Invisible Things Page 3
Still, objectively speaking—and Nalini felt that cultural objectivity was essential to her, as a former undergraduate of Caltech and not M.I.T.—Nalini knew that both schools were similar in more ways than not. And there were other connections among the crew that were arguably stronger. One of these Bobs even shared a family name with Nalini’s maternal line, Patel, with all the shared immigrant experience and regional and ethnic connections that implied. And of course, it was with one of those Bobs, Ahmed, the svelte communications-technology specialist with the emotional IQ so high it was in itself erotic, that she’d been sneaking time in the storage hold behind the water tanks. But it didn’t matter. Because of Bobs. Or, to be more specific, the patient zero of Bobism: Bob Seaford. A bureaucratic scientist whose greatest distinction was the level of shamelessness with which he endorsed dodgy environmental-impact assessments for energy oligarchs. Appallingly wealthy donors who repaid Bob’s decades of soul-selling with the senior research position on this little field trip to Jupiter.
* * *
—
“You want our drones? Ours? Really? Your own custom tech’s not good enough, huh? How far are you going to take this? Every minute of their time’s been allocated for years; you want to play with them to research a visual anomaly?” was how Bob Seaford started the conversation. Bob’s tone was smug, but Bob’s tone was always smug. Like many who had been awarded positions of power they did not earn, Bob rationalized his good fortune with an unstated belief that somehow he must be as qualified as a person who’d actually earned that position.
Nalini knew the type too well: Bob bullied his way through life because that’s what bullies do. But even saying this to herself gave Bob an element of power.
“Don’t you see? It’s a win-win, Bob.” Dwayne emphasized the name with disdain every time he said it. The Bobs rarely said it to Seaford’s face—he was largely “sir” or “chief” or “gov” with that lot—which was why Team Beavers found petty rebellion in saying his name consistently.
“Either you get to expose me as a fraud and make me a laughingstock for the rest of my career,” Dwayne continued, “or you get in on the biggest scientific discovery since Bigfoot.”
“That’s a horrible bet: I’m literally laughing at you now.” As Bob Seaford chuckled, a vein appeared on Dwayne’s forehead so abnormally large that Nalini could see his heartbeat pulse in it. Unaware of how close Dwayne was to physical assault, the other Bobs snorted in support of their leader, which encouraged Bob himself to reiterate part of Dwayne’s original statement with mocking incredulity. “ ‘A win-win’ to see you lose-lose?”
Nalini’s hand to Dwayne’s fist. The words “Don’t. Not worth the fallout.” She made sure Bob saw and heard this, too.
“Whatever,” Bob declared. “Tomorrow, six hundred GMT. We’ll all get to the bottom of this.” And spun himself out of the room casually, as if that were not an act of self-preservation.
* * *
—
The next morning, the male Bobs showed up on deck holding balloons made out of condoms that they called “space bubbles.” Bob floated upright with a packet of coffee in hand, yawning his disdain.
When the drone’s feed went live, a couple of Bobs began shouting out its coordinates as it moved toward the oddity. The rest of the crew gathered around the drone display, largely jovial, subdued, half awake. The mood was light. This lasted up to the moment when they saw it on the display.
The dome. The blister. That bubble.
Whatever it was, when the Bobs saw it, they roared with laughter. They thought that was real funny.
Laughed and laughed and laughed until they ran out of air.
Eventually, though, as they struggled to contain themselves, the Bobs began to notice the look on Nalini’s face. She was frozen, staring at the images showing the clearly unnatural structure. Perfectly round from all sides.
Then they noticed the same look on Dwayne’s face. The usual scowl, which had taken up permanent residence months ago, had been replaced with a slack jaw of awe. They saw the tears escaping down the grumpy man’s cheeks despite himself, saw Dwayne’s full lips pursed and trembling.
The Bobs weren’t smiling anymore.
After some pointless rechecking of equipment, some zooming in as far as the imaging would allow, the Bobs, too, grew completely silent.
Because, with their drone, they didn’t just see the bubble. They could see what was inside. Another, impossible world.
