Two

0 Hours In

"Mr. Corregan, the President will see you now."

After nodding to the assistant, Corregan practically leapt from his cushy seat and jauntily strode into the Oval Office of the White House. Oak oxfords dug into the thick carpeting as he reached the center of the room. A man, slightly taller and lighter-skinned than Corregan and who wore a well-maintained amber coif already graying at the temples, stood with impeccable posture.

"Mr. President," Corregan greeted in his affable yet steady baritone as he extended a cordial hand.

"Martin! How are ya?" the President sprung forward with his usual verve and warmly embraced Corregan's salutation. The airy tone the President took when speaking, especially to close friends, belied his cold intelligence and expertly-honed strategic senses that had brought him to the Oval Office. Corregan always maintained an alertness when near his old friend, but he nonetheless graciously accepted the warm hospitality. The President gestured toward one of the two plush couches occupying the office. "Please, sit!"

Corregan unbuttoned his tailored three-button navy blue wool jacket and sat across from the President, who plunked down right on the edge of the cushion. They had been friends since the early days of the President's political career—Corregan had served on his campaign staff during his close race to his first term as a U.S. Representative from Indiana. They spent several congenial minutes catching up on their families and escaping from the thralls of their respective daily affairs.

"So Martin, your son will be headed off to college soon, right?"

"Yessir. We're still narrowing it down. Got a few months until application season opens, but still…Jack can be a bit, indecisive, at times."

"Your son, indecisive? Not sure where he got that from…" the President bandied with a grin. "Course, you always told me you were 'considering all your options' during our cases back at CitDef."

Corregan chuckled and gave a curt nod. Both the President and he had spent a few years as young and idealistic lawyers, working for the Coalition for Citizen Defenses—shortened to CitDef by the program's veterans. After the President's election to Congress, Corregan had moved into the private sector as a corporate consultant. His wife had given birth to Jack the day before the President took his first oath as a Representative, and the realities of becoming a father had tamped the fiery idealism of unburdened youth. And I certainly can't pass up that paycheck, he had told his loving wife the night before he submitted his resignation from CitDef.

"Y'know, Martin, I can write a rec letter for Jack. He was a good page in Congress. Wouldn't hurt to have a letter from the White House in his back pocket." The President reclined back into the couch, stocky and genial fingers running along the seams of the ornate upholstery. "Even if it was written by an outgoing president."

"How have you been holding up, sir?"

"Hah, holding up, good one. A lame duck like me…Congress is standing in the bushes, rifle in hand, ready to put me out of my misery. Approval ratings are deplorable. Talking heads on the news have gotten even more bombastic—that bit actually impresses me." The southpaw reached for the bottle of spring water on the mahogany table dividing the two couches. Corregan involuntarily smirked at how he had ingrained in the President a compelling water addiction, and that the President's preferred brand had not changed since they shared a desk at CitDef. "Truth be told," the President began after taking a deep pull from the bottle, "I'll be pretty relieved when it's over."

"And then it's all Welton's problem, sir—if he wins."

"If…now I like the sound of that!" he laughed, a sound which reverberated pleasantly around the decorated walls of the Oval Office. Corregan firmly believed that laugh is what won that first and extremely tightly contested seat in the House. It brought an indescribable energy to the air so privileged to carry it, which—like many of the President's constituency—had appealed to Corregan.

"Good, good. But—before you officially pass the buck, Mr. President—I assume there're a few things you want to get done. And I assume that's why I'm here."

Corregan reclined as the President sighed and probed with his hazel eyes every nascent wrinkle on Corregan's face. "I do, Martin. I have a mission for you."

"A mission?"

"Yes, one of diplomacy. I know you've been outta the civil liberties game for some time now, but back at CitDef, no one—and I mean no one—could hold a candle to the way you managed your cases. You've always been level-headed while still being open to novel ideas and approaches. I've admired that about ya for a long while."

"I appreciate the praise, Mr. President. But, surely there're more qualified people on your staff to deal with…whatever this is."

The President effortlessly amplified the intensity in his voice, the second-most important ability for his electability. "No. This one is all you, Martin."

A slight pause, then, "Sir, what exactly is this mission?"

The President scooted forward until he was practically squatting in front of the cushion. "Bear with me on it, okay? Promise me that first."

"I, uh…sure, yessir, of course."

