The Origin of F.O.R.C.E.

Six months from arrival on the outskirts of the Solar System of HG-281, the tireless computers operating the mother ship, VrrSilliac Xur, activated the sequence of stimuli necessary to awaken Hisspat Zeck from his stasis pod.

The first thing Zeck did was to run a full status check on all 250 ships under his command. As the master computers in each ship responded, a smile of satisfaction and anticipation curled up the corners of his mouth. All 50 mother ships and 200 mega-liners had crossed the 30 light-year distance safely, and all stasis pods reported as active with no casualties.

Entering the sequence of keyboard symbols authorizing the master computers on all 50 mother ships to awaken their crews, Zeck turned his attention to determining his fleet’s location. According to the master computer, his fleet was one-half light-year from the target solar system. Activating the monitor screen in the bulkhead above his control panel, he instructed his computer to display a graphic depiction of the HG-281 solar system and locate any energy producing mechanisms within sensor range. He knew the information displayed would be a little over 6 months old, but it would give him an idea of the current level of planetary development which had occurred during the 66 years he’d been absent.

Instantly, the entire solar system with all its planets flashed onto his screen. As he expected, planet HG-281 was awash in energy signatures. He saw one small energy source on the 4th planet which he remembered the Humans called Mars. Probably some small exploration device. Surprisingly, there were three small energy signatures floating in space outside the orbit of the ninth planet. One of the signatures was almost in the path of the VrrSilliac Xur.

“Interesting,” Hisspat thought. “It appears the Human animals have been busy in my absence. How nice of them to provide me with an opportunity to examine their primitive technology.”

Typing a series of commands on his entry pad, he instructed the master computer to rendezvous with the small energy signature floating directly in his path and capture it. Satisfied with his fleet’s status, Hisspat strolled off his command deck and headed toward the galley. Time to reintroduce his stomach to the pleasures of solid food after 30 years of fasting.

***

It was 0700 on Friday, April 11, 2014, when Tom’s phone buzzed. Peering at the ID on the display, Tom saw it was Staff Sergeant Joe Beale, the man in charge of communications with the Hubble. Picking up the receiver, he answered, “Yes, Joe. What do you have?”

“Sir, we have confirmation of the information from Pioneer 10. You might as well come to Communications because no matter what I describe to you, you won’t believe it until you see it with your own eyes.”

“That bad?”

“Yes, Sir. That bad.”

Slamming down the receiver, worry creasing his forehead, Tom trotted the labyrinth of corridors leading to the Communications Suite. Bursting through the door, he looked around, trying to spot Beale.

The communications suite was one of the largest work spaces in the underground facility. The room was 100 feet long and 40 feet wide. The ceiling was 10 feet high and covered with special LED lighting that mimicked the full spectrum of natural sunlight. Row after row of computer stations, 200 in all, filled the first 70 feet of the room. Each station was manned 24 hours a day, 365 days a year by people trained to communicate with special ops ground forces all around Earth. Those ground forces were the guerrilla army McPherson had envisioned so many years ago.

There seemed to be a gentle breeze blowing, and Tom knew the air conditioning system always kept the oxygen level 5% above normal. The experts hired to design the suite had done their best to make the occupants working there feel comfortable while maintaining high alertness. The full spectrum light and increased oxygen helped accomplish those goals.

The end of the room held a conference table that could easily seat 20 people. The rear wall was a giant computer monitor surrounded by large speakers. The monitor was 20 feet wide and 8 feet high. Separating the end of the rows of computer stations from the conference table was a raised platform as wide as the monitor. In the center of the platform was a pulpit-like data entry panel used to control the monitor and speakers. Beale was in the pulpit, making adjustments to its controls.

Staff Sergeant Joe Beale was a 20-year veteran of the US Marine Corps. He had extensive combat training and was the kind of experienced sergeant sent on dangerous missions with newly minted Lieutenants to make sure every soldier returned safely to base. Beale was entirely comfortable with telling any officer below the rank of Colonel exactly what he thought of their performance, but did so with respect for their authority where it was deserved. Beale was almost 5 feet 10 inches tall and weighed 250 pounds. There was not an ounce of fat on him. Tom liked Joe, and the feeling was mutual.

Tom hurried down the main aisle and jumped up on the platform beside Beale.

“Ok, I’m here.”

Briefly checking the settings on his panel, Beale explained, “What I’m going to show you is a computer-enhanced version of the data streams we’re receiving from all three probes. Once a probe locks onto an object, it continues to hold the object under constant monitoring until we signal to release it. All three probes are locked onto the incoming bogies and sending us a constant stream of data from their observations.”

