SHORT STORY--By Thomas Shess--No one paid much attention when the first objects entered the solar system. They were not sleek or silver. They did not flash in the sun or arrive to celestial music. They were vast, coal-black, and almost aggressively plain—more like oil tankers than starships, the sort of things people ignored unless they blocked the view from a waterfront restaurant.
Astronomers catalogued them.
Governments issued statements.
The Guardian called them “cosmic jetsam.”
The Tri-State Tattler said they possessed “all the majesty of a Staten Island garbage barge headed the wrong way.”
Fox News discovered Southern lawmaker with traceable IQ.
Slow day on the Internet. Most of the world scrolled past. There was a divorce in Hollywood, a former President dies in prison and a British princess had worn the same coat twice. Air Control screens in New Jersey area tuned to opening day of NFL season.
Curiosity had apparently been removed in the latest software update.
Then one of the objects descended. It came through the atmosphere without fire, sound, or permission and settled in the East River between Manhattan and Queens.
It displaced no water. It cast no wake. It simply floated there, six city blocks long, blacker than the river beneath it. New Yorkers noticed because ferry service stopped. The yacht clubs noticed because brunch was delayed. Wall Street noticed because no one knew whether to buy it, short it, insure it, or sue it. A reporter from the New York Post, reassigned from Belmont Park, stood on the riverbank and asked the first serious question of the day. “How come it floats?”
City officials announced a press conference. It was held in the lobby of the East River Trump Jr. Hotel, inside the former United Nations building, which had recently been converted into luxury residences under the slogan: MAKING DIPLOMACY PROFITABLE.
Reporters filled the lobby. Influencers arranged themselves near the cameras. Cabinet secretaries practiced grave expressions. A senator from Texas demanded to know whether the visitors had entered legally. At noon, the alien appeared. No ramp opened. No door moved. The visitor simply gathered itself out of the air, first as light, then shape, then substance. It was tall, narrow, and translucent. Its face—if that was its face—held several dark, patient eyes. Every translation device in the room activated at once. No subscription was required. No premium tier appeared. Even telephones with cracked screens and unpaid balances worked perfectly. The visitor raised one delicate hand. The world's room fell silent.
Humanity had waited thousands of years for this moment.
The first reporter shouted, “Will there be tours of the ship?”
Another called, “Have you cured cancer?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Where is Jimmy Hoffa?”
“Should we sell technology stocks?”
“What took you so long?”
“Will your people be staying in New York?”
“Do you carry diseases?”
“Do you have weapons?”
“What do your women look like?”
“Is there Italian food where you come from?”
The visitor lowered its hand. One of its eyes closed. Then another. A cable-news correspondent pushed toward the front. “Can you tell us what message you have brought for mankind?”
The visitor looked at the crowd for a long time. Its translation device made a soft sound, as though preparing to speak. Then the visitor vanished. For several seconds no one moved. The Post reporter raised her hand. “Does that mean the tours are off?”
***
At the East River, the black vessel stirred. A structure unfolded from its underside and lowered into the water. It resembled the trunk of some enormous mechanical animal.
The ship drank. The river fell three feet in less than a minute. Mud, bicycles, shopping carts, two stolen automobiles, and the roof of a nineteenth-century ferry appeared along the exposed banks.
Then the ship drank the sky.
Every cloud between Manhattan and Philadelphia disappeared. The rain stopped over three states. Humidity fell to twelve percent. Thousands of people stared upward, shielding their eyes from sunlight they had forgotten existed.
The vessel rose without sound and left the atmosphere. It took nothing else.
For forty-eight hours the world argued over whether humanity had been invaded, insulted, studied, or saved from rain.
Reuters published a slideshow titled WHERE DID OUR CLOUDS GO?
Congress scheduled hearings.
The United Nations, operating from rented offices in Newark since the terrorist bombing, demanded the return of the East River water.
Three religions claimed the visitor.
Seven technology companies announced partnerships.
A billionaire offered refunds for a future tourist flight to the alien ship. Then the transmission from afar beyond Harrisburg arrived.
It was brief. The message had apparently been intended for other travelers, not for Earth. After six weeks of analysis, every translation system produced the same text: SPECIES CAPABLE OF SPEECH. PRIMATIVE. NO EVIDENCE OF DEEP THOUGHT.. INANE. REQUESTS MIRACLES BEFORE OFFERING COURTESY. STILL WORSHIPS FAKE GODS THE MOST UNGRATEFUL KIND. SELFISH. AVOID FOR NOW. TRY EPPINAX. JARL-SEEK, OUTER MOON OF PLUTO.
There was public outrage. Scientists complained that the assessment had been based on an inadequate sample. Politicians called it foreign interference. Religious leaders objected to the word “miracles.” The New York Post ran the headline: ALIENS HATE US—AND STOLE OUR WATER
By the end of the week, the aliens left and the story had disappeared from the front pages the next day in favor of covering a movie star had announced her engagement to a baseball player. They will be married in the nude and honeymoon in the Catskills. Same old, same old. Media covering the event asked to bring sunscreen.
If it didn't happen this way, it should have.
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