I’m more than familiar with how the rumor mill works. Good journalism usually stays away from it since it’s a slippery slope of hearsay and unreliable testimonies.
I suppose, then, that you should call this story bad journalism. Though, considering this will be the first print issue following the attack, you all have the benefit of hindsight where I only had my dwindling wits.
It began New Year’s Day. I cheered in 1982 with admittedly a bit too much enthusiasm, but I had a lot to celebrate! I just got a promotion and a fancy new communication piece. It had been exclusively military but was now being tested for civilian use. It looked like a pager but had a screen like an arcade cabinet, and below that you could slide a panel aside with your thumbs and type using a small keyboard.
This “texter” was one of three in my department. They were connected like radios, but instead of sound, we sent written words. Handy little things, those texters. We were told they were on their own signal channel, so we didn’t have to worry about them getting hacked.
Anyone ever tell you not to trust anything the government says? The same applies for military scientists and their funny little word devices.
I hadn’t even turned mine on yet. It sat in its box on my kitchen table when its screen suddenly lit up, and it let out a tri-tone chime. I peered at the screen.
“Hello?” it read.
I began to reach for it when another line appeared.
“Hello? Is this getting through? It’s a terribly important matter of national importance.”
I tapped the screen with my fingernail. I thought the thing was broken or something.
“Miss Marlowe?”
Now I seized the texter in both hands and typed a reply as fast as my thumbs could hit the tiny keys. “Who are you? Ryan? I swear if this is another joke, I will make good on that threat with the coffee basket.”
There was a pregnant pause in the messages before that static script appeared again. “Apologies. Please leave the innocent basket alone. You are Lena Marlowe, correct? I have a story for you.”
Whoever this was, he certainly didn’t type like Ryan. I typed a little slower now. “This is she. I don’t take scoops like this. If you have a story for me, then we have proper channels.”
“Then consider this an improper story that needs improper channels. Have you heard rumors lately regarding an Enemy at our borders?”
“Rumors are bad journalism.”
“Hardly. And this one is no rumor.”
I scoffed at the little screen. “You expect me to think some Enemy with robots, lasers, and flying cars is going to send the US back to the dark ages?”
It took at least a full minute before I got a reply. “You turn the lights off from inside the house, Miss Marlowe. This Enemy is already reaching for the switch.”
I voiced my next incredulous question as I typed it. “Then what do you expect me to do? Bother the military!”
“I did and I’m already working with them. Believe me, the folks at the top of this ladder are thoroughly informed. The average citizen, however, is not. I find that unfair, so I reached out to you.”
“Why?”
“Is this an acceptance of my story?”
Oh, I could see the mystery man’s smug little smile behind my screen. I took a breath meant to steady my journalist’s head and replied slowly. “What’s in it for me?”
“Exclusivity. I have means to get your story sent nationwide. You’ll get to pick up the rock and show the anthill hiding beneath, then tell the ignorant citizen how to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?”
“A long night.”
My texter switched off. I smacked it, then clicked its power button. It turned on, but there was no evidence of the conversation; no history, no log, no nothing.
After writing down the important parts on ever-reliable paper, I started digging through my home office for anything I’d gathered about the Enemy.
I wasn’t entirely ignorant, unlike what my mysterious John Doe informant implied. In fact, most everyone I knew had heard something about the Enemy. Some made guesses about what it wanted or where it was from, but that was rumor mill fodder. The facts were scarce. All we truly knew was that the Enemy existed.
If there was something else going on, something big enough that a military advisor would reach out to me through an experimental piece of communication equipment, I’d be doing my curiosity, my nation, and journalism itself a disservice if I let this lead run dry!
Was I a little reckless about it? Probably. But there was a golden carrot dangled in front of me, and I love shiny things.
John Doe, my whistleblower, would contact me at odd times. I was fortunate to have an established habit of keeping a journal on me. He did put my speed with shorthand to the test, as sometimes his messages would appear for only a minute before my texter turned off. “Erasing the digital footprint,” John called it. I called it annoying. I didn’t want to be glued to this piece of plastic and glass all day, answering all its tri-tone whims.
