Mission 51, p.32
Mission 51, page 32
“Grrk! You’ll die for this!” Maneg said.
“We’ll hunt you down!” Nygni added.
“We already called for other ships. Next time, an entire fleet will come. You won’t have a chance!” Gerra said.
“Silence!” Yonek commanded in a booming voice. The others looked in his direction, confused by Yonek’s clear disapproval of what was being said.
Yonek turned to face his son.
And it surprised Zeemat to see a satisfied smile on his father’s face.
Sixty-Six
The Way Home
Zeemat cocked his head sideways, as if that would somehow restore the angry grimace that normally decorated Yonek’s face, but his father’s unusual smile persisted. Zeemat was unsure what to make of it—a trick maybe—so he ventured a cautious comment.
“I’m sorry, Father. I’ll never be the Torkiyan you wanted me to be.”
“You are the Torkiyan I always hoped for,” Yonek said. “I’m proud of you, Zeemat. If I die now, it’s with our family’s honor intact.”
Zeemat looked at him, puzzled. He wanted his father to say more, but he was worried that the local authorities could arrive at any minute. Someone must have heard the powerful explosions or felt the aftermath of the antimatter reaction. He had to keep moving.
“I hate what you’ve done, but you fought like a Torkiyan for what you believe,” his father said. “And you won. That is something to admire and respect.”
Zeemat could almost feel the embrace and the two-handed handshake his father would have extended if his hands weren’t restrained behind his back. And he couldn’t help but notice the outraged expressions on the faces of the others, who did not share Yonek’s sentiment.
“Thank you, Father.” Zeemat cracked a tiny smile. “And I mean you no harm,” he said to the others.
Zeemat left them growling and tugging at their restraints as he hurried out, with Deltare slamming the door shut behind him, dampening a tirade of Torkiyan obscenities. She pulled on the handle to be sure the latch held. She knew there was no lever or handle on the other side. Now the Torkiyans, like the humans before them, were captives in the barn’s cold room.
Zeemat and Deltare raced out of the barn, down the long, muddy driveway, and made their way back to the Jeep. Deltare drove, and Zeemat took the passenger seat, keeping the backpack on his lap, protecting it and its valuable content with both hands.
On their way out of Cocoa, they stopped at a corner phone booth so Deltare could place an important call. She had the number ready.
A young woman on the other end of the line answered the phone. “CIA Orlando,” she said in a cheery voice. “Please state your name and the reason for your call.”
Deltare smiled at Zeemat. “This is Dr. Linda Deltare, and I’m calling to report the presence of aliens on a farm in Cocoa, Florida.”
Deltare heard a long pause on the other end. Then the young woman replied, this time with a serious tone and a trembling voice.
“Where are you, Dr. Deltare, and where are these aliens?”
Deltare gave the young agent the farm’s address and hung up the phone, long before they had a chance to trace the call.
Zeemat and Deltare sped back to her waiting plane at Herndon Airport. On the road to Orlando, they saw police vehicles and unmarked black sedans racing past them, heading in the opposite direction back toward Cocoa.
Arriving at Herndon, Deltare brought the Jeep to a sliding halt outside the hangar. She grabbed the remainder of their supplies and raced to board her waiting Learjet. Zeemat clutched his backpack. They took their seats and strapped in while the plane pulled out onto the tarmac in the pouring rain. The pilot revved up the turbines and strained to see well enough to keep the plane on the taxiway heading to the runway.
“Hold on to your hats,” he said when the plane was in position. “This is going to be interesting.”
The pilot slammed the throttle all the way down, instantly pressing them into the backs of their seats as the powerful jet accelerated. The plane swayed from right to left as the pilot fought to keep it from sliding or blowing off the runway. When the jet had enough speed, he pulled at the control wheel to lift it off the ground, then kept his eyes on the instruments and continued making instant adjustments as the jet zoomed through hectic winds and the lower layers of stormy clouds in zero visibility.
Zeemat tossed from side to side in his seat, glancing repeatedly at the ominous sky outside his window, seeing nothing but a collusion of dense dark clouds. Thunder and lightning shook the very skies and rattled the plane. He felt a pressure in his chest, as if he couldn’t breathe. Then he spotted a brief hint of blue far above him. A few moments later, another larger spot of blue expanded into the sky. As the plane gained altitude, they gradually left all the clouds beneath and behind them. Now, above them, the sky was a peaceful, clear cerulean blue.
Zeemat and Deltare sat in a stunned silence, catching their breath, deep in thought. Finally, Deltare broke the silence with the question she had been dying to ask.
“What about Gerra?” she said.
Zeemat looked at his dearest friend and reached out to hold her hand, but Deltare pulled it away.
“We never mated,” he said. “I made a choice. I chose you.”
Deltare studied his face for a clue, with a look of worry in hers. “Will you go back to them, or will you stay with me?”
“There was no place for me on Torkiya, and now there is no place with my Torkiyan people here on Earth,” he replied.
Deltare noticed the undisguised pain and sadness in his eyes.
“You’re my people now,” he added, holding her gaze. Then, with a soft voice he asked, “Do you have room for me at your new place?”
