Wish you were here inste.., p.5
Wish You Were Here (Instead of Me), page 5
“There isn’t one yet,” Harold said. “I imagine working one out will be your next job.”
“How does that scanner work?” Shoneyin asked.
“I’ve no clue,” Harold said. “Which might be why I’m giving this part of the tour. The scanners used out in the field have a screen attached, but people from the Valley would get the read-out via an ocular implant or on the visor of their helmet. Please take the scanner out from underneath your jacket, Mr Woodsman. These devices are on loan from the Valley. If you steal one, they will come to reclaim it.”
Woodsman reluctantly put it back on the table.
“The field teams check everything before it’s sent here,” Harold said. “Anything dangerous is sealed, but everything will get sent to Groom Lake.”
“You mean to Area-51, in the United States?” Shoneyin asked.
“Yes.”
“Why is it sent there?”
“Because that’s where wreckage is always sent,” Harold said. “Or, to put it the other way around, it’s why Area-51 was built. When there’s enough to fill a space-freighter, a ship lands to transport it off-world for disposal. Due to the sheer volume of wreckage from the crash, the ambassador has sent for specialist recycling equipment.”
“And why was this facility built in America in the first place?” Shoneyin asked.
“In the 1950s, it was the least worst option,” Harold said, giving the scripted answer.
“That’s right because they’ve been living here for years,” Shoneyin said.
“Non-terrestrials have been visiting Earth for millennia,” Harold said, again sticking to the script. “Indeed, it was on one such visit that the ancestral towani were abducted. That was about fifty thousand years ago.”
“They were Neanderthals?” Hermann asked.
“Yes. For around a thousand years, they were held as slaves and bred as warriors. Finally, they rebelled, killing their abductors. If you can all look at the screens, I’ll bring up the footage.”
A figure in a kilt, covered in swirling red tattoos, stood in a cavernous, ill-lit chamber. Grey tentacles, dripping with dark, viscous fluid, hung from the ceiling. In the left-hand corner, a woman in a simple white shift, and holding a very complicated axe, was trying to catch her breath.
“Who’s that?”
“The woman with the axe is the high priest, Jallin. The figure in the kilt is the Holy Nowan, the foundational prophet of the Valley’s major religion. The tentacles belong to their captors. This footage shows the moment of victory when the enslaved ancestors defeated their captors. There were five ships. Four were deliberately crashed on the planet they were orbiting. Those freed slaves called the planet Towan and built a society whose primary goal was to return to the stars. Unfortunately, they had to learn about environmental damage the hard way and completely wrecked the planet. They did return to the stars, though, and began to create the first empire. That fifth ship, captained by the Holy Nowan, disappeared in search of Earth. If you’d like to follow me outside, we’ll look at the ships they use now. Mr Woodsman put the scanner down!”
Shaking his head in irritation, Harold led his group outside.
“When the ambassador gave his television interview, he said he’d first arrived in 1900,” said Admiral Bruce Smith of the Australian Navy.
“Around then, yes,” Harold said. “The ambassador’s ship crashed off the coast of Ireland, near what’s now called Cobh. A local fisherman came to their aid and was taken aboard. He’d been injured, and during his medical examination, it was discovered that this sailor shared some of the same DNA as the towani. The ambassador, Davir, had discovered the ancestral homeworld, thus fulfilling the Holy Nowan’s last prophecy. So the ambassador became the Last Prophet, so now he is addressed as the Holy Johann tol Davir. Tol means formerly known as.”
“He’s old, then?” Hermann asked.
“Over seven hundred, I think, but I was taught it’s impolite to ask.”
“How is that possible?” Shoneyin asked.
“Again, I don’t know the specifics,” Harold said. “But they will make their medical science available to us. We’re not so genetically similar that we can receive the same treatment, so there’ll have to be medical trials first, but yes, the diseases that plagued us will be cured. The cellular regeneration technology will give us longer lives.”
