Chapter 5: Concerts, Weather and Steampunk Movies

"Samuel?" President Atkinson called to his Chief of Staff, motioning with his finger as they left the press room following another meaningless news conference. "Follow me, we need to talk." The president wasn't overly fond of these Press events where reporters felt free to call out any question they wanted, even when it was clear they'd only called the event to discuss a single issue. Although he knew he needed them and they'd come in handy during the election, he hated the press with a passion he sometimes found hard to conceal. Still, his patented smile was almost permanently etched onto his face.

"Sir?" Samuel White, his Chief of Staff, asked as he caught up with his boss.

"I need an update on those 'Anton tickets'," Atkinson announced, staring forward as always, not bothering to glance at either who he was speaking with or anyone surrounding them. "I haven't heard anything for several days and they're going to be 'in town' any day now."

"Uh, are you sure now's the best time to discuss it," Samuel asked, glancing at those accompanying them—people he wasn't sure were authorized to overhear their conversation. "I mean, you wouldn't want to spoil the girl's surprise."

"Hey, we only have so much time remaining, and I trust my people not to blab news about something which may never take place," the president replied, speaking loudly enough for everyone around them to overhear, even though his glare was reserved for Samuel alone. "You really don't need to make such a big deal about every little thing."

"If you'll remember, it was you who... , never mind. You're correct, sir, it's not worth sweating over," Samuel said, backtracking when the big man wouldn't stop glaring at him. As disconcerting as it was not being recognized, it was even worse having the President of the United States glaring at you like a bug on the wall. As long as he'd worked here he hadn't gotten used to either extreme yet. "So far we haven't been able to get solid confirmation about the date and location of the concert," he explained, quickly extemporizing.

"Really? Even after all this time? What's the use of having all these 'Hollywood connections' if they can't answer a single essential query?"

"It's not really about our resources, it's about the weather—which we have no control over," Samuel pointed out again, even as he glanced once more at the people trailing them, trying to determine if any of them might be taking notice of the code words the two were using.

"Come on? Still?" Alan asked, shooting his Chief of Staff another ominous look. "With all our modern technology from Weather satellites, 'commercial pilots' to those little automated planes they fly into storm clouds; you're telling me we can't determine whether we're going to have a 'major storm' or not?"

"Well, it's not really so simple. It's a major front which hampers the normal measurement apparatus. What's more, while we were hoping it would blow through by now, the front seems to have stalled in place."

That little tidbit riveted Alan's attention and he glanced at Samuel a bit less ominously. "You don't think they're controlling it, do you? I mean, it seems awfully convenient it would simply stall in place at just this point in time, doesn't it?"

"Now that's just silly," Samuel replied, once again glancing at those trailing them to see if anyone picked up on the odd reference brought about by trying to couch their speech using key phrases. "Clearly Anton's people have no control over the weather. I can understand your frustration over this little impasse, but trying to blame them for a natural phenomenon is going a little far, don't you think?" he stressed, leveling a warning look at the president.

"Still, you understand why I may think that, don't you?" President Alan asked, clearly requesting either a confirmation or denial.

"I understand, but these are established weather patterns which have been in play for some time. The problem is the high pressure system ahead of it, stationed in the Midwest, has stalled and is blocking the low front behind it from advancing."

"I still don't see how that can be such a limiting factor," the president pressed. "Don't they have airplanes flying in and out of storm fronts all the time?"

"They do," Samuel responded with a sigh, "but the planes stay above the clouds until they're ready to land, and then they don't remain in the lower elevation for long, just enough time to touch down."

"OK, so planes can fly through it," Alan continued to press, ignoring everything which didn't agree with his initial point, "so why can't they report on its progress?"

"It's not that straightforward," Samuel replied, struggling to keep his replies within the context of their cover story. "The problem is 'larger planes' or faster jets can't fly slowly enough to take the proper recordings, while the smaller planes, especially the 'model' kind, aren't stable in the heavier winds below the cloud cover."

"So you're suggesting they need eyes on the ground?" Alan asked, apparently giving up on phrasing it within the confines of their cover story.

"Well, it's always problematic involving too many individuals. They tend to report wildly divergent things and also 'prerelease' preliminary results."

"Ah, I can see how that would be an important issue," Alan responded, staring off into space as they rounded a curve on their final approach to the Oval Office. "Maybe if they kept people handy so they could respond quickly once they detected something?"

"That sounds like the best solution, but that would be something for the weather forecasters to decide, as it clearly has nothing to do with either Anton's people or ours," Samuel replied with a smile.

"Well I'm glad we had this little talk. I was worried about the hold up about the concert," Alan responded, finally turning and addressing Samuel directly. "As you know, this is vitally important to the girls, and they'd be very disappointed if they missed the concert. Let me know as soon as we have any information, would you?"

"Absolutely, Sir. Just as we have been."

"Very good. I'll speak to you soon. But for now, it seems I've got an economy to rescue once again," President Alan said as he strode into his secretary's office on his way into his own.