“You said bogies?”

“Yes, Sir. Our analysis indicates multiple bogies of tremendous size. Since we now have a constant data stream and are only delayed from real time by around 12-hours, our enhancement of the data is becoming more accurate by the moment.”

“Show me what you have so far.”

Beale flipped a switch and the big screen was suddenly filled with the blurry image of an arrow-shaped object. The entire image was way out of focus. No detail could be discerned except for the vague arrow shape, but as they watched, various groups of pixels throughout the image appeared to morph into greater clarity.

“Did you notice the change in some of the image pixels?” asked Beale.

“Yes. Is that ongoing computer enhancement?”

“It’s a combination of more incoming data from the probes and computer-enhancement. At the rate we’re receiving new data, my people tell me we should have a pretty clear picture in two days.”

“Two days!” Tom exclaimed with profound disappointment.

“Afraid so, Sir. We’re pushing the data transmission rate of the old systems aboard the probes as it is. Two days is the minimum.”

Reluctantly, Blunt said, “Understood. If anything changes, let me know.”

“Will do.”

***

Colonel Douglas Jenson ended the cellphone call from the Los Angeles office of the largest television news organization in California and rolled his eyes. Another Newscaster complaining about the CDC handling of an Ebola patient in California. Doug was ready to tear his hair out over the inane babbling of pseudo-intellectuals trying their best to instill unfounded fear in the general populace. Gazing out the windows of his 40th floor office, a movement caught his eye, and he watched a Boeing 747 on its final approach to the Hartsfield International Airport fly past a nearby skyscraper. Jenson wondered absently where the aircraft had originated and how many passengers were onboard.

The view from his office always relaxed him, even when he could see lightning from approaching thunderstorms that frequently blew toward Atlanta from the southwest. Rising from his office chair, Doug stretched his near 6 foot 5 inch frame and noted it was almost 6 pm. Time for a brisk walk around Centennial Olympic Park and then to his favorite restaurant for supper. Jenson was in good shape for a 60-year old. His dark-black hair showed only a few strands of gray around his temples, and he hadn’t gained more than 30 pounds since graduating from West Point.

Grabbing his coat, Jenson hailed a cab for the short ride to the park. “What a gorgeous day,” he thought. “Maybe there’ll be a couple of street musicians at the Park. That would be great.”

As a member of the inner circle of FORCE, part of Jenson’s assignment included being Asst Director of Public Health Preparedness and Response at the Center for Disease Control. He did his best to spend at least one week a month at the Atlanta headquarters of the CDC in order to maintain his contacts with major public utilities around the country. If and when the Chrysallaman invasion was imminent, he was the person who would begin the process of activating the dormant virus in the civilian population.

Tom and Doug had been good friends ever since their first meeting at the main entrance of the West Point Chapel in the Fall of ’74. Years later, Doug had been one of the first persons General Tom Blunt had picked for his core staff. Tom had pulled Doug from his counter-intelligence position at the CIA and named him FORCE’s Head of Civilian Defense. When Doug had pointed out civilians were not normally called upon to defend the Nation, Tom had disclosed the entire history of the Chrysallaman threat. As an added bonus, Tom activated Doug’s dormant virus. Tom wanted Doug to completely understand the initial impact of the viral sickness on the general population as well as the aftermath of confusion as millions of people suddenly became enhanced.

Springtime weather in Atlanta, Georgia, is normally very pleasant. Temperatures usually ranged from the mid to upper 70′s, and the humidity stayed below 50%. Doug enjoyed walking the mosaic-tiled sidewalks of the Olympic Park just north of the downtown area. The tile patterns in the sidewalks helped ease the monotony of a long walk. He was strolling toward the raised gardens on the northeasterly side of the Park when his cellphone rang. It was Tom. The unusual hour of the phone call caused Doug’s gut to tense. Something was wrong.

In a serious tone, Doug answered, “Hey, Tom, what’s going on?”

“Doug, we have a Code Red Celestial Alert.”

Pausing a moment to collect his thoughts, Doug asked, “How far out are they?”

“Less than 6 months. We’ll have a more accurate time frame in two days.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Sorry for the short notice, but I want you on the next plane to Nevada. We’re going to be making critical decisions in the next few days, and I want my primary team by my side.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow. No problem.”

Ending the call, Doug looked at the darkening sky. Focusing on the bright, full Moon, he offered a silent prayer. “God, please give us the strength to defend our World and allow us to enjoy an everlasting Peace.”

Doug raced to his apartment and packed. A military Learjet was waiting for him when he arrived at the National Guard hangars lining the western side of the Hartsfield airport.

