Alien Affairs

Carrie sat in her office after delivering the last canister to Vandenberg. She decided to update Sherrie.

“I’ve got great news, honey. You’ll be out of there in just two years and the aliens are gone and won’t be back, at least not in our lifetime.”

“Two years down here is a lifetime.”

“It’s better than four. Did you hear from Lance?”

“Yeah, we’ve been texting. He seems nice.”

“Start sexting.”

“Mother.”

“You owe it to society to reproduce. We still don’t know if the damage can be reversed.”

“You should have picked somebody else to come down here.”

“You’re down there because you’re my daughter, and I want a grandbaby, so do your duty.”

“Even if Lance and I become an item, he isn’t allowed to come down here and I’m not doing it with a turkey baster.”

“I give up on you. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll call you again soon. Bye.”

Carrie divided her time between dictating text and tutoring her team. It seemed to Carrie that her role had become rather mundane. Three spherical containers waited safely at Vandenberg Air Force Base to be blasted into the nuclear inferno of the sun. She felt optimistic that the efforts of the CDC and or the breeding populations sequestered safely underground would prevent the complete extinction of the human race. Dutifully she continued to reveal what wisdom she discovered in the alien text until one morning she felt ill and vomited. She ignored it and went to work. When it happened again she was annoyed and when it persisted she denied the obvious probable cause.

“I’m forty-four, I’ve been having hot flashes for years, I’m supposed to be sterile and I only slept with the guy once,” she argued with herself. Finally she went to a pharmacy. The positive test result left her baffled and not a little frightened. She stared at the test kit and said aloud, “Now what?”

She visited her doctor who confirmed that she was indeed pregnant. The gynecologist’s response to the improbability of it was an unhelpful, “Stranger things have happened.”

Carrie decided she had to make a trip back to Roswell—Bill had a right to know—but what she might say to him was escaping her. Nevertheless, she took a week off work without giving a reason, purposely avoided talking to Sherrie, and flew to Albuquerque. On the monotonous drive to the scene of the crime she rehearsed how she would tell her story, then she rejected the plan and started over.

The sky was bright blue and cloudless in the afternoon as she entered the little city of Roswell and found a parking space around the corner from Bill’s outdated bar and grill. She hesitated to get out of the car. Finally with a mental shrug she opened the door and walked to the place where she would—what? What if the place were crowded? Would she drop her bombshell in public? What if he refused to believe it was his child? What if he caused a scene? When she reached the door it was locked. The windowless facade offered no clue as to business hours. She knocked and waited, and then banged with the side of her fist. Stepping back she made sure she was at the right place.

A wizened old-timer in overalls and a dirty nylon jacket eyed her strangely. “Lady,” he drawled, “ain’t been nothing in there for years.”

Carrie stared in confusion—staggered, stunned. The old man shook his head and kept walking. It was the right place. She looked at the hotel across the street where she left the little dog while Bill got her knocked-up. Her mind was reeling and the phone rang. Mechanically, she glanced at the display. It read ‘Very Large Array.’ Why would they call her now? She answered and heard:

“Come, Carrie Player, all my shipmates are in suspended animation. Now, I and my fuzzy little friend will join them for the rest of my journey home. I look forward to dreaming of you for sixty years. Going.”