"Hey, could you do me a favor?" Josh asked, approaching a young man wearing a wool cap despite the intense heat of the Arizona summer. The man had just gotten out of his truck and looked to be a bit of a slacker, so Josh figured he'd be a good candidate.

"Huh?" the guy asked, caught off guard, glancing at Josh in confusion.

"Could you help me out and mail this for me? I'll give you twenty bucks to do it."

The kid, his face still bearing teenage pimples, just stared at him for a few seconds.

"Uh... , excuse me, but when some strange man approaches you in the parking lot of the Post Office and offers you money to mail something for them, it's usually bad news. What's in the envelope? Some kind of poison or drugs?"

"Nah, it's nothing like that," Josh hurriedly explained. He'd been prepared for this reaction. As long as he got this far he figured he could explain himself, the problem was finding someone who would listen to him at all. "Here, see, there are two envelopes," he explained, opening both envelopes for the guy.

"See, the inside envelope just has a bunch of handwritten notes and a couple of old-fashioned cassette tapes—mixed tapes, as it were. Here," he added, closing the smaller envelope and making a point of licking it to seal it to prove there wasn't any poisonous powders inside, "this envelope fits inside the larger one, which only has a short note inside." Once the guy looked at it, Josh made a point of closing the larger envelopes' self-seal adhesive. When the guy raised his eyebrow, he raised his hands, revealing his well-worn work gloves. "I'm only wearing gloves because I've been working in the field. There's nothing illegal or worrisome inside."

"Then why can't you mail the damn thing yourself?" the guy asked, tilting his head and looking Josh up and down.

"Look, the problem is the guy behind the counter. He's the ex of the girl I'm sending this to. I've always had a thing for her, so I'm sending her a package of love notes I've written her over the years, along with some mixed tapes of romantic music which made me think of us over the years. Because she was with this other guy I never acted on my feelings before. I decided now that they're broken up I'd take a chance. The short note explains I'm interested in her. If she's interested too, she can open up the smaller envelope, but if not, she can simply throw it away, and at least I'll have made an attempt. But I'm not looking forward to handing this guy an envelope addressed to his ex-girlfriend. He's known I've had a thing for her, even though she never quite figured it out. Chances are he'd see it and either demand she tell him what it was, or take it in a back room and open it himself."

The guy, easily within a few years of Josh, snickered. "Yeah, I can picture that. OK, you've got a deal. Personally, it sounds kind of lame assed as she'll never look at it, but as you said, at least you'll have made the effort."

"Here, here's twen—"

"Hey, don't bother," the guy responded with a grin. "Now that I know what's up I'm not worried, and as one lonely guy to another, I figure it's part of the guy code to help a brother out when he's trying to make a connection. I'm glad to do it."

"Look, take it anyway. I want to send it priority so it gets there as soon as possible, hopefully before she hooks up with someone else. There probably won't be much change, and if there is, buy yourself a soda on me," Josh offered, pushing a folded bill into his hand, though he didn't mention he'd included an extra twenty.

"Hey, thanks man. I really appreciate it." Josh gave him an honest smile of appreciation as he took it. He really felt like a creep lurking outside a post office approaching strange men, but he was well aware most modern post offices are equipped with video security cameras. If the authorities were ever alerted about what he was doing it was one of the first places they'd examine.

Whether his attempts to avoid future detection worked or not was anyone's guess. It largely depended upon how the authorities decided to handle it. If they decided to keep the news of aliens walking among the populous quiet, as Josh was assuming, he'd be covered. If they played up people's fears though, then it would all be for naught. The kid would see Josh's face plastered in the papers and would likely come forward admitting he'd mailed something. Then Josh's package would ultimately be discovered. But if it came to that, Josh's number would be up anyway. Yet it was important to get this envelope mailed, for him not to be associated with it, and for it to get there as soon as possible. And Josh wasn't about to send it electronically, as it would likely be intercepted if he did. This way, even if they discovered he'd mailed it, it would be in the recipient's hands. It would then be up to him whether he handed anything over to the authorities.

As Josh watched the kid head into the building and get in line he turned and headed back to his car where Cynthia was waiting.

"You going to explain what that was about?" she asked as he climbed behind the wheel and buckled up.

"Nope. At least not now. I don't know if it will work out or not, but if we're lucky, we might get some help from an unlikely source," he answered before starting his truck and slowly backing out.

It took a little searching to find the next alien. Like the others, they found it on a lonely piece of private property with only a single house near it, making Josh think this had been their intent. But in this case there was no one in the house, and the alien's craft was buried in some dirt and weeds a ways behind the home.

The craft was shut up tight when they got it uncovered and Josh and Peter looked for some release lever as the others brushed the dust coating it off. Finally Josh waved the others back. "I should have known this," he told them. "When I was looking for where to come, I noticed this one was a different color. It was brown instead of yellow like the others. I hadn't thought much of it, figuring it was just how I was viewing it, but I think it denotes the occupant has died. Let's get this loaded onto the truck and get out of here before the people who live here return."