Deltare allowed a tenuous smile. “Only if you’ll stay forever. Can you promise?”
So many promises, Zeemat thought.
“Yes, Linda. I promise.”
Deltare reached out to hold his hand, and Zeemat squeezed hers tight. Yet he could tell that it still didn’t feel quite right between them.
“You could have a baby with Gerra,” she lamented. “We can’t.”
Zeemat and Deltare looked at each other and laughed at the audacious improbability of it all. “Who’s even thinking of that?” he said, making gurgling noises.
After a few moments, the laughter settled, and Deltare’s face turned serious. “I am,” she said. “I’m thinking about us . . . and the future.”
He thought about it for a moment, then reached inside the backpack. He rummaged inside until his fingers wrapped around the prize. He drew out the glowing Torkiyan Trangula, handing it to Deltare with great care.
Deltare gazed at the object with eyes wide-open, holding it gingerly in her hands. “So this is it? The famous Trangula!”
“This is our baby,” Zeemat explained. “It holds our future. Our gift to humanity.”
“Yeah, but can it make a baby?” she asked teasingly.
Zeemat gurgled some more and flashed a mischievous smile, a universe of emotions sparkling through his unfathomable eyes. Then his smile faded.
“You’ll have to wait and see. But first, there are other promises I have to keep.”
Sixty-Seven
Epilogue
Five years later, on July 20, 1969, Linda Deltare sat in the living room of their country estate in Napa Valley, watching a historic event unfold on live TV.
“Mat, come now! It’s about to happen,” Deltare called out.
Zeemat was on the outside deck, painting a picture from memory: a moment forever etched in his mind when he’d first arrived and established orbit around the planet Earth. The painting had an image of a part of the planet to the left and a full moon on the right. After Deltare called out, he used a cloth to wipe the colors of paint from his fingertips as he hurried to the TV. He found Deltare pouring two glasses of sparkling wine.
“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” Neil Armstrong said on the TV. They watched as his grainy image jumped off the lunar module’s ladder and stood on the moon’s surface for the first time.
They clinked their glasses of wine together and sipped in triumph as they witnessed Armstrong bounding along in the moon’s low gravity.
“You did it,” Deltare said.
“You mean we did it,” Zeemat replied. “And anyway, I can’t take much of the credit. This was a human achievement.”
“Ha! ‘Can’t take much of the credit.’ Only the propulsion system on the Saturn V, the computers, the idea for the lunar module, the space suits . . . Should I go on?”
“It would have happened anyway,” Zeemat said. “We only helped it happen faster.”
Zeemat’s humility warmed her heart. “How do you feel?” she asked.
He pondered the question for a minute as he examined his emotions. A lot had happened in the fifteen Earth years since his arrival.
“Thankful . . . happy . . . sad . . .” He paused.
“Me too,” she said, giving him a warm hug. “But mostly happy . . . and hopeful.”
They walked back out onto the deck and finished their wine under the waking stars of the evening sky. Zeemat looked north to find the faint light reaching out from his distant Torkiyan star, then to the brightness of the moon.
“I’ve earned my freedom, and my right to be here,” he said.
“You always had a right.” She wrapped an arm around Zeemat’s waist as he draped his own across her shoulders.
“So, what now?” she asked, nudging an elbow into his side. “A baby?”
He raised an eyebrow and a mischievous smile lit up his face. A world of possibilities sparkled in his gleaming eyes.
“Yes. Now we focus on the genetics labs,” Zeemat said. “Everything is possible.”
The End
Author’s Note
My mother and father first came from Mexico to the United States as resident aliens in 1954. After I was born, we moved back and forth between the United States and Mexico for several years, long enough for me to establish lasting relationships with my extended family and to feel the pain of separation when we finally left Mexico for good.
My parents came to this strange new land in search of a better life for themselves and their children. Their biggest cost was losing day-to-day contact with family, friends, and everything about one’s native land. Arriving with nothing, they worked hard and accomplished much. Now they are the root of a multigenerational Mexican American family, and we are still significantly bicultural, thanks to them.
Several ideas came together when I first imagined the story of Mission 51. First and foremost, I wanted to honor my immigrant parents. I also wanted to contribute to the immigration narrative in general, even if it was in some small, obtuse way. In telling the story, I wanted to be honest about human nature, about our virtues and defects. I thought about how invaders have decimated native cultures all over the world and across recorded history. I thought about the throngs of immigrants who have come into the United States, and how they have changed the very face of America. And then it all crystalized when I thought about the old Spanish missions in California, and when I realized the notorious events in Area 51 occurred at the same time as my parents’ immigration to the United States in 1954. The story simply had to be about missions and aliens! But it would have never happened without my “legal alien” parents’ immigration experience.
So first of all, my deepest gratitude is for my mother and father. Pa, you can read this in heaven, and I’m sure you know how much I emulated, loved, and respected you my entire life. I won the lottery when I was born, when you and Ma became my parents. Ma, your total dedication, love, encouragement, and support are legendary, beyond compare. You instilled in us a positive self-esteem and confidence that we could accomplish anything. I credit you for all the successes I have enjoyed, and there isn’t a moment when I don’t feel the warmth of your love.
