“Unknown, Mr. President. We still have a healthy working relationship with Freda, and she spends over 300 days a year on Earth. The Council is still providing us with much guidance and support through her.”
“When can I meet Freda?” Thomas asked.
“I am afraid that is impossible, Mr. President,” replied Richards firmly but with respect. “The entire operation hinges on it being completely separate from the executive offices and government in general. Our small team is highly skilled, and replacements are only sought every forty to fifty years. Suffice to say, staff turnover is minimal. Most work until their death.”
The president shook his head. One way or another, he would meet this Freda, although he didn’t say it aloud. He swung around in his seat to peer out across the magnificent White House gardens. Even at night, and with a freak storm outside battering the building and snow covering the bulletproof-paned windows, its wonder could not be overstated.
“Anyway, Mr. President, this meeting is simply to inform you that this program is in existence and to impress upon you the need for utmost discretion. The likelihood of you ever having to give it a second thought is minimal. You’ll never have to meet with Freda or engage in any official workings. Section 51 will continue for hundreds of years, long after all of us are gone. You are to mention this to no one. Failure in this regard could jeopardize the entire operation and our standing with the Council.”
Thomas felt deflated. “So the less I hear about Section 51, the better?”
“Yes,” said Richards. “Good night, Mr. President.”
Thomas watched the two elderly men gather their things. He felt strange, almost like being drunk, with such news. It was a big pill to swallow. They headed for the door.
“Gentlemen,” said the president deeply, turning around to look at both of them. “Good night.”
“Goodnight, Mr. President,” they said in unison before leaving.
Thomas watched them go, his mind spinning. It wasn’t their first meeting with a president about aliens, and it would not be their last, either.
Gail called two chauffeured cars for them as they left the Oval Office.
Chapter 3
Freda moved her little gold handheld mirror left and right, a gift from General Richards. After all these years—more than a century, she reminded herself—she was used to seeing a slightly tanned reflection staring back at her. While she had the purest of white skin, she used a skin toner to bring her appearance into the “human realm,” as she liked to put it. Apart from skin color, there was no need to disguise anything else. Intelligent life in the known galaxy, so sparse and rare, seemed to follow predefined physical characteristics—two arms, two legs, etc. It was a topic of intense research and debate throughout the alliance, with many wondering whether a super race had seeded the galaxy with life in their image. Even the Council members all looked similar, despite representing four very different civilizations. They were only distinguishable in race by their eye colors, which tended to be solid and striking compared to the human iris. Once makeup was applied, Freda looked like a short sixty-year-old pensioner with an affection for brightly colored skirt suits.
“Good morning, Christopher,” she said.
Her long-time elderly assistant came in with some fresh apple juice for the two of them. Section 51, the deep underground bunker that housed their operation, was quiet at this early hour. A drawer opened from her desk, and she placed the mirror carefully inside. The daily meeting with Christopher—drinking smooth apple juice while discussing the day’s diary—had been a ritual for the past forty years. The right type of juice was imperative; the first time she tasted unsmoothed apple juice, she nearly choked.
“Freda,” said Christopher Quincy with a smile, lowering himself into the chair before her desk. Freda remembered a time when he had much more energy in their morning briefings, but that was, for a human, a long time ago. She watched as he plopped two cubes of ice into each glass, relaxed, and unzipped his folder. Time for another day to begin.
“Let’s have it,” she finally said. Her office wasn’t overly extravagant or large—she had no interest in such trappings. The last renovation had seen a brighter color scheme used throughout the facility, with modern furniture and computers installed. Christopher always remarked how he felt like he was now working in a dentist’s office, such was the clinical cleanliness and look of the place.
“Hmm … quite a busy day ahead of us,” he remarked, scanning down the list of events, refreshing his memory from the night before. Nothing had changed.
“It’s such a pity. I was hoping for a slight alteration in the schedule to allow me to attend the Council hearing early. Council members are often more willing to engage in unofficial chatter before the meeting convenes.” She watched as her confidant perked up with the cold apple juice—a personal favorite of his as well.
“Well, except Loretta,” said Christopher.
“That’s true,” said Freda, bemused. The head of the Council, Loretta, had been the Council lead for the past 500 years and ruled it with an iron fist. She was not due for re-election until the next millennium had passed. Loretta’s species, the Bernay, had become a powerhouse within the alliance, which gave her considerable more influence than was usually afforded to the position. Freda and Loretta had crossed swords on many occasions.