“Where do we sign up for that, because my knees are pure murder in the cold weather?” Admiral Smith said.
“I think the first trials will be for AIDS patients in South African townships and the refugee camps in Kenya. But we’ll need to ramp up the planet’s energy output for a global roll-out.”
“And are they going to help with that?” Hermann asked.
“Yes. We’ll start with fusion because it’s what our scientists and engineers will be almost familiar with. Even with some parts shipped in from the Valley, building enough power plants and upgrading the electrical grid will still take years.”
“And will this help be for everyone, everywhere?” Shoneyin asked.
“Absolutely, just as the ambassador said in his last interview. The Valley has a policy of non-interference in local politics, except where not intervening would lead to a greater disaster. The key thing to remember, I suppose, is that they’re interested in the planet, not in us. They’ll help, up to a point, after which we’re on our own.”
Until last month, RAF Benson had been a base for helicopter operations. Situated on the eastern bank of the serpentine River Thames, halfway between Oxford and Reading, and due east of the main crash site, it now bustled. A cargo plane sulked on the recently extended runway, utterly ignored by everyone who’d found an excuse to get through security. The visitors were only interested in the two spaceships, a V-shaped flying wing and a flying saucer barely bigger than the twin-rotor Chinook crouching beside it.
“They actually zip about in flying saucers?” the admiral asked.
“This is a very old design,” Harold said. “The old empire was change-averse. That was one of the reasons for the revolution that began when the Holy Johann tol Davir returned to Towan III with news that he’d found the ancestral home. At the time of the revolution, the empire was ruled by a Committee of Regents, all of whom were towani, but there were many other species in the empire, and that was a source of discontent. After the revolution, came the civil war. On one side were the Voytay, led by the former regents. On the other was the Valley, led by a council representing all the planets and species. The civil war lasted nearly seven years and ended in a cease-fire, not peace. Both sides were bankrupt, so the Valley kept producing ships like this as it was cheaper than retooling the factories.”
“In the footage of people being rescued from the floods in Pakistan, they seemed much larger,” Shoneyin said.
“Those ships were Type-17 transports. This is a Type-21 fighter.”
“Can we see inside?”
“No. It’s a working ship and belongs to the towani guarding the prison. Because it was easy to discredit the idea of a saucer-shaped ship, they were used here on Earth, but they’ll slowly be replaced.” He led them over to the neighbouring ship, a V-shaped vessel. “This is a Ree-Bee flying wing. As soon as we’ve trained the pilots, a thousand of these will be given to Earth so we can defend ourselves.” He tapped his finger and thumb together. On his glasses, a menu appeared. He selected the recipient. “Hi, Melly, can you open the ship? Lok.”
The ramp slowly descended. “The controls are remotely locked, but if anyone wants to look inside, be my guest.”
Woodsman nearly knocked over the admiral in his eagerness to run up the ramp. Not everyone went aboard, however.
“How will the pilots be chosen?” Shoneyin asked.
“That’s above my pay grade,” Harold said. “But I guess the world leaders will have to get together and figure it out, just like with this conference in Ireland where they’re supposed to pick a delegation to visit Towan III.”
“What is your pay grade?” Shoneyin asked. “How is it you came to be working here?”
“I was out camping and ran into a mercenary advance guard,” Harold said. “I was rescued by citizens of the Valley. A couple of days later, we had the Oxfordshire incident. Since the UNCA was disbanded, and since some of their members were involved in luring the Voytay here, the ambassador wasn’t sure whom he could trust. Since I’m no one, he thought he could trust me.”
His answer wasn’t the whole truth, but it was well-practised. He was asked that question during every tour and by every visiting politician. He often asked it of himself.
“Can we see the prison now?” Hermann asked.
