Generation of vipers fir.., p.1
Generation of Vipers (First Contact), page 1
Generation of Vipers
Copyright © Peter Cawdron 2022. All rights reserved. The right of Peter Cawdron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover art: Hot Sunrise in Space by BlackJack3D and ESA/NASA ATV-4 Rentry (Flickr)
If you want to stay up to date on future releases by Peter Cawdron, subscribe to the ThinkingScifi email newsletter.
Dedication
For my son, Sam
Quote
O generation of vipers,
who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come?
Matthew 3:7
Angry Andy Anderson
“I was right!” Andy yells, slamming his palm on the desk and shaking the close-up camera. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the image wobble on the live-feed monitor. It’s no accident. Emotion is theater. Anger is art.
“I was right, goddamn it!” he shouts. “And that exposes a problem. One helluva big problem, if you think about it.”
He turns to face one of two dozen cameras mounted on the thin black scaffold surrounding his desk. Andy’s automated broadcast algorithm picks up his motion and switches angles. The red LED above that particular camera glows, letting him work the shot. Andy doesn’t need the monitor set in front of and slightly below his desk to know this is a compelling view. If anything, glancing down at that would distract his audience. After all these years, it’s still a temptation he has to fight. He’ll catch this shot later on the replay.
Andy keeps his eyes up, narrowing his brow and clenching his teeth. The muscles in his jaw swell, giving him a chiseled look.
“What could be wrong about being right? The problem is—it exposes a fatal flaw within our character. We all want to be right, but thinking you’re right isn’t good enough.”
Andy’s a pro. He’s a method actor. In private, he likens himself to Joaquin Phoenix, only this isn’t fiction. Oh, once it was. A couple of years ago, he’d sell his soul for a buck. He’d explode in rage and sell godawful vitamin pills off the back of his show. Now, the stakes are higher. His Hour of Raw Power is still fueled by rage, but it’s no longer unbridled. These days, it’s a trap. His goal is to coax viewers into thinking for themselves—and that’s not easy. Most people flatter themselves. They think they’re strong and independent, but they follow along like sheep grazing in a field. If the herd starts trampling the grass by the gate, they rush to keep up with those in front.
“Being right is an illusion. It’s a mirage. Being right makes us over-confident,” he says, teasing a quarter of a million people watching his live stream. By this time tomorrow, he’ll have topped a million hits on his channel, bringing in some sweet advertising revenue, but he no longer sells snake oil. There are no more herbal cures or overpriced tactical jackets for sale.
“Being right is not good enough—not for me!”
Andy’s a sheepdog. It ain’t the bark that gets the flock moving, it’s staring down the sheep, cutting off any avenue for escape. The only way to herd a flock is to dance around the fringes, teasing them. Try as they may, those damn sheep are only going one way—his way.
“You see, life ain’t about being right or wrong,” he says, wagging his finger. He’s pacing himself, drawing his virtual audience closer. “That’s the thing that trips us up. Everyone wants to be right. Everyone! Absolutely everyone! No one wants to be wrong. They want to pat themselves on the back. They want to congratulate themselves on being so damn clever. They want a reward from others—recognition. But there’s a problem. Seeking validation is a sign of weakness. It’s a flaw that can be exploited. It’s a blind spot.
“If you’re right, anyone that disagrees with you is wrong—and that’s a trap for young players. Life isn’t lived in black and white. Life ain’t a quiz show where you can buzz in with the answers. And if it was, the title would be—Who Wants to be an Asshole? No, life is bigger than right and wrong. It’s not what you think that’s important, it’s why.”
Andy sets his right elbow on the desk. He aims his fingers like a gun, pointing down the barrel of the nearest camera. His eye tracks along his index finger like the sights of a Glock.
“How did you come to your conclusion? That’s what I want to know. That’s what matters. Being right or wrong isn’t as important as how you got to be right or wrong in the first place. Sounds crazy, huh? But it’s true.”