***

Two days later, Tom’s general staff along with Colonel Doug Jenson were seated at the conference table in the Communications Suite. Madelyn Amsley sat at one end of the table operating the digital cameras recording the meeting. Joe Beale stood in the pulpit, ready to control the display on the monitor and make any adjustments requested by the group. The general buzz of conversation, at the moment, was focused on the effects activation of the uniques had on the Staff.

Alexander Fields was so excited, he stumbled over his words as he tried to describe the effects. “This enhancement stuff is going to take some getting used to,” he stammered as he looked around the table. “I picked up a water glass yesterday, and it broke in my hand. The door knob in my room broke off when I tried to leave. Whenever I shut my eyes, I still see everything. Have any of you been able to go to sleep yet?”

Becky’s clear thoughts spoke in soft, soothing tones within his mind, “Alex, I learned a few tricks. Let me show you.” Suddenly, a series of instructions imprinted in Alex’s mind, giving him detailed ways to dampen or ignore the more annoying aspects of the new mental and visual powers.

Looking at Becky with a grateful expression, Alex said, “Thanks. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry I can’t help with the physical strength. I broke my shower stall door this morning just sliding it open. We’re all going to have to learn day-by-day how to control our new strength. Right now, I’m scared to death to touch anyone who hasn’t been activated because I might somehow injure them.”

Nods indicated everyone was having the same experiences. Peering around the table at the various reactions to their newfound powers, Doug frowned. The Staff was made up of highly educated, military-trained adults with combat experience. They didn’t represent a microcosm of the general population. Doug foresaw plenty of adverse reactions to activation within the general public, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to handle the bad ones. While he was mulling over the public’s response to being activated, Tom took a seat next to him.

Tom said, “Sergeant Beale, please put the latest image of the alien armada on the screen.”

The giant arrow shape appeared. The increased resolution of the image from two days ago was startling. The arrow shape was now obvious. Details of the armada were cloudy, but there were many spacecraft.

“Is there any way of determining the size of the objects we are seeing?” Tom asked.

“We’re working on that,” Beale responded. “Notice the stars in the background at the top right and center? We don’t have enough detail yet to be sure, but preliminary analysis based on the relative locations of the Voyagers to the alien fleet indicates the star in the center is Castor and the one on the top right is Alhena. Once we’re sure, we’ll be able to make a calculation of the size of the ships in the Armada. Based on the dataflow from the probes, we need another day before I have enough resolution to answer your question.”

“Very well. Thank you, Sergeant. Anyone want to venture a guess at what we’re seeing?” Tom asked as he gestured at the image.

Stoneman leaned into the table and said, “Based on my naval experience, the head of the arrow is composed of destroyers and heavy weapon cruisers acting as a shield to protect cargo vessels in the arrow’s shaft. It’s my guess that due to the vast distance from their home planet to Earth, the Chrysallamans brought a vast amount of war supplies with them since resupply would take too long.”

Kurstow broke into Stoneman’s dialogue and said, “I don’t agree with the cargo vessel scenario.”

“Go ahead, Major,” Tom replied.

“I’m trying to put myself into the shoes of the Chrysallamans,” she began and gestured at the image on the view screen. “Remember what they discovered in 1947. They found a world with primitive weapons compared to their own, and inhabitants who were no match for them physically or mentally. Also recall Whatsit said their mission was to find a suitable planet for colonization. So they go back home and tell their leaders they found a perfect planet for colonization inhabited by a primitive tribe of dull heathens. Now compare what I just described with our own Human history. Columbus set sail and discovered the New World. He returned home to report his findings, and how did Spain and Portugal react? They didn’t just send the military; they sent colonists and established homes and trade centers in the New World. Based on our own history, I agree with Colonel Stoneman the head of the arrow is military; however, I believe the shaft is made up of colonists and supplies necessary for colonization.”

“Colonel Fields, you’re being quieter than usual. What are your thoughts about the armada?” Tom asked.

Propping his chin with his hand, Fields replied, “My inclination is to agree with Major Kurstow. I don’t believe the Chrysallamans consider us a military threat. In fact, if we hadn’t captured one of their saucers and been able to reverse engineer their cutter and heat ray tech, we honestly would be no threat. Since the Chrysallamans don’t know we were able to duplicate their principal weapons, they don’t think we’re anything to worry about. I believe the Chrysallamans have sent what they consider an overwhelming military force to take down a primitive culture that can offer no more than token resistance. The rest of the fleet should be composed of colonists and colonization materials.”