"Alright. So, a couple of years back, we had a…an asylum-seeker who landed on American soil. He was an exile, a political refugee, and had taken up residence in Hawaii when we got to him. We extended the courtesy of protection, and he's been living here, quietly and without major incident, ever since."

The President drained the water bottle, which popped as it was disgorged, before he continued. "A few days ago, he was recalled by the government that exiled him, who claimed they were working to finalize something about removing him from a military commission, and then confirming his transfer to us. They promised him safe passage, that the issues from the past were buried. In fact, he had been back several times before, but this one…it seemed wrong. We had asked him to stay, but he chose otherwise. Twenty hours ago, we received a call." The President produced a recorder from his jacket pocket and played two messages—one in English, and one decidedly not.

Immediately, Corregan was awestruck, and his jaw hung open for the recorder's full two-minute playback. As the words of the tape disappeared, he struggled to make his own appear. After a few false starts, "I…sir, what…what language was that? Where exactly is this asylum-seeker? What country?"

"Not a country, Martin."

"Well, he's on this planet at least, right?" Corregan glibly remarked. The President sat stoically. "Right, sir?"

"Martin, the asylum-seeker is an alien."

Corregan showed his teeth through a nervous smirk. "Well, sir, I know it's been awhile since you've practiced, but if they're from another sovereign nation, then, yes, they would be an alien…"

"No. The extraterrestrial kind."

It slipped out. Corregan tried to hold back the derisive snicker, but it surreptitiously sneaked out of the corner of his mouth. "C'mon, sir, those kinds of aliens don't exist. And even if they do, there can't be one living in Hawaii."

"You're right, not one. Over six hundred are."

His head filled with helium, and threatened to take his body up to the ceiling. Corregan sunk deeper into the couch, to be as leaden as possible. His ploy failed, and he began to rise. He clutched the armrest to keep from flying away. "How…how has nobody noticed? This should've hit the news the second they showed up."

"Martin, you know better than I that people will believe what they wanna believe. People think they're alone in this universe, and especially so on this planet. There's no reason to upset their understanding. Now these six hundred or so, they followed our asylum-seeker—they're all from similar stock. Fortunately, they're not all out and about at the same time. And the ones who are near to the public's view, they take great care to stay out of sight. It works."

Corregan took a moment to revel in amazement. My child is growing up in a world with aliens. For several hushed minutes, the two of them tumbled through a new reality. Corregan's sharp mind processed the President's disclosure, and then formulated all sorts of questions. He quickly chose the few he needed answered most urgently. "So my mission would be to, what? Get him back?"

"As diplomatically as possible, yes. Compared to the government that has him, we're terribly under-advanced and out-gunned. We sure won't be able to extricate him by force. Diplomacy and negotiation are our best bet."

Our only bet, Corregan corrected in his head. "Why…" he swallowed. "Why is he being held?"

"That we don't know. They only called to adhere to his request for counsel. Nothing specific."

"Are…are they peaceful?"

"Aside from a few minor hiccups, yes, they haven't been belligerent. The ones who are here, they just want to be left alone. The ones up there, well…we're not sure. They've never been hostile before, but…."

"Uh—Mr. President, I…I don't think I can…" Corregan stumbled in a sudden loss of fluency.

Congenial hands begged for his ear. "I understand, Martin, it's a lot to ask. I could barely believe it myself when I first found out about 'em. Your head must be reeling, it must seem unreal, but Martin, you're the best man for this job, I know it—I feel it. Please, Martin."

Corregan sat, transfixed by limpid hazel eyes. They shimmered in a familiar way, a way he remembered from long ago. Familiar, yet discomforting. Yet powerful. He sighed. "How do I get there?"

"So you're in, then?" Corregan hesitated, for an instant, then nodded his assent. The President, who did not seem to notice the pause, closed his hazel eyes for a moment and let a tremendous weight slide off his shoulders. "Great, that's…wonderful, Martin. Thank you. Okay, right, so, you'll be serving as our Special Envoy on this endeavor—congratulations, Ambassador." He flourished the title with the cheeky grin he wore to big campaigning events. Corregan waved him off, and the President, looking slightly wounded, continued. "The aliens have arranged transportation for our dignitaries. He's being held on their government's capital word, a place called Turo."

"So you're sending more than just me, then?"