“That’s…I think that’s a landing pad.” Nalini pointed at a section of the image taken directly above the structure.
“No,” Bob Seaford finally said into the hush. “That’s a football field.”
Nalini marveled that Bob, for once, might be right.
What they saw was not the size of a football field, Nalini realized as she looked longer. It was a football field. An actual American football field. With white lines sprayed into the grass, raised seating, and, just beyond the field itself, a parking lot packed with cars. Then, as the drone pulled back from the field, Nalini saw something that dwarfed the field, spreading miles and miles within the structure.
A city.
An entire city. Then suburbs. Then the green tops of woods beyond that. Highways laid over the ground like a nervous system. A river that bowed, hugging the collection of skyscrapers of the city’s downtown.
All within a glass dome on the moon Europa.
The crew of the Delany stared at the screen into another world, inside of a bubble.
* * *
—
And then, in a disorienting instant, they were inside of it as well.
“It was freaking aliens,” Chase declared, then sipped his Pistol Pete’s to give all the new faces at the meet-up a chance to soak in that wisdom. “Near Valles Caldera, about sixty miles west of Santa Fe. That’s right, I said it. I got no problem saying it. Now, does that statement make me look crazy? Sure. But that doesn’t mean freaking aliens didn’t steal my wife.”
That was when the chili-cheese tater tots came out of the kitchen. “Carnitas?” the waitress asked, and Chase reached up like she might drop the plate. There were a lot of “unexplained phenomena” interest gatherings in New Mexico, and Chase was a regular at most of them. But the Allies of Alien Abductees Sunday meet-up at Tres Abuelitas was the gold standard. They had those private dining rooms, they had those pitchers of Bud for five bucks, they turned tater tots into art. Just two bucks more to get meat on top, and then it was a meal you could sleep on.
There were a lot of UFO meet-ups to choose from. Some focused strictly on that military UAP stuff, all the verified footage of little Tic Tac ships or the long cigar-shaped ones or the silent black triangles, etc., each flying around at speeds and slants that would turn human passengers into applesauce. Lots of veterans of nuclear sites came as guest speakers at those clubs, coming to talk about the wild things they saw, trying to get the feds to disclose more. Some groups were all about that consciousness idea, that you could communicate with the “visitors” if you meditated the right way. Other cliques were into the thing as a larger phenomenon, looking at portals and dimensions and poltergeists and whatnot—freaky stuff that freaked Chase out to think about. And, of course, there was the old-school ufology scene, with a whole mythology laying out the multiple alien species and a galactic tournament in which Earth was just one playing field.
The meetings weren’t just good; the meetings were important. Sometimes it was years between leaks of any solid data, so if you were interested in the topic the best you could do was talk to like-minded others about what little you all knew. And, sure, there were tons of UAP podcasts featuring UAP podcasters talking to other UAP podcasters, but it was always better to commune in person, looking one another in the eye while destroying a steaming plate of chili-cheese tater tots.
But for abductee experiencers? Sweet Lord. That was a uniqu
e social situation. It was just different.
All those believer camps—as varied and contentious as the members could be with one another—had one thing in common: Once you started talking about abductions, everyone got real uncomfortable, real quick. All of a sudden, everyone was looking at you funny. You were either crazy, or crazy for bringing it up. A uniformed four-star general could interrupt a sincere discussion about dog-men versus hybrid dinosaur-pigs and reveal his abductee story and everyone would look at him like he just crapped his pants.
It was not a huge leap, at least for Chase, to go from believing there were alien craft flying around to believing they might pick someone up. The UFO scene had all types of people, with all types of beliefs. But once you told people you were an experiencer of abduction, a lot of them figured you were either nuts or a con artist. Or they did believe you, and it made them majorly uncomfortable, because it went against their pet theories. Or simply because the idea that there were forces above that could snatch your ass whenever they wanted, do whatever they wanted, then make you forget if they wanted, was some seriously fucked-up shit.
