Chapter 3 - Hold On, I'm Comin'
In orbit above Cape Kennedy Air Force Station
July 4, 1968
Wally Schirra was afraid.
It felt wrong. He had been in space twice before, and it was almost a second home. The great unknown, scary to many, had always appealed to him in a way that made his current position in the Apollo program an absolute dream job. But as he began his third trip into space, the Earth's atmosphere gradually disappearing behind him, he sensed a strangely familiar feeling took over, one he hadn't felt since his first flight.
This is new. New because he wasn't just going to be accompanied by satellites and space stations. This time, there was an entire alien race waiting for him. And as much as he hoped things would go well, if they didn't then he wasn't long for the earth (or space, he thought dryly).
"Apollo 7, this is Houston. We can confirm you have exited atmosphere, you should make contact with the alien ships soon."
"Roger, Houston, all systems green in Apollo 7," he replied, and not a moment later the Migrant Fleet came into view.
Schirra gasped and muttered "Sweet Jesus…" under his breath. There were thousands, no, tens of thousands of ships in orbit. They came in every shape and size, seemingly a hodgepodge of various different alien designs (but then again, what did he know about alien designs?). Even in this stationary position, they still danced in formation in and around each other. Every direction he looked, there were ships. Incredible, sometimes ugly, but always breathtaking ships.
"Apollo 7, this is Houston. What's your status?"
He didn't reply, still transfixed by the site of the alien vessels.
"Apollo 7, this is Houston. Repeat: what's your status?"
"Houston, this is Apollo 7. I have rendezvoused with the alien ships."
"Roger that, Apollo 7. Please describe the alien ships."
"Houston, they should have sent a poet. In 500 years maybe we'll have ships like these. There's got to be at least…50,000 I'd say, probably more. I can't identify the material they're made of, but it doesn't look anything we have on Earth. Some of these ships are as big as cities. One looks like a giant oval with a small stick protruding from the side, and I-"
He was cut off by a transmission. But not one from Houston.
In orbit above "Earth"/"Terre", liveship Rayya
July 4, 1968
The five Admirals watched the live transmission from the "Cape Kennedy Air Force Station" in silence. It was an incredibly primitive and inefficient way to reach space, but it would work for the humans' purposes. Across the Migrant Fleet, quarians peered out the windows of their ships hoping to catch a glimpse of the primitive spacecraft, the likes of which hadn't been since before their Ancestors had discovered Mass Effect technology.
Eventually the rocket and other launch-dependent parts of the "Apollo" broke up and disintegrated in the atmosphere, and a small white object was visible.
"Alright, this is it." Neel'Koris broke the silence. "Can we make contact with the 'Apollo 7' spacecraft?"
"Yes, of course we can," Nurn'Xen replied with a bit more sarcasm than was necessary for the occasion. "It uses a combination of terrestrial radio technology and satellites, but we should easily be able to send a transmission that the captain can hear. To prevent confusion, we can open a separate channel from the one he is using to communicate with his superiors on the ground."
Yessi'Sheyn shifted uncomfortably in position, and Neel'Koris read her thoughts. "I know, Yessi. I'm nervous too. But perhaps we can help these people, and they us. We are running out of options."
Yessi'Sheyn let out a quiet, high-pitched growl, the quarian equivalent of an anxious sigh, but nodded. "Very well. Neel'Koris, would you like to do the honors?"
Neel'Koris didn't reply, instead bringing up his omni-tool and scanning local transmissions for unknown contacts. A moment later, they were connected to the ship.
"Hello," Neel'Koris began in heavily-accented English, as his message was simultaneously broadcasted to the Apollo 7 and the entire Migrant Fleet (the latter with Khelish translation). The language was strange, elegant and savage-sounding at the same time. "My name is Admiral Neel'Koris of the Quarian Migrant Fleet. Can you understand me?"
Silence for a moment; likely the captain was frantically relaying everything to his superiors.
"Yes," a voice came back, and everyone in the Fleet held their breath. "How can you understand me?"
Neel'Koris thought it a rather anticlimactic question for First Contact with an alien race, but he supposed it made sense. "We have been monitoring your satellites and terrestrial radio broadcasts for approximately three Earth months, since shortly after we entered the Solar System."
"On behalf of the quarian people, I welcome you to our home, the Migrant Fleet," he continued after receiving no reply. "We come in peace, and ask for the same from humanity."
