Invasion Page 6

  “You’re making a big mistake, Mr. Morton.”

  “I often do,” says I.

  “And you, Mrs. Morton,” says Mr. Scowl. “Are you going to see your life and that of your two fine young boys ruined by hiding some strange creature you know almost nothing about?”

  “We had a dog,” says Lita. “It was very special, we loved it, but we lost it. If the dog hacked your computers I am very sorry, but we know nothing about it.”

  He gave Lita a scowl almost as mean as the one he’d been giving me, and then turned to the other guy.

  “Henry, please go with Mrs. Morton and confiscate all computers in this house. Mrs. Morton, be so kind as to take Mr. Wall to wherever you have a computer, tablet, smart phone, or other portable device. We will give you receipts for these items, and they will be returned to you when we have examined them to our satisfaction.”

  “Do you have a warrant?” says Lita.

  “Of course we have a warrant,” says Agent Johnson, and he pulls a bunch of folded papers from his breast pocket and, still sitting, holds them out to her.

  “Good,” says I, ignoring the offered papers. “Wouldn’t want you fellas to get in trouble with some judge because you forgot to get a warrant to steal all our computers.”

  Agent Johnson flushed. Lita was looking through the papers.

  “Mrs. Morton?”

  She stood up.

  “I’ll take your friend to our computers,” she said, “but I do so under protest.”

  “Go ahead, Henry.”

  So Lita, Lucas, Jimmy, and this Henry agent leave the room. Agent Johnson and I sit in silence for almost a minute.

  “Well, Mr. Morton, are you happy?” says Agent Johnson finally, with the sort of smirk President Bush the Worst used to like to flash at people.

  “Blissful,” says I. “Almost coming in my pants.”

  Agent Johnson couldn’t suppress a look of surprise.

  “You’re quite a character, aren’t you?”

  “Just a typical old fisherman down on his luck,” says I.

  We then sat in silence awhile, neither of us able to think of anything witty or obnoxious to say.

  The other agent finally reappeared carrying the hard drive of our main computer and one of Carlita’s shopping bags, probably filled with the kids’ tablet from the basement and maybe some other suspicious electronic stuff.

  Agent Johnson exchanged a glance with Wall and stood up.

  “We’re about finished here, Mr. Morton,” he says.

  “Not going to take a look for Louie?” says I.

  “No, we’re not. We have a warrant to confiscate the computers but no warrant to search for a dead dog. Maybe next time.”

  “Sure wish you’d make a search,” says I. “Love to see people waste their time.”

  “Oh, we’ll be back. And I can assure you it won’t be a waste of our time.”

  “Great,” says I. “Next time let’s cement our new friendship—get plastered together.”

  Agent Johnson had taken three or four steps toward the hallway, but he stopped and turned back to me.

  “You don’t have the faintest idea how down on your luck you’re about to be, Mr. Morton. Not the faintest.”

  NINE

  (From LUKE’S TRUE UNBELIEVABLE REPORT OF THE INVASION OF THE FFS, pp. 50–55)

  Intelligence agencies are trained at birth to share as little intelligence as possible with the president since they wish to avoid two problems. First, the president asking where they got their information. One assistant secretary of defense had made the mistake of answering the president with “I’m afraid, sir, that for reasons of national security, we can’t tell you.” After he was relieved of his burdensome duties and reassigned to the Aleutian Islands, other NSA officials decided that the president of the United States probably should be able to access top-secret material, dangerous as they all thought that might be. They determined that from henceforth the president should believe he was getting the full story even if he wasn’t even getting the first sentence of the story.

  The second problem of sharing intelligence with the president is that he might act on the intelligence. All agencies feared the day when they would provide the president with new intelligence and he would take decisive action based on this intelligence and blow up the world. Or worse yet, adopt a peace plan.

  In the case of the strange round creatures that didn’t appear to be of this earth, the problem was great indeed. How do you tell the president that you think creatures from outer space are hacking government systems? After a few days of wrestling with the problem, the head of the NSA courageously turned the difficulty over to Presidential Aide Jeff Corrigan. If a messenger was going to get shot they preferred it be Jeff rather than one of their own.

  * * *

  “Mr. President, we have a problem.”

  “Yes, Jeff, what is it?” The president of the United States was sitting behind his desk enjoying an espresso and relaxing before the long day really got going. Jeff was standing nervously in front of the desk, his face occasionally twitching.

  “Sir, you’re going to find this hard to believe, but our science advisor at the NSA, Dr. Paul Leggen, reports that there are… beings from outer space now appearing here on Earth.”

  The president was not amused.

  “Get to it, Jeff,” he countered. “I don’t have time for jokes. Dr. Leggen isn’t writing for the National Inquirer these days, is he?”

  “Beings from outer space are now here among us, sir,” Jeff continued gamely. “They’re shaped like beach balls.”

  The president stared at Jeff. He knew his aide in charge of briefings and coffee to be a quite serious man, and not normally given to exaggerations or practical jokes.

  “Earth is being invaded by beach balls,” he said.

  “Hairy beach balls, sir,” said Jeff.