After flying into a mock-rage, Andy needs to look thoughtful. He slows his tempo, breathing deeply.
Andy pulls his hand back into a loose fist. He touches his knuckles lightly against his lips. It’s contemplation. Hamlet never looked so composed. Back when Andy started his vlog almost a decade ago, he would fire off thoughts like the door gunner on a Blackhawk shooting into the desert. Fire enough rounds and you’re going to hit something—that was the mantra. These days, Andy’s a sniper. One shot is all he needs. Three words. That’s all he needs to hit the mark.
“Beliefs are overrated.”
Andy rocks back in his chair. It’s time for the storm to rise over the ocean.
“Your beliefs are irrelevant. So are mine. I don’t care what you believe. I don’t care whether you think you’re right or wrong. What I care about is how you got where you are today—and that’s what you should care about. Your beliefs should bother you. Your opinions should bug you. You see, I was right about Comet An̆duru and it didn’t make a goddamn bit of difference. I was blinded by my pride. The problem was—I was right for the wrong reasons.”
He shakes his head, gritting his teeth and screwing up his face. His anger is staged, and yet on one level, it’s real. He works himself into a frenzy. Spittle flies from his lips. His finger jabs at the camera like a boxer working a speed bag at the gym.
“Right and wrong don’t mean shit! How the fuck did you get to that point? That’s what I want to know—because that’s what will tell me something about you. Dunning and Kruger—they knew. Only a fool thinks they’re smart. Only a fool ignores others.”
Andy flares his nostrils.
“Only a fool revels in being right!”
To him, people are like deep-sea game fish. Andy knows how to play a marlin. Amateurs will grab the rod and wind like crazy at the first bite. Oh, they might get lucky. Most of the time, the line will break or the fish will rip the hook from its mouth. But not Andy. He knows how to play the game. He lets the line run. He tugs a little, draws his rod in, sets the hook and relaxes. He knows he’s got to work to land a big fish.
Arguments aren’t won by logic. People are convinced by emotion, not reason. And people get weary. They get worn out. In the end, they’d rather give in than fight—just like a big old swordfish. For years, Andy used this technique to fish for fools and sell pills with the nutritional value of dirt. Now, he plies his trade to expose conspiracy theories. He wants people to think, not believe.
He leans forward on his desk, rocking over on his elbow. He gets close enough to whisper to the main camera. The lens and focal point are such that his face will distort slightly, but that’s deliberate for effect. It’s a trust play. He’s inviting his listeners into a secret. His voice is low and deep. His speech is like gravel being turned over in a concrete mixer.
“Confirmation bias, baby. That’s what I’m talking about. No one convinces you of anything you don’t already believe. All they do is fan the flames. I’m telling you, beware of easy answers. Beware of black and white. Beware of right and wrong.
“It’s not what you believe that’s important, it’s why. Don’t ask yourself what you believe, ask yourself why. How did you get to that point? That’s the trick. That’s the ploy. That’s the angle. That’s the game. That’s the goddamn secret they don’t want you to know. That’s how they play you.”
He leans on the armrest of his chair, knowing his computer system will switch to a wide-angle shot taking in the wall screen behind him. The Stars and Stripes flutter in the wind. The red, white, and blue are computer-generated, but it doesn’t matter. Everything everyone has ever seen online is manufactured. Even photos are lies—they frame reality rather than capturing it. Besides, reality is boring. If it wasn’t, reality TV wouldn’t be so heavily scripted and carefully edited.
“I was right,” he says, tapping his chest. “Comet An̆duru Kumārayā was the Prince of Darkness. We watched that fucking thing. All of us. We saw it skim through the clouds of Saturn.”
We watched is a trigger phrase. It’s an audio key that’s been preset in his production software. Whenever he says those two words, the image behind him changes to a bunch of preloaded video clips.