“That would be a breach of the Geneva Convention,” Harold said. A heavy drop of rain fell onto the runway. He decided to use that as an excuse to cut the tour short. “If any of you did want to begin work as a scanning technician, you should return to the hangar for training, but I’m guessing you were promised a tour of the crash site, for which you should head over to the Chinook helicopter.”
Woodsman sidled over to Harold. “I’ll give you two million for one of those scanners.”
“They’re not mine to sell,” Harold said.
“Five million.”
“The helicopter’s waiting.”
“Decide on a price. I’ll be in touch.”
Harold just shook his head. In the nearly two months he’d been doing this, there’d been at least one attempted bribe on every tour. He sent a message to the towani soldier to reseal the ship, and went to work.
Chapter 2 - Through a Scanner Brightly
Being a Man in Black wasn’t like Harold had expected, nor was first contact. There were no rooftop chases, no cover-ups, and no shootouts in which the fate of the universe was at stake. For once, reality was far better than fiction. He returned to the hangar where Sergeant Linton lingered in the corner they used as a break room.
“Perfect timing, sir,” Linton said. “I just made a brew.”
Inwardly, Harold winced. To the RAF personnel, there was nothing unusual about someone his age being in a position of authority. Since this was the Royal Air Force, they were also used to young people occupying an undefined, yet stratospheric, position in the hierarchy. Of all the daily surprises that first contact had brought, Harold found receiving professional deference one of the most challenging concepts to accept.
“Cheers,” Harold said, taking the offered mug.
“How much were the tickets?” Linton asked, getting to the real reason she’d been waiting.
“One guy paid two million.”
“That’s double yesterday,” Linton said. She stuck her head around the door. “Oy, Blake! You won. They’re charging two mil now.” That produced a cheer edged with shocked disbelief from the workers in the hangar.
“They’re just going to keep raising their prices, aren’t they?” Harold said.
“This government? Of course.”
Chief Technician Blake, the walking definition of why some military personnel were described as grizzled, entered the hastily built chamber. Despite being twice Harold’s age, he was still taut-chested and straight-backed, with an impossibly tapered waist. If he’d been put on a recruitment poster, everyone would think he was an actor. In reality, he was a spy. So were half of the team. British spies, but spies nonetheless. Harold’s position at the base was tenuous. His presence was tolerated as much because the government wanted to turn him, and his direct line to the ambassador, into a source, if not an agent, as because cooperation with the technologically superior Valley was obviously in everyone’s best interests. They didn’t know he knew, so he was happy to play dumb.
“I’ve come to claim my prize, sir,” Blake said.
“Sure,” Harold said. “What do you want to ask?”
“Was Elvis an alien who faked his death so he could go on an intergalactic tour, and is he about to launch a comeback gig on Earth?”
“That’s what you want me to ask?” Harold said.
“Absolutely. I read it on the news this morning,” Blake said.
Harold shrugged. He tapped his thumb and forefinger together. A keyboard appeared on the inside of his lenses as if it was hovering beneath his hand. He typed out the question and sent it to Sean.
“I’ve sent it to the embassy. Oh, and I’ve got a reply already. It says Elvis was an Earther.”
“Ah, but it doesn’t say he’s dead?”
“It doesn’t say that, no,” Harold said.
“I knew he was on an intergalactic tour.” Happily vindicated, Blake returned to the hangar.
“When will we get some of those smart glasses?” Linton asked.
“I’ll ask the ambassador’s office, but I don’t think it’ll be soon. For the towani, these are very old technology. Most use implants. Some use visors, but their cranial structure is too different for their helmets and glasses to fit comfortably.”
“Can’t they just print them like they print their food?” Linton asked.
“I don’t know,” Harold said. “Maybe that could be tomorrow’s question.”
“Or you could ask now, to satisfy your own curiosity and then tell us.”
“I do know the pilots of the spaceships will get them,” Harold said. “I suppose the ground crew will get them, too.”
“Then I’ll just have to get onto that training programme,” Linton said. “Speaking of printing things, can I get your opinion on something?”