Settling back into his chair, Tom steepled his fingers and tapped his fingertips together several times as he considered what he’d heard. “I tend to agree with the colonization fleet being the shaft of the arrow, but I want to reserve judgment until tomorrow when Sergeant Beale indicates the resolution of the image will be clear enough to make out details.”

He placed his hands palm down on the conference table. “We will reconvene here tomorrow at 1400 hours. In the meantime, I want Major Chang and Colonel Jenson to conceive of a way to educate the public about the use and control of their new unique powers once they become activated. Dismissed.”

***

Becky’s office was down the hall from the staff conference room. It was a small space, but she had filled its walls and shelves with Chinese artwork. Every corner of the room was occupied by some kind of lush plant growing from large, intricately carved clay pots. As Doug sat in one of the visitor chairs, he watched her walk from corner to corner, touching and stroking each plant with her hands as if she was testing their suppleness or gaining calm from their feel on her fingertips.

Satisfied with their condition, Becky took her seat and regarded Doug with a pensive look. Biting her lower lip, she said, “The reaction of Colonel Fields is mild compared to what I expect from the general civilian population as they go active.”

Frowning, Doug agreed, “Yeah, it took me several days to adjust to the enhancements, and I knew what was going on and what to expect. There’s no doubt if we activate the public without their knowledge, most people will have a difficult time coping with the changes.”

“Psychologically, we’ve got to make the public want the change.”

“I don’t think we can go so far as to inform the public about the imminent invasion of Earth by deadly alien monsters so we have to activate hidden genetic enhancements in order to give them a fighting chance to survive. That simply can’t happen,”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” Becky replied with a mysterious smile. “What I have in mind is the disclosure of a new and powerful health treatment. A newly discovered vitamin elixir that enhances physical well-being, cures ailments and extends the normal lifespan by 30%. The public will come running to our doors begging for the product.”

“You’ve been watching too many wild west TV shows with the old medicine wagons,” Doug laughed, but a thoughtful look appeared in his eyes.

Becky tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, a slight smile curling her lips as she waited for Doug’s thoughts to catch up with her own.

Lacing his fingers on her desk, Doug asked, “Just what are you suggesting?”

Grabbing a notepad and pen, Becky started scribbling as she talked. “First we get a pharma company to manufacture a jumbo batch of something harmless to most Humans, say some omega-3 fish oil in a nice, appealing gold-colored capsule. I wouldn’t go with sugar pills because we don’t want diabetic reactions. Next we get a marketing company to come up with some slick media materials touting the guaranteed life-altering benefits of the new vitamin elixir.”

Staring off into space as she considered viable options, Becky said, “The pills will be packaged one per card. The card will detail what will happen the day after it’s ingested and how to manage the expected beneficial changes. After all, who doesn’t want greater muscular strength, sharper eyesight and enhanced hearing, right? Finally we get the FDA to announce the stuff is so good and beneficial, the United States Government has decided to give it away free to its citizens. Once people get those promised benefits, the new telepathy ability will be thought of as an unexpected gift.”

Doug shook his head in wonder. “My God, it could work.”

Becky replied, “Timing will be critical. The fluoride activation will have to coincide with the elixir distribution. With this approach, I think we could go forward with activation on a faster timetable. Heck, people will be clamoring to get the enhancements.”

“Do you have anyone on the base with a background in mass marketing?” Doug asked. “I want to have some example materials to show General Blunt and the rest of the staff tomorrow.”

***

At 1400 hours the following afternoon, the Staff assembled around the conference table in the Communications Suite, waiting expectantly for Tom to arrive. A sudden, loud murmuring from the people manning the computer consoles behind the pulpit drew everyone’s attention. Turning to look in the direction of the voices, they saw Tom walk around the end of the platform followed by a tall lizard wearing a trench coat and beaded sombrero. Whatsit rarely visited the Nevada facility, preferring to stay at his Pentagon residence where he was nearer Tom’s father and mother, General Jim Blunt and Dr. Diane Hoffman Blunt. Tom had summoned Whatsit to Nevada to give his opinion about the vessels in the Chrysallaman armada.

Whatsit had been 12 years old when he was captured in 1947. He was now 78, and his body showed the same signs of aging as a Human. The skin on his face and hands was finely wrinkled. The formerly dark green color of his skin had lightened over the years and had a mild yellowish tinge. It appeared he had a slight limp in his right leg but otherwise showed no signs of arthritis or weakening limbs. Whatsit’s dark eyes swept around the conference table and settled on Doug Jenson. Without further pause, the big lizard walked over and sat down next to Doug, swiveling around to face him.

A clear thought formed in Doug’s mind. “Douglas, you have your mother’s eyes and your father’s facial structure. May I ask how they are doing these days?”