  “The earth is being invaded by hairy beach balls,” the president repeated quietly, staring into space.

  “Not invaded, sir,” Jeff said. “So far we know of only a dozen or so here in the United States and in other nations, and they show no aggressive tendencies.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said the president. “I’d hate to be attacked by a hairy beach ball.”

  “That’s right, sir. Their… shape doesn’t indicate any sort of physical threat, but I’m afraid their extremely high intelligence may be a threat to our national security.”

  “The beach balls are a threat to national security.”

  “Yes, sir. At least one of them seems to have the ability to hack into almost any government or corporate system it wants, and has been illegally transferring funds from one bank account to another.”

  The president sat up. “They’re hacking into our banking system? Are you sure these aren’t more Muslim jihadists?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “This is serious. There are only a few aliens from outer space presently in the US. How many spaceships?”

  “None that we know of, sir.”

  “They’ve hidden their spaceships. That sounds suspicious, doesn’t it?”

  Jeff bit his lip, then resumed his neutral expression.

  “They may have arrived here on Earth by other means.”

  “Other means?”

  “Means that we don’t know about, or perhaps can’t even conceive of.”

  The president stood up and stared at Jeff.

  “My God, Jeff, you mean there are actually creatures here that come… come from… that are actual… aliens?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “I thought it was all typical internet paranoia. Are we able to communicate with these… beach ba—with these creatures?”

  “It might be more accurate to say that some are able to communicate with us. That is, some seem to have learned languages quite quickly.”

  “And do these beach balls deign to tell us why they’ve suddenly decided to come to our planet?”

  “No, sir, they haven’t.”

  “But they’re super-intelligent and are cyber-attacking government and corporate systems and robbing banks blind. That’s not too friendly, is it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what the NSA thinks too.”

  ITEM IN THE NEWS

  A FEW DEFINITIONS FROM THE NEW PROTEAN DICTIONARY OF AMERICAN USAGE

  BRAIN: Organ sometimes used by human beings to think. But not often.

  CHILDREN: Ickie-like beings before they become human beings.

  CORPORATION: An entity granted by the US Supreme Court with all the rights of an individual, and none of the responsibilities of an individual.

  EARTH, THE: A small planet circling a small star in a small galaxy in a tiny universe. Considered by human beings to be the center of everything.

  ELECTIONS: That process by which the rich elite of a nation solidify their power by selecting from a group of millionaires which ones will be in office.

  FENCE ALONG THE ENTIRE MEXICAN BORDER: A mythical construction in the religion of some Republicans. See angels and unicorns.

  GLOBAL WARMING: An ongoing process denied by many Americans because they are able to see clearly that it is sometimes quite cold out.

  IRAQ: Nation that has been continuously bombed by the United States and other countries for twenty-five years. Not considered a favorite vacation destination. See ISIS.

  MADNESS: Doing the same thing over and over while each time expecting a different and better result. See US military interventions.

  MARIJUANA: A type of vegetation which often makes humans giggle when they consume it. Considered by some humans as more dangerous than guns, and for many decades outlawed as such.

  MASS MEDIA, THE: That collection of television, radio, and print outlets responsible for passing on to the people whatever issues and attitudes those in power want passed on to the people.

  NUCLEAR BOMB: A scientific advance developed by the human race to wipe out the human race.

  RAT RACE: A quite negative state of arranging human existence. Insulting to rats.

  SELF: An illusionary concept of unknown origin which results in humans separating themselves from life.

  TELEVISION: The primary source of most human opinion. Originally mistaken by early Protean visitors as household altars.

  TEN

  (From Billy Morton’s MY FRIEND LOUIE, pp. 59–76)

  After the agents left I was a bit surprised that Louie didn’t immediately turn up. Even the kids didn’t know where he was. And he didn’t show up that night either. I wasn’t worried about him, but a bit sad that he seemed to have deserted us just because some Feds and staties came to our house to arrest him and lock him up for a century.

  But the next day he made an appearance. Of a sort. Damned if he didn’t send me an email. On Lucas’s cheap smartphone, which we had thoughtlessly forgotten to bring to the attention of Agent Wall.

  What a jerk I’d been. Obviously if Louie could type on a computer in order to surf he could type in general. And if he was smart enough to hack the NSA, he probably was smart enough to spell out a few words. The email was pretty short.

  Dear Billy.

  Had to disappear for a bit, but want to meet you as soon as possible. For me, the safest place to be is on the sea. So please motor out into Long Island Sound and wait. But first go to your bank and take out most of the money I’ve deposited there. You’re now in more danger than I am, and we both need each other’s help.

  Louie.

  Well, this little bombshell pretty much left me speechless and dumb. ’Course I’m often dumb, but rarely speechless. I just looked up at Lita who was standing beside me. Our phone rang. I answered it.

  “Mr. Morton?” a voice says.

  “Yep. That’s me,” says I.

  “This is John Kinderhook from Bank of America here in Greenport.”

  I didn’t know any John Kinderhook, although the name was vaguely familiar from seeing it featured prominently on the cast of characters running the bank. I only dealt with people in the bank earning ten dollars an hour or less.