To my wife, Gail: Thank you for giving me the time and space I needed to get this done, because it was a much longer project than either of us expected. Who knew there was so much to learn about creating and publishing a first novel, and that the process would take more than five years? Your patience, acceptance, and heartfelt encouragement were essential every step of the way. Thank you, and I love you very much!
To my children, Megan, Ginny, Kelly, and Kevin: Little do you know how much you affect and influence every part of my life. Surely it comes from the years when we all lived together as a young family. Yet now that you are all grown and have children of your own, leading your own lives, you remain a constant in my mind and heart, an indelible part of me. You influence what I think and do in subtle and wonderful ways, and there were many moments where memories of you sparked a writing idea. Thank you for being the warm, caring, intelligent, hard-working, fun-loving, fun-to-be-around, and generally amazing people that you are.
Beyond my children, there are countless family and friends who have supported this effort, and I am truly grateful. In the early stages, several of you showed such enthusiasm, even for the bad first drafts, that I dared to think I could maybe do this. I think of Irene Asare in particular, who personifies that early enthusiasm (and in whose honor I named a character). Encouraging words from many people kept me going, but what really committed me to the project was the Inkshares/Nerdist Science Fiction Contest in 2017. Many of you supported this project with money from your pockets, purchasing the preorders that determined the winners of the contest, of which I was one. Without this very real support, Mission 51 would not be where it is today. It was a truly humbling experience feeling the love of so many people, and as a result, I felt obliged to deliver. It gave me the drive to persevere. I will be forever grateful for that experience.
Thank you to Inkshares, the innovative, modern publishing company with a great idea—choosing projects to publish based on readers’ choice as evidenced by preorder support. It is a unique crowdfunding platform. A huge thank-you goes to Matt Harry, my first editor ever. Matt, your initial insights were priceless and right on the money. You dissected a very rough first draft, written by an author wannabe who really didn’t know the first thing about writing a novel. You began my writing education, helped me hammer out a workable outline, and set me on a better path. You opened my eyes to a body of writing knowledge I never even knew existed, and gave me the structure with which I could start to develop as a writer. You taught me the way to reshape Mission 51 into a proper story. Thank you!
More huge thanks go to Sarah Nivala, my second editor at Inkshares, who took over when Matt left to pursue his own projects. Sarah, you saw me through several drafts, refining the structure of the story and guiding the development of character, plot, setting, scene, dialogue, and my basic prose. I felt myself grow as a writer under your direction. Thank you!
Avalon Radys, as director of editorial and publishing operations at Inkshares, you oversaw the final steps. It was a pleasure working through your masterful and insightful copy edit. I felt the love you have for your work, and I thank you for the book’s final look and polish.
Delia Maria Davis, thank you for your outstanding proofread. I appreciate your thorough inspection of every grammatical detail, your insightful editorial comments, and your suggestions for optimizing the readability of Mission 51.
Noah Broyles, I appreciate your meticulous attention to the final parts of production.
Thank you to Christian Akins, who designed Mission 51’s remarkable book cover. It was a special joy creating it with you, Chris, and I hope we can collaborate again in the future.
Special thanks to Chris Pyke and Idan Carré, unique artists who created original artwork during the early promotional part of this project. It was great fun working with you both!
Today, as a result of my experiences at Inkshares and beyond, I am fortunate to be surrounded by a group of highly imaginative, creative people who I’m happy to call friends. Honestly, you are too numerous to mention, and I would hate to inadvertently exclude someone important to me, so I give a general thanks to my writing friends at Inkshares and Writing Bloc. Our interactions and mutual encouragement are an important part of my life today. Thank you!
Despite the hard work, writing this story has been a joy on multiple levels. I never lost the feeling that I was doing this for fun, and in an effort to honor my immigrant parents. Throughout the ups and downs of this five-year project, I received countless unexpected gifts and treasures through interactions with many wonderful people, and for that I’ll be forever grateful.
Grand Patrons
Gail Crôtte
Kevin Crôtte
Jordan Hoffman
Kim Gazella
Sarah Barker
Scott Early
About The Author
Fernando Crôtte came to the United States at the age of six, with his immigrant parents in search of the American Dream. With one foot in his native Mexico and another in his new adopted land, he assimilated into American culture while still honoring his Mexican heritage. Along with wife Gail, he resides in Winston Salem, North Carolina, where he practices medicine. In his spare time, he enjoys traveling, birding, and general aviation. Mission 51 is his debut novel.
Inkshares
INKSHARES is a reader-driven publisher and producer based in Oakland, California. Our books are selected not by a group of editors, but by readers worldwide.
While we’ve published books by established writers like Big Fish author Daniel Wallace and Star Wars: Rogue One scribe Gary Whitta, our aim remains surfacing and developing the new-author voices of tomorrow.
Previously unknown Inkshares authors have received starred reviews and been featured in the New York Times. Their books are on the front tables of Barnes & Noble and hundreds of independents nationwide, and many have been licensed by publishers in other major markets. They are also being adapted by Oscar-winning screenwriters at the biggest studios and networks.