Freda focused in on her 16:00 appointment, to review progress on a new attempt at a medical cure for HIV. She couldn’t help but hope this time Dr. Roberts and his team would be successful. They were so close to developing a cure for that disease and a few others. Medical advancements were one of the primary objectives of Section 51 since the turn of the millennium. Freda wanted to drastically improve the health of the species and was trying to guide human scientists down the right path without actually doing the work for them. The genetic crisis worried her greatly, and she hoped the new president would live up to his rhetoric.
“We can always rearrange something. Meetings can always be rearranged,” he said, chuckling. In all his years working with Freda, he could only remember a handful of occasions where she did actually rearrange a meeting. If only some in the outside world had her dedication to work and duty.
“Oh no. That would be most inappropriate. We shall soldier on. I’ve yet to finish the yearly summary for the Council. Once this review is over, we’ll start on that. You know how tiresome they become while waiting for it.”
“How many reports will this be now?” said Christopher.
Freda despised the yearly report on the progress of humanity. She considered it an example of needless bureaucracy, as it was merely a glorified amalgamation of her four quarterly reports.
“Far too many, Christopher. Far too many,” she repeated, finishing her apple juice. “We have more important matters here on Earth that I’d rather be focused on.”
Her eyes darted to the corner of her desk. A hot red light had begun blinking madly, and with the smallest lift of her eyebrow, Christopher was there, pressing his palm resolutely down. The lights in the office dimmed, and the door locked itself. A light blue rectangular projection appeared before Freda with the symbol of the Council, the Milky Way Galaxy, rotating while a connection was made. A balding elderly man appeared, dressed in a slim-fitted purple tunic. He sat on an enormous white executive chair.
“Cecil,” said Freda with a smile. He was her favorite on the Council.
“Freda.” His tone lacked his usual happiness and gusto. “We need to meet at once.”
“Perhaps after the Council session tonight?” she offered. “Time can be made available before transporting back to Earth. Grace can give us a room.”
“No, Freda. Now,” replied Cecil, glancing around his office, looking nervous.
“Where?” she asked, her curiosity building.
“I’ll come to you.”
Freda frowned. She knew Cecil would only come to Earth if he were to tell her something classified. He feared being overheard, accidentally or on purpose.
“Okay. I know a quiet place. I’m sending you coordinates,” said Freda, nodding to Christopher, who began tapping buttons on his computer tablet.
After hanging up, Freda put on a matching purple coat and gloves, deciding against a hat to shield her perfectly kept curly white hair. Such things were irrelevant to her, but after nearly 150 years on Earth, she had learned to blend in.
“Ready?”
Christopher nodded. She put her arm out, and he placed his hand on it. Her magnificent brooch, attached to her coat, began to glisten. She touched it, and they vanished in a flash of white light. Destination: London.
“Brrrr, it’s cold,” complained Christopher a moment later, rubbing his hands in a futile attempt to get some heat into them. His lightly trimmed gray beard did little to shield him from the snowstorm London was enduring. “Must get Peter to design me a heated coat.”
Freda laughed, imagining Doctor Roberts’s face if Christopher did ask for such an invention. They had appeared without notice down a small side alley to one of its bustling streets. They headed on down the alley, passing the occasional homeless person and stray dog, both of which seemed all too common for the British capital at the moment.
“Remember when you first saw snow?” said Christopher.
“And I thought we were under attack,” she said, laughing. Her own home world was much hotter and more exotic than Earth. Snow was something she had only heard about, and she found it to be a hindrance. She worried about Christopher. A fall at his age could be deadly.
A small coffee shop called Maggy’s was a welcome sight for the pair, and Christopher couldn’t wait to get into the warmth.
“Freda, darling,” said Bernadette, hugging the small woman. Bernadette—or Bernie, as she was better known—was in her seventies now. Her children had been urging her to retire for a while now, but she insisted she wanted to work till the end. Maggy’s was too important to her and others to hand over the reins. Bernie had known Freda since she was a little girl, when Bernie’s mother ran the shop. While she knew Freda was not of this world, she never asked any questions.
“Bernadette, lovely to see you,” said Freda, placing a tender hand on the doting coffee shop owner. “Just the usual, please.”
“Coming right up,” she replied. Giving Christopher a hug, she quickly set off to whip up some lattes.