“Sure,” Harold said and followed her into the hangar.
The county had been inundated with tourists since the battle above Oxfordshire and the battle-station’s crash. Despite the increasingly inflated prices, planes, trains, and hotels were booked for a year in advance. The queue for the Calais to Dover ferry now began in Paris. Every spy, scientist, and treasure hunter from across the world, and who had canyon-deep pockets, had come to the Home Counties, and so had the natives.
Of all the things Harold would have expected to happen after first contact, curiosity wasn’t at the top of the list. Sure, there’d been some light rioting, frantic stockpiling, quick coups, and political resignations, but no more so than during the pandemic. The Covid lockdowns were still fresh in the global consciousness. People wanted to do something, anything, but most were too broke to do more than watch the news. But anyone in Britain willing to brave the national gridlock could walk through countryside famed in history and fiction and perhaps stumble across a piece of singed alien scrap.
Woodsman’s million-pound necklace was an outlier. Even so, a single bolt was currently fetching low five figures online, and the prices were only rising. Attempts to curtail this scavenging proved logistically difficult, and became politically impossible when three ex-prime ministers were photographed among the treasure hunters.
Linton stopped at a pair of trolleys, each containing eight of the standard storage crates.
“These sixteen boxes came from the collection point at the library in Didcot,” Linton said. “The documentation says they were all collected by the same scout troop. There’s nothing dangerous about them, but they all look identical.”
Harold opened the lid of the first box and found it full of screw-thread bolts about ten centimetres long and plain white in colour.
Harold let his glasses scan one. “It looks like the kind of bolt used to hold the… well, I’ve no idea what the words mean, but it’s part of the engine mounting.”
“It’s plastic, isn’t it?” Linton asked.
With a wave of his fingers, Harold opened the other app and then picked up a portable scanner. “Yes, it's plastic from Earth, the kind used in 3D printers.”
“That’s what I thought,” Linton said. “There’s over two hundred in here, and those other boxes contain the same. What is it they get paid?”
“Fifty twil per item, straight into a Valley bank account set up in their name.”
“It’s a scam,” Linton said.
“Or it’s initiative,” Harold said.
“You’re going to let them get away with it?” Linton asked.
Harold weighed it up. He wasn’t sure it was his problem. On the other hand, if it wasn’t his, whose was it? “Whose name is on the receipt?”
“There are seventeen names, and going by the handwriting, I’d say they’re kids.”
“I’ll note down the names, and make sure they know we don’t want this to happen again,” Harold said. “But if it’s a one-off, where’s the harm?”
“The kids don’t bother me, but someone in Didcot signed off on this,” Linton said.
“Ah. Good point. I suppose I should go and have a word with them, too.”
“Send the RAF police. That’s what we have them for. Shall I arrange it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harold sat at his desk and grimaced at the size of his in-tray. Every crate arrived with paperwork listing what had been found and who had found it. He picked up the first page so the camera on his smart-glasses could scan it, and add it to the embassy’s database, then picked up the next.
While most of his work was data entry, officially he was a liaison, and his main job was to be helpful. The only Valley citizens on the base were the squad of soldiers, all towani, guarding the prison, and they didn’t speak much English. Those who could speak English were at the crash site or assisting with the ever-present natural disasters, like the flooding in Pakistan, in a hearts and minds mission to show that the Valley was different to the Voytay.
They should have had the members of the British branch of the UNCA to assist in the task, but five had been jailed, and the rest were under observation. Alan Parker and his team had been working with the Voytay, helping coordinate the Oxfordshire incursion. With Sean O’Malley busy running the investigation into Parker, the ambassador had asked Harold to act as the local liaison. That Harold knew barely more than any observant tourist was considered a boon. He was a filter, fielding questions from RAF technicians, the spies, the air marshal, and even the politicians, all so the ambassador and his team could stay focused on the next stage of first contact.
