Plan Nine

The long suppressed history of the Earth's race for the vital kernel of knowledge that makes the difference between Cortez and Montezuma.

As of the first contact with extraterrestrials, I had established the following: Earth lay under threat from blind piles of feces that had no clear insides nor outsides, could travel through space, burrow under the earth, and hurl potatoes at lethal velocities. They operated on a countdown, sent from Whom So Ever to I knew not who, and were prepared to visit upon my planet either or both ozone destruction and/or atmospheric conflagration. I may, at this stage, have trapped their leader. Or, possibly, fallen into his (his?) trap. I may have successfully surrounded the enemy's only ship and captured its entire invading army. Or, possibly, partially dug up one of its discarded wrecks and incarcerated the ship's janitorial staff. I just didn't know. And in the fullness of time this would all prove merely an abbreviated account of my ignorance.

CIA agent David Rhodes and anthropologist Evelyn Ellis lead the US mission to investigate-and conceal-the world's first contact with extraterrestrials.

I suggested that Evelyn read the message in her role as anthropologist. She declined on the grounds that "If we say the wrong thing, they will probably eat the one reading the parchment." I read the parchment: "Greetings from our planet, Earth, from its most important country, the United States of America. We welcome you and offer you a peaceful place to stay. I am David Rhodes, a messenger from our leader. Please tell us if there is anything you need. Anything we can do to make you safe and welcome." So, a hello. A bit of geography. A boast. A welcome. A responsible party to incinerate if disappointed. The mention of a leader ambiguously posed between the global and the merely national. And finally, a friendly offer to reveal vulnerabilities. Welcome to our planet.

Together they hold the impossible secret.

The challenge lay in just how tellable the tale felt. Any who heard would struggle against at least hinting that We Are Not Alone. And if the secret got out, "panic" would spread. Pitchforks or peace signs, every member of the public will have a definite-and more or less instant-idea of what to do to the little green men. And the littler and greener the men, the more the response will tend toward pitchforks.

And everything depends on holding together.

I saw a flicker of doubt take hold of Evelyn's features before her trust in me kicked it away. Nothing serves an intelligence officer so well as controlling trust. Building it, using it, ruining it. Trust; the universal tool. People talk as if you can see both ends of it at once. They call it a two-way street. But it isn't. Trust is a borrowed tool; given, used, returned to be used and given back again. Trust has a transit. It can become lost in its exchange.

Cerebral, satirical, and touching; a story about the limits of knowledge, the fragility of communication, and what it is to be human-or not.