I won’t recount the eight weeks of research and investigation that followed. We all lived what I found out, after all.
What I will recount was my kidnapping.
I’m sorry to say the event itself was so unlike the spy movies. I had barely registered what I thought was a bug bite before I woke up in what I can happily say was a classic interrogation room: intrepid reporter tied to a chair, a single light overhead in an otherwise dark room, a mysterious voice speaking from the shadows, the whole nine yards.
My texter was in my lap, and one of my hands was cuffed to the chair.
My texter lit up. “Does your head hurt?”
“Where am I?” I said aloud.
“Safe,” said my texter.
I picked the thing up and peered into the dark. I made some attempt to use the screen as a light source, but it was too dim.
My texter beeped. “You were being followed.”
“Clearly,” I said with a scoff.
“Not by us.”
I waved the texter around. “So you preemptively kidnapped me? You could have told me to meet you somewhere.”
“I have a thing for theatrics, I’m afraid.”
“You’re insufferable, John.”
“Clearly.”
I chuckled.
“Shall I shed some light on things?” asked my device. I didn’t get a chance to reply before the lights clicked on. The room was maybe seven feet squared with a door on one wall.
A man entered. He was tall, skinny, and dark skinned, with glasses perched on his nose, and shoulder-length braided hair tied in a ponytail. He was dressed how I thought a librarian would dress, with dark brown slacks, an off-white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a buttoned tweed vest.
He held a texter. A few thumb clicks later and my texter beeped.
“We meet at last.”
My focus snapped from the texter to the man. “John?”
He smiled and inclined his head. “The same.” He undid the cuff on my arm and then held out his hand. I stood up and shook it.
“I’m Doctor Lucien Vector. It’s good to meet you face to face, Miss Marlowe.”
I returned the smile. “Lena, please. We’ve collaborated on this long enough.”
“Very well, Lena.”
Lucien then led me through a warehouse I could swear was making robots, lasers, and flying cars. At least, parts for them. Large sheets of metal and tangles of wire sat about nearly everywhere. Soldiers patrolled along catwalks on the walls. I did note a closed off area in the middle of the complex, a perfectly cubed room about twenty feet on each side.
He told me about his military-sanctioned project, about Enemy plans, and about recent advancements in arcade cabinet technology. Unfortunately, it was all classified so I can’t say much in specifics.
What I can say is that Lucien was worried. His project was missing a vital piece and the Enemy’s attack was imminent.
Unfortunately, imminent became immediate.
The ground rumbled under our shoes. Then the power went out. The air charged with cloying static that made my teeth itch.
The soldiers were on alert in an instant. Two seemingly appeared with me, and Lucien and started ushering us toward the middle cube room. Progress was slow since the soldiers only had flashlights to work with, and we had to navigate rickety walkways and steep stairs.
Lucien kept looking at the ceiling. “Why hasn’t the generator kicked on? It’s meant to do so if there’s any electrical interruption from the power grid!” He tried to smooth down his staticky hair and got a few small shocks for his troubles. “This doesn’t make sense! We know they would target the grids, so why would bombs—!” Then he stopped short so suddenly that I bumped into him.
“Oh… oh no.”
“What is it?” I asked.
The soldiers prompted us to move, but Lucien was stuck in thought. One arm crossed over his ribs while the other sat atop it, and his hand met his chin. It took a few seconds before he spoke again, turning partially to me. “Not long ago we intercepted that Enemy communique and heard them mention bombs. Specifically, they said “bombs without fire.””
I shrugged. “Meaning?”
“This static in the air . . . what if their bombs weren’t thermal, but . . . electrical?” His arms dropped as his eyes widened bigger than his glasses. “They’re not bombs. They’re EMPs!”
“Contact!” called one of the soldiers. Gunfire started tearing through the warehouse. The two soldiers with us began physically shoving us toward the room in the center. A few explosions sounded from outside. “RPG!”
One of the warehouse walls burst into chunks of rock and metal. The light of sunset bathed black-clad soldiers in sharp shadows. “Bring us Vector!” one of them shouted.