Smiling warmly at the Chrysallaman, Doug responded, “They’re doing just great. They live in Sarasota, Florida, just off the Intracoastal Waterway. How are you?”

“Just older and no wiser,” Whatsit thought back with a distinct mental sigh, shaking his head in mock sadness.

Tom interrupted, “From this point onward, I want all talking done by telepathic means so that it will be easier for Whatsit to participate in the discussion.”

He then twisted around to look at Beale and ordered, “Sergeant, please display the latest image.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The moment the image of the arrow shape appeared, Whatsit froze, and a mental wail flooded everyone’s mind.

The increased clarity of the image since their morning view was remarkable. Where earlier there had been fuzzy outlines and blurred details, now there were sharp features plainly revealing multiple craft arranged in an arrow shape. The head of the arrow was composed of three rows of spacecraft with a similarly sized craft sitting just behind the three rows as if it was connecting the arrowhead to the shaft. The shaft stretched back from the head in a long strand of larger spacecraft lined up two abreast.

Throwing a thought at Beale, Tom asked, “What progress have you made identifying the stars in the background?”

“They have been identified. As we thought, the star in the center is Castor and the one on the top right is Alhena. Based on the positions of our probes and the known distances to the stars and the armada, the mainframe has been able to calculate a close approximation of the craft sizes. The spaceships in the arrowhead are around 700 feet in diameter and 165 feet tall. Each ship in the arrowhead carries 5 saucers appearing to be the same size as the saucer captured in 1947. We have counted 49 craft in the arrowhead and one between the arrowhead and the shaft.”

Whatsit leaned toward the wall-sized monitor and said, “The ships in what you call the arrowhead are called mother ships. Each mother ship carries five scouts. Jim Blunt and his team captured the scout on which I was a passenger.”

“What are the craft that make up the shaft of the arrow, Whatsit?” Stoneman asked.

“I do not know,” Whatsit replied. “I was very young when I left with the expedition on the mother ship, VrrSilliac Xur. I have never seen anything like the trailing craft, even in picture books.”

“Just look at the size of the trailing ships compared to the mother ships,” breathed Amanda Kurstow.

Beale responded, “The estimated size for the trailing ships is 3,300 feet long and 1,000 feet in diameter. They are each approximately the size of two and a half Empire State Buildings laid end to end.”

Whatsit had a troubled look and his shoulders were drooped, his hands clasped tightly together in his lap. Tom watched as a cascade of emotions ranging from excitement, to hope and finally to despair played across the creature’s face. Whatsit was suffering deep emotional and psychological pain. He had participated in helping Humans prepare for the return of his people. There was little doubt there would be massive bloodshed on both sides when hostilities broke out.

Tom sent an inquiring thought, “What’s wrong, my friend? There’s something troubling you. I can feel it in your thoughts.”

The crease of worry between Whatsit’s black eyes deepened, and he projected an anguished plea, “Tom Blunt, please don’t underestimate the brutality of the Chrysallaman soldiers. At the very least, they’ll do their best to wipe out the entire Human civilization. At the very worst, they’ll devour any survivors as a food resource.”

Looking at the Humans whose duty it was to save their planet and their people, Whatsit continued, “I have resided on your planet now for many years and learned of all the kindness and goodness there is in your race. I will never forget when Douglas Jenson’s mother, Lucy, comforted me in New Orleans after I was frightened by a mentally powerful Human called Skullreader. It was truly an experience I will carry to my grave.”

Bowing his head, he said, “I hope you have found true kindness and goodness in me as well over the years.”

When everyone began nodding, tears welled up in Whatsit’s eyes and dripped down his cheeks. His next thoughts were almost a prayer. “Please understand there are many good Chrysallamans like me. Fathers, mothers, children, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles. Every relationship you Humans enjoy is also enjoyed by my people. I think the large ships in the shaft of the arrow are filled with colonists. Please don’t destroy the colony ships. They could hold thousands and thousands of innocents.”

Tears of grief fell from Whatsit’s face as he made his mental plea. Wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his trench coat, he said, “Please forgive my display of emotion.”

Tom had known Whatsit all his life. In fact, his parents often let Whatsit babysit him while they went to a movie or enjoyed a romantic dinner. There was no doubt in his mind about the sincerity of Whatsit’s thoughts.

Tom walked to Whatsit and, bending down on his knee, took Whatsit’s hand. “I promise we’ll do everything we can to save as many Chrysallaman innocents as possible. We will not commit genocide of your people. I just pray your military leaders don’t put them in harm’s way.”

Wiping more of his tears away with the sleeve of his coat, Whatsit nodded and replied, “Yes, there is that.”