t make any sense. He could feel his feet. He could move his arms and shoulders. Twist in his wheelchair. He started an attempt to stand but Michael held him down.
“Sergeant!” Michael said while holding the agitated Sergeant in place. “Sergeant. Look me in the eyes.”
The Sergeant looked up as Michael spoke firmly. “You’ve been healed, but after five years in the chair you are too weak to stand.”
The Sergeant started squirming again.
“Sergeant!” Michael said in his best command voice. “You will need a lot of physical therapy before you can stand on your own again. But you WILL stand on your own again! I’m sure the VA will help you. You are also welcome to come to my ranch in Hawaii and work on your recovery with my team on the Big Island.”
“Mr. Michael, sir. I can’t afford no physical therapy or airplane tickets. I’m on military disability. That barely pays for food. That’s why I live with my mama.”
“George. You can come back to Hawaii with me on my shuttle. No charge for airfare, lodging, food, or care. Why don’t you sit back and enjoy the show? I’ll come get you after.”
Michael saw the light dim in the Sergeant’s eyes. This poor man. Michael thought. He has lived with so much disappointment. Michael turned to the usher. “Is there another chair you could give us?”
“Yes sir. You want it here?”
“Yes please.”
“Be back in a moment.”
“George, would it be OK if Noelani sat with you during the show? You know I will not leave without her. So, if she is with you, then you know I won’t leave without you, right?”
“Thank you, Mr. Michael, sir. I would like that very much.”
The studio audience roared with delight. Then Sarah’s voice cut through it all. “And that’s the way it is this morning on Good Morning America. We will be back in a few minutes.”
Michael looked up at the clock in the back of the auditorium, the one Monica told him marked time into the show. It read 10 minutes, 18 seconds. They had been live for the last 10 minutes.
The chair came. Noelani sat down with George and took his hand. And the studio audience broke out in applause.
…
As the lights came back up, the stage director counted down with his fingers, then pointed to Sarah, who said “Welcome back, America! I have with me none other than Michael Baker, the man you just witnessed helping Sergeant George Butler. And the same man that talked on every TV and radio in the world last night.
“Michael, we talked before the show and I asked you how a 35-year-old American citizen from Texas could credibly claim to be a representative of an Intergalactic Confederation.”
A dark murmur spread through the studio audience. “When I asked that question, I was not a believer. In fact, I was an outright disbeliever. After seeing you with Sergeant Butler… Can we have a round of applause for Sergeant Butler?”
She pointed at the man. The audience exploded with applause and enthusiasm. “As I was saying, after seeing you with Sergeant Butler, I think I’m a believer.” The crowd exploded again. “But, the question remains, and I mean this in the most respectful way. How do we reconcile what we’ve seen here with what we think we know of your background?”
This one is good. Michael thought. Then he replied, “Sarah, there are so many more important things for us to discuss that I hate wasting time on this one. But I respect and appreciate the human intuition that asks, ‘Can I believe the things this man says if I don’t know who he is.’ The answer is that I am Lorexian, a species that most humans would say is repulsively ugly. It was the judgement of our ruling bodies, and I agree with that judgement, that the only way we’d be accepted by humans was if we came in human form.
“This body,” he pointed to himself, “was created 35 years ago in a Confederation laboratory operating in El Paso, Texas. It wasn’t born by a natural human process in a hospital. It was registered with the state department of vital statistics as an unassisted home birth. Of the many labs we had operating on Earth at the time, we chose the one in El Paso because I wanted the flexibility that American citizenship offered. As a natural-born American citizen, I was able to form a company that could test technology for its suitability on Earth. Even better, that company made enough money that we were able to develop additional technology that will be critical to the Earth’s survival.
“But, back to my first point… this is not about me. It’s not about this body. It is about delivering technology to mankind that it desperately needs to survive what’s ahead.”
Once again, the studio audience erupted in applause.
“Michael, can you tell us how old you are?”
“Sarah, can you tell us how old you are?”
“Touché, Michael. But hear me for a second… You look like a 35-year-old that spouts good lines and has cool tricks.”
Boos, cat calls, and just plain vulgarity erupted from the room.
Sarah held her hands up. “Ok. OK. That was too direct but give me a break. I’m a believer now, but there are people watching that didn’t see what we saw up close. People that want to believe but are having trouble with the baby face. Sorry, Michael, but you are kind of cute.
“The point is that humanity would really like to know that you have the experience to lead us through the changes that you say are coming, before we place our trust in you.”
“Sarah. I can’t tell you how much I don’t want this hour to be about me. But your point is fair.” Michael took a long pause and looked straight at the camera with the light. “I was born before the dawn of recorded history. My first mission to Earth was during the Roman Empire. I hold all those memories. Some of them vividly. It was during that first mission that I fell in love with humanity, despite its barbarism. It was during that mission that I decided I wanted to be the first ambassador to Earth. You, as a species, are not quite ready for this first contact. But you, as a species, are worth the risk we are collectively taking.”
The room burst into deafening applause and whistles as the show cut to commercial.
…
When the show came back on the screen, it was on the kitchen set. The domestic anchor, Kimberly was standing there with Michael and one of America’s up and coming celebrity chefs, Marco Rubinstein.
When the stage manager counted down to one, Kimberly said, “Good Morning America. I have with me two people that could not be more different. The first is Chef Marco Rubinstein, whose new book ‘Cookin’ Like Mama’ is sweeping the nation. It mixes the traditional Italian and Jewish recipes his mother and grandmother taught him. Welcome, Chef Marco!
“Our second guest is the overnight sensation Michael, Ambassador from the Intergalactic Confederation of Planets and healer extraordinaire. Michael is playing the farmer today. He is here to provide the Chef with the fresh ingredients that he needs. Gentlemen, what have you cooked up for us?”
Marco nodded to Michael.
“Hi, Kimberly,” Michael said. “We’re going to do something reminiscent of what you usually do during this hour, but a little different.
“Chef Marco, whose food I love by the way, is going to create a recipe that he has never used before. Right now. Right in front of your eyes. I have no idea what ingredients he’ll ask for. I only know that I’ll provide them for him. In fact, I will produce enough of each ingredient that Chef Marco can feed everyone in the room.” A ripple of awe swept across the auditorium. “But we’re going to need some help. Kimberly?”
Kimberly walked down the steps into the auditorium and picked two people. They came back with her and were introduced.
The first person, a woman named Joanne, volunteered to work with Chef Marco. The second, a woman named Diane, agreed to work with Michael.
“Chef,” Michael said. “What is the first ingredient?”
“Michael, I need a dozen onions. Chopped fine, but not minced.”
Michael turned to Diane. “Diane, do you have a smart phone, one that could show me a picture of what the Chef wants?”
Diane, a bit stumped by the question, went over to confer with the Chef. Meanwhile, Charles pushed a cart out onto the stage with a replicator on it.
“Kimberly,” Michael said. “While they are sorting out the specifications for the onions, could you come check out the machine my friend Charles is pushing onto the stage?”
Kimberly looked at the machine as Michael asked, “Kimberly, could you tell us what you’re looking at? Could you describe it?”
“Looks a lot like a laser printer to me. A little more than a foot on each side and maybe a foot tall.”
“Tell me about the cart?”
“It is a standard serving cart with wheels, made from metal tubing and open on all sides.”