Several more moments of silence. "My name is Captain Walter Schirra of the United States of America. I have come to negotiate on behalf of my country. We also wish for peace, but will defend ourselves."
Nurn'Xen made a disapproving sound; she likely would have preferred a different country to negotiate with. "Captain Walter'Schirra vas Apollo 7, we accept your presence as a diplomatic envoy for the United States," Neel'Koris replied. "We will be sending a small ship to meet up with your own. This ship will have a docking hangar, and should allow you to safely exit your own ship with no issues. After our meeting has concluded, we will return you to Earth." It wasn't really a 'ship', per se, but Schirra was a Captain, and in charge of the thing. Plus it was wise to be respectful during First Contact.
Another pause. "Admiral Neel'Koris, the United States finds these terms acceptable, provided we have your word no harm will come to myself."
Neel'Koris looked at the other Admirals, who all quickly signaled their assent. "You have our word, Captain Walter'Schirra. In sight of the Ancestors, we pledge safe passage for you and the Apollo 7."
"Thank you, Admiral. I will wait here for your arrival. Will I need supplemental oxygen to survive within your ship?"
The Admirals had discussed this before, and ultimately concluded the best solution was to isolate the hangar area from the rest of the ship's air filtration system, at the cost of having to order a decontamination for the hangar later. After all, it was unlikely that primitive early spaceflight aliens had spacesuits with unlimited air.
"Captain Walter'Schirra, the atmosphere of Earth is a mixture of nitrogen and oxygen, correct?"
"Correct. Our atmosphere contains 78% nitrogen and 21% oxygen, with trace amounts of other elements."
The Admirals were not surprised. Other than the volus, it seemed every species breathed nitrogen and oxygen, more or less. Neel'Koris wondered if it was the Protheans' doing.
"You should be able to breathe the atmosphere within the hangar of the Tonbay, the ship that will greet you, without any issues. As a precaution, we will be temporarily sealing the hangar and isolating its air filtration system from the rest of the ship, and ask that you remain within the hangar for this first meeting."
"Admiral, that sounds fine to me, but Houston - my superiors - want to know why I can't explore the rest of the ship."
"We need to make sure you have no diseases which could infect us," Neel'Koris half-lied. The immune system of the quarians was a topic he wanted to personally discuss with their leaders.
Yet another pregnant pause hung over the line. "Affirmative, Admiral Neel'Koris. The United States accepts your conditions and looks forward to diplomatic negotiations."
"Thank you, Captain. The Tonbay will be arriving to greet you within an Earth-standard hour. Terminating signal now," he replied, shutting off the communicator as he did so.
Woody Creek, Colorado
July 4, 1968
"The Longest Hour."
Hunter S. Thompson said his thought aloud to nobody in particular as he took another drag off his joint. That was the good thing about pot. You always found yourself talking about your ideas out loud. Ideas and drugs were good. But drugs and no ideas, like the San Francisco types...blech.
It was an apt a name as ever for an hour that would likely go down in history. He cringed as he considered that a peaceful First Contact, which this apparently was, could probably make the "Summer of Aliens" (they're coming to me now) even more obnoxious than last year's Summer of Love. At least a war would have made for some good news columns.
Wait.
As Hunter finished his joint and smashed it in his ashtray, he contemplated subjects that had slipped the mind of most people in the last view days: Vietnam. The election...Kennedy vs. Nixon. Hope vs. Fear. And aliens.
That was it.
Taking a legal cigarette out of his pocket, he got to his typewriter and started working on his next book: Hope, Fear and Aliens On the Campaign Trail '68.
It was time for some fucking journalism.
In orbit above Earth, Apollo 7
July 4, 1968
The hour was up, and Wally Schirra could see the alien ship making its way towards him. Astonishingly, it seemed to completely ignore the gravitational pull of the Earth, and what he presumed was a hangar bay opened once they were within a few hundred meters of each other. Looking at the ship up close, he thought it seemed...old, somehow. The "paint" was inconsistent and some of the parts looked like they were repaired and sourced by a third party. He couldn't be sure, but this "Migrant Fleet" didn't exactly look state-of-the-art.
All of his thoughts immediately turned to the aliens as the Apollo 7 was released from the tractor beam and gently guided to the ground by some sort of mechanical claw. They were wearing suits. A precaution against his germs? Maybe, but the suits weren't uniform. Each alien seemed to have a uniquely colored one, reflecting rank, or perhaps...personality?