Lucien made a startled squeak in his throat and almost tripped over his own feet. My heart sank. These Enemy soldiers were after Lucien? Did they want to take him alive? What for? Ransom? Interrogation? . . . Execution?
The soldiers continued escorting us to what I assumed was a saferoom or vault. Unfortunately, the lack of cover between us and said saferoom drew the Enemy’s fire.
Our soldiers shouted us onward with promises to cover us, but once the guns went off, I knew their chances were slim. There were so many Enemies and maybe a dozen of us.
There was furious cacophony of gunfire that made my head ring, but then there was a lull in the noise. Lucien and I found ourselves frozen in bright flashlight beams. Lucien pulled me behind him.
“Lucien Vector!” called one of the soldiers. He had a strange accent that I couldn’t place. “You have conspired against us, we who are now this nation’s absolute authority. We have use for clever men like yourself. Surrender quietly. We would rather not have to take you to a medic before we take you to your . . . new home.”
The speaker was at the head of a squad of faceless soldiers who all had lights and muzzles aimed at us. More soldiers were coming in through the blown-up wall. They checked our friendly soldiers, and I flinched every time another shot went point blank into a body. It wouldn’t be long before we were surrounded. The door to the saferoom was about ten running steps to our left.
Lucien kept himself between me and the Enemy in front of us. He turned his head a little and spoke softly. “Lena. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Lucien.”
The Enemy barked at us again. “Answer, Mister Vector.”
“Doctor,” he grumbled.
“Leave the woman. Come with us now and we will make sure you come to minimal harm.”
“What about her?” Lucien asked.
“We will shoot her.”
My mouth went dry.
“Then I’m not moving.”
The Enemy motioned for his men to start flanking us.
“Wait, wait!” Lucien backed up a little, forcing me back with him. Grips shifted on rifles, and I was close enough to hear Lucien’s voice crack. “Please, just wait! I-I have something to say.”
“Go on,” said the Enemy in a bored tone.
Lucien’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath he took. I could see his arms shaking and the sweat on the back of his neck. With permission granted to speak, he took a deep breath, and his sides tensed as he prepared to shout.
“Knight! Evacuate!”
There were a few horrible seconds of utter stillness.
Then the wall to the saferoom beside us burst apart and something roared through the rubble. It sped past us and screamed in an arc across the Enemy squad, knocking them over.
Lucien turned and hugged me to shield from the bullets that started pinging off the shiny shell of whatever had crashed through the wall. It closed the distance, curved around us, and Lucien reached around me to pull something open.
I turned and finally got a look at a sleek, alien-looking car before Lucien shoved me into it.
I flopped into the seat with a yelp.
A soldier shouted.
Lucien slammed the door shut with the full weight of his body.
A gun fired.
Blood spat from Lucien’s shoulder onto the car window.
Only then did I find my voice again. “Lucien!”
He leaned against the window, holding his shoulder. “I’ll be fine . . . keep the car.” His voice was muffled by the thick glass, but I could see a pained smirk on his face. He shouted at the car again. “Knight. Accept input from passenger. Escape!”
“What?” I gasped. The car revved up. I pounded on the window. “Lucien, no! What are you doing?!”
The car moved on its own. Bullets bounced like rocks off the windows and roof as it turned a half circle and zoomed through the hole in the warehouse wall. It slalomed around Enemy vehicles and onto a road where its speedometer spiked well past 100.
Night had fallen by then and the power was out, so the only light came from the moon, distant fires from Enemy attacks, and the car’s headlights.
I cried into that night.
As much as I would like to say that I found Lucien and restored power and the Enemy was successfully repelled, I think we all know that didn’t happen. I think we all know it still hasn’t happened.
I believe Lucien is still out there. If his strange car is anything like the project he told me about, then I believe there’s hope for us yet.
Whether you’re reading this by candlelight or sunlight, or if you’re some of the lucky few who have working lightbulbs, I want to reassure you. This flurry of misfortune won’t last forever. This Knight project will find its missing piece soon, and we’ll reclaim what’s ours from the Enemy.
Until then, if you see a fancy silver car driving without anyone behind the wheel, don’t try to stop it. I found out it has missile launchers.