But not at Tres Abuelitas. Always a nice crowd at the Allies of Alien Abductees meet-up, and always all types of folks. People willing to open their minds. And professional types, not just kooks. Sometimes actual scientists would show up. Or tourists who flew into ABQ before driving north to Santa Fe. But tonight was special, because, for the first time, Chase’s boss, Harry Bremner, was finally in attendance. After a decade of declined invitations, here the old guy was, coming out to see what Albuquerque’s unidentified-phenomena scene was really all about.
Having the boss in attendance—it was mind-blowing, that’s the only way Chase could describe it. Such an honor: Harry Bremner was considered the Michelangelo of the military-training-compound industry. Getting him there was a huge accomplishment on Chase’s part. A vindication of all those times he’d tried to get the old man engaged in a conversation on unidentified aerial phenomena and bombed—all those attempts that Harry shot down with “Chase, don’t start with that shit again.” After each failure, Chase accepted the brush-off, waited a few months, then once again rolled down the limo’s privacy window to tempt Harry with his latest theories and research on the UAP issue. It was Chase’s duty to the cause, he felt: The issue could use the addition of Harry and his strategic mega-mind, his military experience, and all that. His connections. But even Ada was like, “Chase, if you don’t cut it out, he’s going to fire you.” Or she’d say, “Nobody wants a chauffeur who won’t shut up about freaking aliens.” But look now where they were: Harry and Chase, together at the Allies of Alien Abductees’ Sunday meet-up at Tres Abuelitas. Chase just wished she was here to see it.
“When I said your tab’s on me, I didn’t mean you could get drunk and dump me into a goddamn ride-share. I pay you to drive my car, Chaz. That’s the basis of our relationship. So stick to Cherry Coke,” Harry told him, though Chase already assumed as much. Harry himself never drank—or not in the limo, at least. Harry was an upright guy, and a good boss. For instance, he let Chase call him “Harry” and not just “Mr. Bremner, sir.” In exchange, Chase never told him to stop calling him “Chaz,” which he hated, but he could never envision a way to tell that to his boss that wasn’t terrifying. The old guy could be a bit prickly; everybody knew that, he was famous for it. And, sure, Harry got worse with every year, with every divorce, every process server, each time he got audited. And, wow, there were a lot of lawsuits coming in from all sides, more all the time—it was like they were breeding. It made sense that the man was a little testy. But, big picture, Harry Bremner: straight shooter, decent boss, decent guy. End of the day, the man paid Chase damn near double what any personal driver was getting in all of Bernalillo County.
Harry brought a friend—which was fine, which was cool. Chase thought it would just be the two of them, but at least he came. Harry’s guest was stiff in his fancy suit and his perfect posture and did not look like a lot of fun. He was the only one in the room not smiling, besides Harry. But they were at the bar, and that’s what alcohol was for.
Harry’s posture shifted and he leaned in close to Chase.
“Tonight, I want you and Mr. Talbot to become acquainted. I think you’ll hit it off. No, let me rephrase that so you don’t miss the nuance, Chaz: I insist you hit it off.”
Chase had just picked Mr. Lloyd Talbot up from the airport the hour before. They hadn’t shared words other than “Can I get your bags?” and “Thanks.” The only reason Chase knew the guy’s first name was because Chase had written it on cardboard and stood holding it in Arrivals for way too long. Besides that, Chase didn’t know what to make of the guy. Dude wore a tailored suit like it was as comfortable as pajamas. Even his posture was on point; he was fit and fancy, like a middle-aged underwear model. But that was a common style among Harry’s lawyer army. “They take the food out of my mouth, then regurgitate it into frivolous nonsense like personal trainers,” his boss once explained. In contrast, Harry could pass for a shopping-mall Santa and liked to brag about how when you’re rich you can let yourself go to seed and still score hot dates.
As to why Harry brought Talbot with him to the Allies of Alien Abductees’ Sunday soiree, Chase had no clue—Harry wouldn’t say. Talbot was checking him out, though, he could tell that. Not in, like, a romantic way, but not in a way he could put a finger on, either. It suddenly occurred to Chase that Talbot might not even be a lawyer—he’d just assumed. Could be an arms dealer or something. Harry owned the largest private military training ground in the American Southwest, so it was common for him to take clients out on the town. But Chase usually drove those guys to fancy restaurants or high-end strip clubs or concerts, not to UFO salons (this one sometimes discussed cryptozoology, too).