Well, only one way to find out. He opened the door and gently walked down the surface, finding the gravity to be quite pleasant, almost Earth-norm.
Every eye in the room was on him. He removed his helmet and ignored the cries of shock as the aliens saw his face for the first time.
"My name is Captain Walter Schirra. I come in peace, on behalf of the United States of America and the human race."
In orbit above Earth, civilian ship Tonbay
"My name is Captain Walter Schirra. I come in peace, on behalf of the United States of America and the human race."
As the alien's words were translated into Khelish, Admiral Neel'Koris was the first to step forward. The Migrant Fleet Marines kept their weapons down for now, but in clear view of the human.
"Captain Walter'Schirra vas Apollo 7, welcome to the Migrant Fleet. I am Admiral Neel'Koris, the one you spoke to on the communicator." His English was still a bit rough, but easily understandable, and he reached into one of his suit compartments. "I have a translator here with English installed. It should make communication easier. Hold it up to your mouth when you wish to speak."
Schirra nodded and accepted the strange looking device, speaking into what looked like the top of it.
"Thank you for the friendly welcome. It is an honor to be the first human to make contact with an alien race, and I am happy this contact has been peaceful."
"As are we, captain," another quarian replied. "I am Admiral Nezu'Gerrel," he said. "We are part of the Admiralty Board, the leadership of the Migrant Fleet. We are sure you have many questions, and we will try to answer them to the best of our ability."
The first human to meet aliens did indeed have a lot of questions - from the White House, from NASA, and most of all from himself.
He started with a simple one. "Why do you call me 'Walter Schirra vas Apollo 7'?"
"Quarians are a nomadic race. We have no planets; our home is the Migrant Fleet," Neel'Koris explained. "'Vas' refers to the ship the quarian is currently resident in, and "Nar" refers to their ship of birth. I, for example, am Neel'Koris vas Relnara nar Shellen."
"I see," Schirra replied, digesting the information. "I suppose that would make me Walter'Schirra vas Apollo 7 nar New Jersey." Christ, that's a mouthful, he thought but didn't say. "But my friends call me Wally, and my bosses Captain Schirra."
"On the subject of the Apollo, Captain Schirra, I take it by the name that this is the seventh such spacecraft you have launched?" Nezu'Gerrel asked. "Your species looks to be in the early stages of spaceflight."
"That we are," Schirra said proudly. "My country has pledged to put a man on the moon by the end of the decade."
"We can most likely assist you with that. Traveling from here to the moon isn't that difficult at all, especially with the nearby Element Zero reserve."
"Nezu!" Neel'Koris yelped, and Captain Schirra seemed surprised. These aliens had not discovered their Prothean ruins on Mars, and that was a subject the Admirals wanted to address once they were on Earth.
"Element Zero?" the Captain asked.
"It, along with the Mass Relays, is what enables our ships to travel through space at speeds faster than light," Neel'Koris said, grateful the Captain hadn't questioned the slip-up. "We arrived in the Solar System by way of a previously deactivated Mass Relay, encased in ice next to the planet you call Pluto." Neel'Koris found it odd that they referred to a dwarf that size as a planet, but he supposed it could be chalked up to them not knowing enough about it.
The questioning continued like this for hours. Walter Schirra told the quarians of humans and their history, and the Admirals in turn relayed the history of the quarians, including their exile from their homeworld by the Geth (but not including the Second Exile, not yet). Finally, the Admirals told him of their plan to land the Tonbay off the shores of Geneva, Switzerland, and they had had their first real disagreement.
"Admirals, why won't you be landing within the United States? And why won't I be returned to my country of origin? We were the nation which made First Contact with you, not the Swiss."
"Captain Schirra," Nezu'Gerrel began carefully, "You must consider our position. We are humanity's first encounter with intelligent life not from your homeworld. The 'Cold War' between your country and the Soviet Union might be made worse if we were to be seen as favoring one nation over another. Your aircraft should allow you to easily return to the United States. We want to help the human race, but we don't want to exacerbate any human conflicts, especially considering the nature of the Fleet."
"Admiral, I thought we agreed to wait until Earth to broach this topic..." Neel'Koris interjected.
"I believe Captain Schirra has earned a certain degree of trust. They are going to find out soon, so he might as well be the first to know," Nezu'Gerrel replied.
"Know what?" Schirra asked.
The two looked at each other, and back to the captain, before Neel'Koris finally answered.
"Captain, we are a communist society."