A thin yellow flame streaks across the nightside of Saturn, passing inside the rings before heading back out into space. It’s a special effects re-creation that may or may not be accurate, but who cares? It’s captivating. That’s the point of using it. The size of the planet is imposing. Golden clouds swirl within the gas giant.
“We watched as that damn thing passed Jupiter,” he says, reading cues from a teleprompter.
The video clip cycles.
The image of Jupiter appears as it was captured by a space telescope. The shot has been upscaled, making it indistinguishable from his fake imagery of Saturn. The clouds on Jupiter swirl like cream being stirred into coffee. There are hints of orange, brown, red and white folding on top of each other within the gas giant. A thin yellow streak skims over the clouds, leaving a dark black trail billowing through the thick atmosphere.
“We watched as An̆duru passed over the Gulf of Mexico, causing fifty-foot waves to pound the coastline from Tampa to New Orleans and on to Corpus Christie. The lowlands of Mexico were flooded. Millions were stranded in the subsequent power outage. Hospitals struggled. Infrastructure collapsed. Tens of thousands of people died.”
Notes scroll in front of Andy, streaming down his teleprompter at a steady pace, allowing him to focus on the main camera. They allow him to maintain eye contact with his audience while following a script in this portion of the video. His ‘we watched’ phrase continues to trigger different video clips behind him. Their purpose is to mesmerize the audience. They provide him with an air of authenticity. This isn’t the local drunk leaning on the bar, rambling on about the latest conspiracy theory. This is Angry goddamn Andy Anderson!
“We watched as NASA launched a deep-space Orion from Kennedy. And we waited. It took weeks before An̆duru came to rest between Earth and the Moon. The world ground to a halt, waiting for First Contact.
“We watched the astronauts in their tiny tin can. They drifted over an alien artifact larger than most asteroids. They talked. They planned. They rehearsed. They prepared themselves. And all the while we waited here on Earth.
“We watched as An̆duru split open. Cracks appeared in the dark husk, breaking into gaping chasms. It made no sense—not to us. An̆duru defied our expectations. No one knew what to think.
“We watched as the Orion explored the darkness. The craft was attacked. It was dragged inside the alien pod. The astronauts were thrown around the cabin. We saw the panic in their eyes. We felt our hearts race as the Orion’s solar panels crumpled. The craft slid sideways, being pulled in toward a monster hidden in the shadows. We saw claws reaching for them.
“And we watched them escape and destroy the pod. We learned it wasn’t intelligence or curiosity that brought this goddamn thing to our world, it was hunger. NASA used a drone to position a thermonuclear warhead inside An̆duru and destroyed it from within.
“Through it all, we watched and we watched and we watched—until we could watch no more.”
The phrase watch no more is the audio signal to switch back to the US flag.
Gentle waves roll across the digital equivalent of fabric. The pure white stars set on a navy blue background are comforting. The red and white stripes are reassuring. There’s a sense of continuity, familiarity and consistency in them that defies the chaos of An̆duru.
“I was right,” Andy says softly. “I told you about this months before it happened. I told you they were coming for us. I was right—and that’s not good! It’s bad—flawed. It’s one helluva problem. A big problem.”
He takes a sip of water. Unlike every other motion he’s made during his recording, this one isn’t calculated. His throat is parched. His voice starts to break.
“What’s wrong with being right? Why is it bad? Because being right is etched into our DNA. We all want to be right. You want to be right. I want to be right.
“Even when I’m wrong, I think I’m right. But being right is as dangerous as that fucking demon crawling up from within An̆duru. Being right brings with it a sense of superiority, invincibility, ‘cause no one can tell you you’re wrong. Being right is a fool’s paradise!”
Andy scratches the stubble on his chin. It’s been three days. He should shave more often.
“How did I know An̆duru posed a threat? That’s the real question. How? The answer is—I didn’t. I guessed. Oh, back then I wouldn’t have admitted that to you. Back then, I would have told you it was instinct, insight, foresight, intelligence—that I just knew.