“May I?” Talbot had returned and now sat down on the stool beside him, pushing by some regulars to do so. “Mr. Eubanks, I mean no disrespect—I am sincerely and genuinely intrigued—but I heard your earlier comment and…well, I’m not doubting, but I am curious as to what evidence brought you to that conclusion? What makes you so certain it was, as you put it, ‘freaking aliens’?”
“There was no evidence,” Chase told Talbot, and let that sink in. Chase looked over to Harry and tried to send the message with his eyes: What’s wrong with your boy?
“Right. Okay. But what—” Talbot kept going.
“Nada. Not a goddamn thing. That’s the point. See, let me tell you the whole story.”
The regulars, they’d heard the whole story. Many, many times, they’d heard Chase’s entire story, and so those closest began to drift away to other parts of the bar. Chase noticed but didn’t care, too much. As long as there was a new guy, he could tell the tale—as therapeutic for him as it was illuminating for them. And that’s what Chase loved the most about the Allies of Alien Abductees’ meet-up: There were always fresh faces to initiate into the true nature of the universe.
* * *
—
Ada Sanchez’s obsidian-blue 2029 Honda Odyssey was last recorded on May 8, 2032, headed due northwest on Route 16. Traffic cams showed the van’s back windows were obscured by cardboard boxes and miscellaneous possessions. And then—she vanished. Despite significant effort, New Mexico state troopers could not trace her. Local police in Guadalupe, Bernalillo, and Los Alamos counties found no signs of her, either. Various bands of empathetic volunteers, immediate and extended relatives, spread out and traced every conceivable route, from highways to dirt roads to mountain passes mostly frequented by goats. All hoped to find some clue of where in the world Ada Sanchez was. But zilch.
They thought Chase did it. At least in the beginning. A couple drunk-and-disorderly citations in his twenties, a charge for hit-and-run on a parked car that was bullshit and didn’t stick, but otherwise his record was clean. The state troopers, and Ada’s family—who never liked him and had literally called him “white trash” on multiple Thanksgiv
ings prior—swore he must be some kind of monster. When they found her divorce application ripped up in Chase’s trash with his own fingerprints on every single piece—that didn’t look good. Didn’t help that, the night Ada went missing, Chase didn’t even come home, and was off grid for about ten hours—the cops got all worked up about that. Fortunately, when they called to check up on his alibi, someone at TD’s Eubank Showclub (no relation) actually vouched for him. Turned out a bouncer remembered him sucker-punching someone for some slight Chase himself could not recall. And then some beat cop remembered having to tap on Chase’s limo’s window the following morning to tell him he couldn’t park there. On top of that, there were three consecutive days of security footage of him showing up at Eveningdove Memory Care to visit his mom—which of course she didn’t remember, but he was there. And also on the vid clips of the 24-Mart across the street from it, buying Cool Ranch Doritos and Pistol Pete’s to wash down his sorrows, because at that point he thought she’d just left him again.
On the fourth day of her absence, Chase went back to work driving Harry around, and picking up bigwigs from the airport and bringing them out to the desert for their grand tour of the Theater of Operations (TOO) campus so they could see Harry’s miracle for themselves. “TOO: The Greatest Immersive Tactical Training Facility in the World” sounded like just a tagline until you rode through the gate and found yourself in the Disney World of war zones. After Chase was cleared, the investigators got all worked up about TOO, too. Made sense: It had tons of people, places to hide. Cops thought there might be some kind of link there.
“Meticulously designed Potemkin villages, with every detail considered, all the war zone has to offer without the war,” it said on the website. What that meant, Chase would explain when on and off the clock, was that, if someone was blindfolded and dropped in the middle of one of Harry’s fake cities, chances were they’d think they’d been kidnapped to whatever hellhole was being shot up at the time. Each village looked like the city it was copying, but it was more than that. Each sounded like that place, with native speakers roaming its streets. Each one—and this got Chase every time there was a new one—smelled like the real version, with local food being cooked inside its functioning buildings.