***
“How are you holding up, mate?” Bud patted his friend’s hand as the ambulance lurched over some speed bumps. “You awake?”
“I think so.” Rufus raised his arm but the paramedic stopped him.
“I wouldn’t recommend touching your face,” she said as she monitored Rufus’s vital signs, “until we remove the larger pieces of antler.”
“What?” Rufus tried to sit up. “Is Sergeant Scary OK?”
“That’s not important,” replied Bud as he tried to ignore the numerous bits of moose sticking out of Rufus’ head. “You just relax. You took that beating like a man, and I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks mate.”
“And I’m sure,” Bud continued, covering his nose, “fouling yourself as they broke down the door was a brilliant offensive tactic.”
“Sure smells offensive,” muttered the paramedic as she put on a surgical respirator, her eyes watering visibly.
Bud gave up hiding from the stench and lit up a cigarette. “It’s to cover the smell,” he explained to the medic, who nodded in appreciation.
“Bud?” said Rufus weakly.
Rufus jammed his cigarette into a convenient antler. “What is it, my friend?”
“That was the best game of dare ever.”
There was a squeal from the heart monitor and Rufus’ head lolled to one side. The paramedic ripped a set of defibrillator paddles from the wall and started to charge them.
“I thought so too,” smiled Bud.
I Rule
“Welcome to the control centre President Reynolds. I am Charles.” He had a firm handshake to match his stern features, and I noticed that he had one green eye and one brown. He also sported a neat brown moustache. I was a little surprised that my new personal assistant was male – all my previous PAs had been vaporous bimbos, pretty girls that organised my meetings but didn’t understand the importance of them. However, Charles was a political warrior in disguise. I could see it in every detail; his suit fashioned to maximise his presence, the relaxed yet confident posture, the photogenic hair and skin.
“Hello Charles,” I replied. “I wasn’t aware we had a control centre underneath the White House, or in fact needed one.” I was almost certain that it wasn’t documented, but considering the amount of security checkpoints I had passed through, this must be an extremely sensitive office. Nuclear contingency shelter, I reasoned. Although… it didn’t feel like a military operation. More like a stockbroker, or news room. “In fact, what do we control here?”
The control room was large, dimly-lit and filled with computer monitors. On the main wall, a large screen showed statistics and graphs, the information racing almost too fast for me to process. Above all this was a digital clock that simply said 3 months. Charles followed my gaze. “It’s all a bit complicated I’m afraid. Most newly-elected presidents are initiated by their predecessor, but obviously these are exceptional circumstances.”
Assassination or murder – call it whatever, my predecessor’s career was ended in the bloodiest of ways. I still remember the briefing, the unedited CCTV footage of President George being knifed repeatedly by a foreign militant. I was very aware that I had inherited a country that was baying for blood – anyone’s blood – and I was expected to deliver. “God bless his eternal soul, Charles. No-one deserves to die like that.”
To my surprise, Charles smiled. “That, Mr President, is a matter of opinion.” Without a pause, he gestured to a room off to the side. “If you will? We have lots to talk about, and not much time to do it.” I obliged, a little confused by Charles’ comment and I soon found myself sitting in the only chair in a small dark room. Charles stood next to me with some kind of pointer in his well-manicured hand, and the presidential seal appeared on the wall in front of us. “Mr President,” began Charles, “let me congratulate you on becoming the 47th president. I’m sure you will fulfil your duties with honour and distinction.
“However, there is much more to being the president than, well, being president. As I mentioned before, your predecessor would have had the dubious honour of revealing your true role.” Dubious honour? The slide changed to a picture of Eisenhower, shaking hands with President Kennedy. “Poor President Eisenhower,” continued Charles. “Late into his presidency, he was forced to deal with the biggest threat we have ever known – and he had to deal with it in complete secrecy. Any guesses?”
“Nuclear war? Communism?” I offered. Charles smiled sadly and pressed the button. The slide changed to a picture of a large slender grey being with almond-shaped eyes standing next to an equally-grey Eisenhower. “What’s this?” I stammered, knowing the answer already.
“This is the truth about the world.”
“That’s... an alien?”
“Yes, sir. A Serpo, to use official designation.”
I felt a little shocked. “They’re real?!”
“Yes, sir.” The slide changed; a signing ceremony, several Serpos looking on as Eisenhower wrote in a book. “In 1957, the Serps entered our orbit and demanded our surrender.”
“Wait, what? This is crazy!”
“Why?” Charles was impassive, almost amused.
“If we had been visited by aliens from another world, I think there would be videos, eye-witnesses, pictures!”
Charles hit the button again to show a collage of UFO pictures and witness drawings. “These images and stories are available online, to everyone who cares to look for them. There are also leaked videos from our secret bases, alien interrogations, even of our first landing on Mars.”
“We’ve been to Mars?!”
“Actually, we’re still there. Even with all this information in the public domain, aliens are still considered a myth. Why do you think this is?”
“No official verification or declaration?” It was the only reason I could think of. This was real?!
“Exactly. Some of these accounts are false,” Charles admitted, “But a lot of them are completely true. Are you ready to hear more, sir?” I nodded. “Good. Well, were no match for the aliens’ technology.” A picture of a mushroom cloud appeared. “Our nuclear arsenals were the only thing that dissuaded them from invading the earth.”
“So I take it we eventually won?”
The slide changed to show angry red waypoints around the world – mostly in America, I noted. “Far from it. The aliens now live here on earth. There are 147 underground bases that we know of - and helped make, in some cases. Some are accommodation. Others are...far more sinister, I’m afraid. In total, we estimate something along the lines of 20 million aliens living here with us.”
“I’m assuming we can’t kick them out?”