“Don’t you see? Right or wrong, it doesn’t matter. It’s how you arrive at your conclusion that matters. I guessed. How fucked up is that?
“And this is what we do. We hear a bunch of arguments, a bunch of points thrown together by someone else, and we rush to a conclusion and think it’s our own. It’s not. It’s theirs—and you don’t know if they’re lying or not.
“It doesn’t matter whether it’s an alien spacecraft, vaccines or election results we’re talking about. What matters is—do we rush to the conclusion we want to be true? As that’s always a mistake. Whether we’re right or not is irrelevant. Sometimes we’re right. Sometimes we’re wrong. What’s always relevant is how we got to that goddamn conclusion.
“I don’t care what you believe about aliens, viruses, vaccines or election results. I care about why you went down that dead-end road. Why did you jump at that like a dog chasing a tennis ball? Why can’t you see it for what it is? A distraction. A diversion. It’s something to keep you panting while avoiding any real depth. The tendency to react—to go with our instinct—is flawed. And it gets exploited by assholes all the time.”
He points at his oversized belly, saying, “The gut, man. Don’t think with your gut. Don’t go on intuition. That’s the lesson here. That’s what I learned from An̆duru.
“These scientists, these astronauts and astronomers and engineers you see on TV, they don’t go with their gut. They question shit. And that’s what we all need to do.
“If you think you’re right—cool—of course, you do. We all think we’re right. I think I’m right too. But don’t stop there. Ask questions. Look for answers you don’t like. Stop and think. Challenge yourself to go deeper. Maybe, just maybe, there’s more to learn. Be willing to change your position. Instead of jumping to a conclusion, jump to a bunch of goddamn questions.”
Andy pauses. He rocks his head, imitating someone looking both ways when crossing the street. He puckers his lips, playing up to his unseen audience.
To one side of him, there’s a bank of computer servers with blinking network lights. On the other side, panels of acoustic insulation cover the inside of his garage door. He hasn’t opened that door in years. He doubts the electric motor even works anymore. The damn thing has probably seized. But as he turns in those directions, he squints, making as though he’s looking for something in the distance.
“Look both ways when you cross the road, baby. Don’t run out into the traffic!”
Andy narrows his eyes as he stares at the main camera in front of him.
“Be willing to learn, not confirm.”
That’s it!
That’s the soundbite for today.
That’s what he wants his subscribers to take away with them.
Andy smiles and hits a button on the floor with his foot, triggering the software on his computer to play music, lower the studio lights and roll the closing credits.
Jorge
Thin wispy clouds drift high above the Gulf of Mexico, catching the first rays of dawn. Fine strands of gold and purple wind their way around the edge of the clouds. The dark of night gives way to the coming day. The stars fade. The horizon lightens, revealing an azure blue. Saturn is still visible in the west, awaiting the brilliance of the sun before being banished by the coming day.
Jorge lowers a pair of binoculars. One of the loadmasters gave them to him during the evacuation from Vera Cruz. As they’re military-grade, the view is crystal clear. They’re far better than the battered old pair he had on his first boat.
Ever since the alien encounter, Jorge’s made a habit of tracking Jupiter and Saturn whenever they’re visible at night. His daughter Maria taught him how to mentally trace the arc of the Sun and Moon in the sky, imagining the path of the ecliptic.
Jorge doesn’t like big fancy words like ecliptic. He can’t get his tongue around them. Maria used a dinner plate to explain. With a lump of rice in the middle representing the Sun, she placed a couple of meatballs out toward the edge, explaining they were the planets—and, except for Pluto, they’re all on the same flat plane. It still took Jorge a while to get his head around the angle of the ecliptic as it passes overhead. Why doesn’t it go straight? If it’s a flat plane, why does it curve? Maria was gentle with him, reminding him he’s standing on a round ball spinning madly in space. She held up her son’s soccer ball and said, what looks flat isn’t. Jorge accepted rather than understood her point.