"Correct, Martin. One other, actually. That's what the aliens limited us to."

"I see. So who's the other?"

"Well, we'll get to that, but first, any other questions?"

Corregan mulled as he sorted the questions in his head over and over. He finally settled on, "Sir, what about political blow-back? What if another country finds out we're harboring extraterrestrial beings? Or sees us undertake this mission? And the United Nations, if they get involved. I mean, the implications could be staggering…."

"You don't worry about that part. Let a lame duck handle that."

"Even so, sir, this isn't something that'll be swept under the—"

"I'll handle it, Martin. Trust me."

Corregan was puzzled. The President's sudden intensity had new questions sprouting in Corregan's mind, questions which he quickly harvested. "Sir, why are you so concerned about this creature? It seems that we could avoid a big headache if we just…let it be, or let this other government have its way. What are we getting out of this?"

The President let out what sounded to Corregan as years of pent-up exasperation. He rubbed his chin as his hazel eyes wandered around the office. Corregan recognized his tell from their days at CitDef. "Another agenda, sir?"

"No, Martin, it's not like that. It's…look, these aliens inviting us to the table, it's, unprecedented. We've known about them for years now, but we've never been part of the process, only bystanders. With our active role in this, we can become part of the galactic community. Think on that—untold economic expansion, practically magical technological innovation, a completely new social order. It changes the very understanding of man's place in this universe. It's exciting and terrifying, Martin. It certainly won't happen overnight, but a chance is all we need to open the door. This is our chance," he gestured firmly as he spoke, "to show these beings that we belong at the table. If I could go myself, I would in a heartbeat, but…duty calls," he finished while his eyes landed on the front of the Resolute desk, set against the backdrop of tall bay windows. The embossed presidential seal on the hinged front panel glowed warmly in the morning light streaming into the room.

You are a lame duck. Corregan snorted, an action he did not mean to sound as flippant as it did. The President wheeled back to him. "And how can we achieve all of that, sir?" Corregan eased his tone. "What can I do?"

"You, my friend," the President knocked his knuckles against the table in time with his speech's rhythm. "You can be the best damned representative of humanity that you can be. A lot rides on this, Martin. Humanity's future could very well be at stake." They sat for a subdued minute. "Martin, are you still in?"

Corregan raised his head, and slowly nodded. The President smiled before Corregan resumed his interrogation. "So who received the call?"

"Well, it was recorded and given to our point-man by the alien's…ehm, handler."

"Handler? Who's that?"

"Well, she's technically his legal guardian, you could say. Very bright, tenacious young woman."

"How young?"

"Oh, right about, uh, ten years old now."

Corregan had to fight back the snicker again. "Sir, a galactic government communicates with humanity through a ten-year-old girl?"

"She's very bright."

A little girl as the spokesperson for the human race, Corregan marveled. He filed away the concern for later and did his best to appease the President. "Y'know, I…fine. Fine. Who's the point-man?"

"Former CIA asset. Been our main point of contact with the girl and has worked with the aliens since their arrival. Isn't too keen on helping out his old employer, but he's the one with the most…experience dealing with these folk."

"Will he be accompanying me?"

"Uh, no. He has been tasked with another part of handling this mess. And the aliens were very clear that only one human representative was to be on this trip."

Corregan's stomach dropped out from under him. "Sir. Who is the other dignitary?"

The President rose from the couch, leaving Corregan stumbling to his feet as he copied. Together, they strode to the desk. The President produced a small key, unlocked one of the bottom drawers, and rifled through reams of national security and policy briefs before plopping a manila folder, thickened by inserts protruding in several directions, onto the desk. "All the pertinent reports from our CIA point-man. Everything you need is in there. I've also marked the bio of your partner for this mission."

"Sorry sir, but…is that paper?"

"Oh, you noticed?"

Corregan ran a finger along the ragged edge of obsolescence. "Why, sir? What's wrong with a nice electronic unit? Or a tablet? Or…well, anything else?"

The President flashed a reassuring smile—a campaigning smile. "Trust me, it'll make sense soon. But, I suggest you give those papers a good read during the car ride over."

Corregan hefted the folder, halting a few pages that threatened to slip out, and asked, "Ride where, sir?"

The President smiled wider. Corregan' stomach fell to the floor. "To the launch site. You leave now."

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