  “Hey, how’s it going, John?” says I.

  “It’s going fine, Mr. Morton, thank you. I just wanted to check with you about the deposit we received into your account yesterday afternoon.”

  “Great,” says I. “I was going to check to see if it had arrived.”

  “Then you were expecting it?”

  “Oh, yes,” says I, giving my lying instincts a free run. “This fella has owed me money for years. Finally got him to pay up.”

  “It’s quite a substantial amount.”

  “Lot of interest built up over the years, John.”

  “Uh… yes.”

  “How much did the fella send?” says I.

  “The deposit was for four hundred and twenty thousand dollars,” says John.

  I was speechless.

  But not for long.

  “That weasel,” says I, “short-changing me again. Damn bastard owes me a half mil.”

  “I see. Well, I’m afraid he only sent the four hundred and twenty thousand.”

  “Typical,” says I. “By the way, John, I was planning to come in this morning and pick up some of it in cash. That going to be okay?”

  “Why certainly,” says John. “How much would you like?”

  “What’s my total balance?”

  A pause.

  “Your total balance today,” says John, “is four hundred twenty thousand, thirteen dollars and six cents.”

  “Yep. Well, I guess I can get by if I withdraw four hundred thousand in cash. That work for you, John?”

  This time it was the bank that was speechless.

  “You want to withdraw four hundred thousand in cash?”

  “Got a lot of old bills to pay, John. A lot of interest and penalties. You know all about interest and penalties, right, John?”

  The bank lapsed again into silence.

  “We may not have that much cash in the bank this morning, Mr. Morton. Could you—”

  “Well, John, you get it in the bank. You wouldn’t want it to get around that Bank of America couldn’t pay its clients the money it was holding for them, would you?”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “See you in about an hour, John. Be good to be taking money out of the bank rather than putting it in.”

  The bank didn’t comment.

  * * *

  I got the money. Never seen the new thousand-dollar bill before—especially two hundred of them. What with the smaller bills the cash totally filled Jimmy’s school backpack I’d brought along for the occasion. To pack the rest I had to ask for a free Bank of America tote bag with the logo “The Giving Bank.” They were giving that bag free to those who opened new accounts with a balance of at least three hundred dollars.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” John the banker says as a teller counted out the money.

  “’Course I don’t, John,” says I. “Never have, never will. But I figure my money is safer in my hands than it is in yours, so think I’ll take it home and store it in the freezer. Don’t want it to deteriorate.”

  * * *

  I didn’t put the money in the freezer but rather into the bottom of the duffel bag I use to take my clean sea clothes to the boat. I stuffed into it Jimmy’s cash-filled backpack and the Bank of America tote bag. I figured if I was stopped, I’d say I didn’t know how the money got there—must be Jimmy’s lunch money. Although the kids and Carlita all wanted to come with me to meet Louie out on the sound, I said no. If Louie thought we were in danger, I didn’t want the kids to hear what he had to say.

  I worried a little bit that the Feds might have put a tail on me, but no matter how much I looked in mirrors or reflections in store windows or peeked under my smelly armpits, I never spotted anything suspicious—except maybe a babe who looked like a reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe smiling at me from the entrance of a bar. Babes haven’t smiled at me from bars for a decade so I figured this one was an NSA honey trap. But they gotta do better than Marilyn—I’m a Jennifer Lopez sort of guy.

  An hour later, I was five miles out on the sound and Louie still wasn’t making an appearance. In another half hour when he still wasn’t there I began to feel stupid. And I felt even stupider when old Josh Hemingway motored up in his twenty-six-foot crab boat and pulled up alongside, idling his engine just four or five feet off my port side.

  “What’s happening, Billy?” he says. “You got motor trouble?” No self-respecting fisherman would be drifting in the middle of the Long Island Sound without a single fishing line overboard.

  “No, Josh,” says I. “Everything’s just hunky-dory. Motor humming along as usual like a broken lawn mower with its blades hitting everything except grass.”

  “Just enjoying the day then, huh?” says Josh, knowing that no self-respecting fisherman out on the water has time to enjoy the day.

  “No, Josh,” says I. “I’m just waiting to meet a hairy beach ball from outer space who emailed me this morning to tell me to meet him here and bring the half-million dollars he’d put in my bank account.”

  That stopped Josh cold. It took him five or six seconds, but then he laughed.

  “Yeah,” he says, spitting over the side of his boat. “That damn beach ball made the same promise to me, but he never showed up. Just can’t depend on hairy beach balls.”

  This time it was me who was a bit surprised, and then I realized that Josh was just pulling my leg the way he thought I was pulling his.

  “Still, it’s nice to have almost half a million dollars in cash,” says I. “Might be able to afford a new anchor line.”

  “Maybe even some new nets,” says Josh, going back to the helm and throwing his gear into forward. “You take care, Billy.”

  And Josh cruises slowly away, giving me one last wave with a big smile.

  Which proves the advantage of being a habitual liar. No one believes me when I tell the truth.

  * * *

  Finally, I gave up. I’d been on the sound for an hour, and nothing.

  I goosed the engine back into life and headed back toward land.