"Should we ... you know, offer a prayer or something?" Cynthia asked.

"I have no idea what we'd say, nor even what God they may or may not pray to," Josh countered. "But if you want to say something, go ahead. But I'd like to get this out of here before too much time passes."

Cynthia glanced at the others, looking for some sympathy and support, but both Peter and Fred shrugged. So Cynthia stood up and stormed off, upset at her friend's callousness.

"You know, you could probably have handled that better," Peter suggested.

"Yeah, I know," Josh agreed as they watched Cynthia walking away, creating a little dust trail in her wake. "I'll try to make it up to her later. But for now take my keys and bring my truck around. Fred and I will continue digging it out."

"What are you going to do with it?" Fred asked, looking at him curiously.

"Well, I'm not leaving it here," he answered a bit shortly. "But I guess I'll bury it on my property somewhere no one will find it," he answered more quietly a moment later once he'd calmed down a little. "I doubt his friends will be in any shape for a memorial, and I don't want to risk a sky satellite detecting it with some advanced technology we're not aware of."

"Well they won't pick it up with infrared," Fred pointed out, and he started scooping dirt out from under it, hoping they could roll it to a better position.

"No, but we don't know how it's powered. If it's got some kind of fusion or fission engine, it might show up like a beacon on instruments designed to record possible nuclear testing," Josh reminded him. "If nothing else, if we're discovered, they'll likely search our property for anything metallic, and while I'm willing to pay for trying to help wounded people out, I'm not anxious to hand advanced technology over to a government I can't trust not to abuse it."

"Amen to that," Fred agreed, remembering the many times that same government had screwed his own people over.

Josh and his friends made much better time extracting the craft with its deceased occupant than they'd made locating it. Thanks to the pulley system they used on the farm, Josh's truck was able to make short work of the job. The crafts were actually quite light, so much so that Josh doubted there was actually any metal in the small vessel. However, the lack of anything to hook a cable to on the otherwise perfectly smooth craft proved problematic until Josh pulled out some old netting he'd found in the barn that morning. Using that and attaching the hook to the netting strands, they could easily drag the ship anywhere they wanted. Erasing the drag marks with tree branches was simple enough.

Now that they were on their way to the next rendezvous, Josh checked the alien device on his arm once again. He sighed in frustration. Despite having checked it multiple times, the light hadn't shifted from brown back to yellow, meaning their next target was as dead as the previous one. Still, even though he'd prefer finding living creatures to help, he also wanted to remove all evidence of their existence, and it was important to get rid of any this close to the larger populated areas close to home. If the survivors had to wait in the isolated mountains, then at least they'd stand a lesser chance of being accidentally discovered. But again, Josh realized they were dealing with a very limited window of opportunity. There was only so long they could keep a secret this big hidden, and it wouldn't take much to make everyone sit up and take notice.

Taking the last couple turns leading to their destination, Josh started growing more concerned.

"There seems to have been a lot of traffic through here," Cynthia observed, noting the recent ruts and muddy depressions in the road.

"Yeah, I've noticed. I just hope it's not police or military vehicles. Keep an eye out, will you."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not about to let anything slip by. Not when my ass depends upon not missing the truck that's going to drag it to jail," she snapped, her mood not having lightened since the silly incident at the last place.

"Look, I'm sorry if I seemed dismissive about—"

"Will you just shut up about that already?" she insisted, her voice rising as she lost it once again. "I'm not upset that we didn't say a damn prayer. I was just upset at the uncertainly and the fact this is taking a lot longer than we'd originally planned. It's only a matter of time until we're found out. I don't mind helping you, but it's looking more and more like it's going to be a fool's errand. If we can't get all of them before word leaks out, they'll probably imprison all of us, discover the aliens on your property, and then all of this will have been in vain."

"Don't worry," Josh tried to assure her. "It'll all work out. It's got to work out," he finished, whispering the last bit to himself, though Cynthia arched her eyebrow at him as she'd overheard it anyway.

"There, there's something up ahead," Josh said, pointing at an area flattened out in the standing grass surrounding a quiet little house back in the woods.

As they drew near they could clearly see what had caused so much disruption to the road. Sitting in the clearing was an ABC News truck, a couple cars and there appeared to be a full news crew clustered around some people.

"That doesn't look good," Cynthia suggested.

"No, it certainly doesn't. Look, let's not get too paranoid just yet. Let's quietly investigate. Hopefully we can minimize any damage. If nothing else, we can always claim we saw the commotion and were drawn by simple curiosity."

"Curiosity killed the friggin' cat, remember?" Cynthia reminded him as she swept a stray hair out of her eyes once again. Her hair always took a lot of conditioning and treatment. While she liked to ignore it as much as possible, when she left it for too long, like she had that morning, it soon proved unmanageable.

Getting out, they approached the news crew who were in the process of recording their broadcast. There was a fresh faced news reporter—trying overly hard when a simple reporting would have been much stronger—two video cameramen and two technicians.