“It amazes me how this exact booth is free every time we come here,” said Christopher. He dusted some snowflakes from his shoulders.
“We need to have some luck on our side,” said Freda.
A flash of light caught Bernie’s eye. She opened the stock room door to find Cecil standing there. She didn’t know who he was, but with Freda and Christopher here, she knew the procedure.
“Over towards the corner, darling. Freda has just arrived. Fabulous coffee is on the way.”
“Thank you,” he replied cautiously.
“Relax,” said Freda, projecting her voice. In her whole time here, Cecil had only visited Earth once before. He considered the inhabitants the most “unique” of the up-and-coming civilizations. Freda always argued it contributed to their charm and longevity. She smiled at him as he approached the small booth and sat down facing her and Christopher.
“Interesting place,” said Cecil, the strong coffee smell catching attention. He couldn’t help but think how quickly humans aged. Christopher, whom he met around forty years ago, was almost unrecognizable now.
“I find it charming,” replied Freda, taking her gloves off. Cecil himself had aged, and his modern purple tunic only emphasized his increasingly lined face.
“Indeed,” he said, trying to get comfortable.
“Here we go, ladies and gents. Three hot caramel lattes. Extra caramel for you, Freda,” interrupted Bernie in her usual bubbly manner. She was careful to place a nice red napkin under each latte and a warm plate in the middle, holding some double chocolate muffins with oozing warm caramel in the center. “Enjoy now.”
“Thank you, Bernie,” said Freda graciously as the plump older woman scuffled off to serve a gentleman covered in snow, who had just arrived.
“Cecil, what’s going on? Your call sounded urgent.” Freda stirred her latte with a long, thin spoon, mixing it all around until it was totally blended. She broke off a piece of the warm, sticky muffin.
“Freda,” he began quietly, leaning forward across the table. His eyes darted around the quaint café, nervous. “We have a situation developing. The Council is planning to intervene on Earth.”
“What?” She set the remainder of her muffin down on a crumpled napkin, pushing the latte aside. Christopher did the same, their interest in the fantastic food vanishing.
“You heard me,” he replied. “Do you recall this report?” He pushed an A4-sized pad across the table.
“This was years ago,” said Freda, shocked.
“1982, I believe,” added Christopher. He would never forget that report.
Freda glared at the document title. “Indeed it was, Christopher,” she agreed.
“The report was concerned with the health of the human gene pool. It was becoming overridden with mutations. Human society, pollution, genetic experimentation, and obesity were all taking an unrelenting toll on the health of the species.”
“I remember the report.” Freda skimmed through it, refreshing her advanced mind with its more intricate details. “I told the Council it was premature and that the species needed time, up to a thousand years, before we might have to intervene. I know the situation has deteriorated significantly since then, but a planet-wide intervention will only exacerbate the problem.”
“Loretta believes action needs to be taken, before … well, quite frankly, before humans become extinct.”
Freda knew the others on the Council considered Cecil weak, too interested in philosophical points of view. They, on the other hand, were interested in cold, hard facts.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” said Freda. She considered Loretta a bully, and this only proved her point as far as she was concerned.
“The Human Paradox,” said Cecil.
“Is that really relevant to this discussion?” warned Freda. She would not be debating that here, on Earth, of all places. “Now, what interventions are they proposing?” She pushed the report back to him.
He let out a concerned grunt, before swearing her to secrecy. Freda knew he wanted to believe he was being coerced into telling her. It was his nature.
“As you know, work began on investigating the human gene pool and DNA structure around 140 years ago.”
“That’s right, I approved it,” said Freda.
“The project concluded that the human gene pool is in such disrepair that humanity may soon begin devolving—or worse, face genetic extinction.”
“Genetic extinction?” asked Christopher, underlining the phrase for importance.
“Unable to procreate,” said Freda.
Cecil agreed. “We predict that infertility will continue to increase, and in seventy-five years, complete infertility of the human race will occur. That leads to extinction.”
“Is our gene pool that bad?” Christopher asked. “I wish science was my forte.”
“If we don’t act now, being unable to procreate may be a very real possibility in the next fifty years,” replied Cecil. He looked at Freda, who returned the stare. She knew he told the truth. This had been a long time coming, but she desperately wanted humans to solve their own problems. This new president was her greatest—and maybe last—hope.