“If only, sir. In fact, Eisenhower arranged our surrender in order to prevent our eradication.”
“Things were that bad?”
“Worse actually, and the surrender only stands as long as the population remains unaware of our... hosts.”
I stood and paced around as I struggled with this information. “Why does the world need to remain ignorant of the aliens? People are more enlightened in today’s world. They would cope with the idea, surely?”
The slide changed to Kennedy just before his assassination. “Imagine this; you stand in front of the entire world tomorrow and repeat everything I’ve just told you. There would be a global collapse of the monetary, religious and legal systems. We would cease to be a civilised and progressive race, and therefore useless for the aliens’ purposes. Even the idea of aliens is disastrous for the human race, so this department is constantly fighting to keep aliens away from the population – in both an ideological and physical sense.”
I flopped back onto my chair. “So what’s with the picture of Kennedy? Did the aliens assassinate him or something?”
“No sir. We did.”
“What? Why?”
“Because he thought he knew better, and was going to initiate a
public disclosure. When Kennedy became president, his obsession with the Serpos grew to the point that he could no longer remain silent. For the good of mankind, he was removed.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it, sir? The stakes are bigger than one man’s life.” Charles looked pointedly at me, the message clear. “Only one other president has threatened to go public.” The slide changed to a familiar face. “President George.”
“You – we – killed George?”
“Yes, sir. By telling the truth, Kennedy and George would have caused the complete annihilation of mankind. They needed to be removed.”
I suddenly felt very vulnerable. This secret arm of the government had just openly admitted to killing two presidents, to me - the newly-elected president. This didn’t bode well. “OK Charles, let’s stop beating about the bush. You’re saying that if I try to do the same as George and Kennedy, I will be… retired.”
Charles smiled again. “Yes sir.”
“So then, why are you telling me this? What do I do?”
“The role of the American president is to help maintain this façade, to keep the population under control and completely clueless to the reality of the situation. We also need you to authorise the release of human beings as, samples, to the Serpos for their own purposes. Genetic testing, manipulation, and the such. Your authorisation keeps it constitutional.”
“Constitutional. So…you’re asking me to take orders from you?” For the first time ever, I started regretting my political career.
“No, not at all sir. You are the president, America’s Commander-in-Chief. That remains the same. As you can hopefully appreciate, the alien problem needs to be a high priority in your presidential plans.”
“You mean financial plans no doubt.”
“That won’t be necessary.” The slideshow finished and we returned to the darkened control room. My legs felt shaky and I needed a drink. Charles gestured to the large clock at the far end of the room and smiled at me. “Money is a false system used to control the population. We simply take what we need. Talking of money though, we are always fighting some aspect of this artificial world. Pollution. Disease. Conflict. In this case, the clock is counting down the first major system collapse.” He held up a dollar in the gloom. “Three months.”
“In three months, the monetary system collapses? How do you know this?”
“The American financial system relies on two crucial factors to work,” he replied. “The value of things must always increase, and people must always be in debt. In 3 months, America will reach total saturation and fall to pieces. This will have a domino effect on the entire world.” He stroked his moustache. “We engineered it that way.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Like any well-used system, a reboot is needed now and again. A hard reset back to zero. When the monetary system fails, we simply start it again. It shouldn’t be a problem, although our analysts have recommended that we,” he struggled for words, “thin-out the population before system failure, in order to make the transition more manageable for us.”
“Thin-out? You mean kill American citizens? Unacceptable.”
“I don’t think it’s optional, sir.” Charles motioned to someone, who passed him an electronic slate. “The recommended option is to release a filovirus with a healthy – if you pardon the pun – mortality rate, say 60% or so. In three months, the population will be at an acceptable level and we can initiate the reboot with a minimum of fuss. There is an added bonus that the system collapse can be blamed on the virus. In a way, it is perfect.”
“This is madness, Charles!”
“There is no need for concern. You and your family will be completely safe from the virus and the chaos from the restart.” He gave me the slate; it depicted a document with sections for my signature. “Here is your first presidential duty I’m afraid. Please sign here to authorise the first batch of samples for the aliens, and sign here to authorise the release of the virus. We’ll sort out the details.”
I looked at my dull reflection in the slate; I saw a man who I was proud to be, a man who knew right from wrong, who wanted to be remembered for being a good and honest person – and president. I knew that I would have power over my fellow man, but this was beyond anything I expected. I was being asked to allow one thousand people to become lab rats for aliens. I was being asked to sign away the deaths of millions in order to make the apocalypse more bearable for those who engineered it. Was this the reason that Kennedy and George died? Did they say no?
Charles stood at ease before me, studying my reaction. I wagered that he probably had a gun behind his back, ready to shoot me the moment I rejected this document. With a deep breath, I imagined my wife and kids for the last time, and then dropped the slate. “No Charles, I won’t do it. I’m not selling my soul.”
Charles looked down at the broken device, sighed heavily, and then shouted, “OK everyone, exercise over!” The lights came on to reveal a room-full of people, some wearing party hats, others holding drinks. A smattering of applause started, and a banner dropped in front of the doomsday clock that said Congratulations Mr President!
“What...what is this?”
“A test, Mr President.” Charles removed his moustache. “I am Agent Drake, sir.” We shook hands. “I apologise for the charade, but we vet every president in this manner to ensure they have the country and its citizens’ best interests at heart.”
Relief flooded me. “Thank God! A test!” I felt my hands trembling, and Drake gave me a cold bottle of beer.
“We will take you back up to the White House now.” He motioned to a couple of agents, brought out a pad and pen from within his jacket and made a note. “All the best, President Reynolds.” He saluted and strode off, but not before I caught a glimpse of his notepad. Amongst an array of ticks and comments was one word - FAIL.