PART 1 THE SIGNAL
The Signal swept through the solar system and washed over the Earth on New Year’s Day. Satellites tethered above the planet by gravity, as well as astronomic dishes anchored to the planet’s surface and scanning the cosmos like lost children trying to find a familiar face in an ocean of strangers, squawked, beeped, and hummed in pre-programmed excitement for just such an event. There was no mistaking the alien origin. It was a deliberate communication embedded in a wide beam of energy, undeniably sent by an advanced intelligence.
With humanity’s comfortable centricity in the universe suddenly demolished, the peoples of the world collapsed into the existential crises one would expect when a sentient race finally learns they are not alone in the Universe. It was thrilling. It was terrifying. It was chaos.
This story isn’t really about that, however.
This story is about humanity’s astonishment at the fact that the Contact Message (as the media labeled one of the most significant events in human history) was coded in English. Plus, it was far more plain and direct than any who dreamt of this day ever expected.
Dr. Frank Lee, astrophysicist, breathlessly read the message to the President of the United States at almost the exact same time as Professor Ivan Belyaev read it to the President of Russia. Which was pretty much the same time as the message was being stammered and shouted and sputtered to nearly every world leader on the planet that so much as had a telescope pointed at the sky.
GREETINGS DAVE WONDERFUL NEWS MANDATORY ANNIHILATION OF YOUR PLANET MAY NOT BE PLEASE BE READY FOR MEETING AT YOUR PERIHELION GOOD DAY CHEERIO
Of all the answers humanity yearned for since the question “Is there life on other planets” was first asked, the unexpectedly most important one was, “Who in the world was Dave?”
* * * *
Sal Esposito died after a chance encounter with a Sub-Saharan reptile known for its propensity to end anything it bit. Mr. Esposito, up until then, had lived a life many would generously describe as “storied,” but most would call “sordid.” The previously mentioned reptile ensured Sal’s life could also be described as “over.”
Sal’s most enduring legacy was his restaurant, the history of which was a confusing and nebulous affair. For much of its existence, Sal’s Dive (planted in the extreme southern orbit of Baltimore) was a restaurant in the same manner that a junkyard was a shopping mall. Over the decades, the establishment’s name and appearance morphed, but at its heart, the Dive was an eclectic magnet of eccentric people and bizarre events which deserve their own story at a later time.
His nephew, Rizzo, had rebranded “Sal’s Dive” to “Sal’s Bistro” several years before the reptile biting incident, in hopes of garnering some of the upscale corporate power lunches. Rizzo still served microwaved frozen pizza, but he smeared avocado and chopped sweet potato on top, to make it “cuisine”. It added 75 cents to the cost and $15 to the price. He assumed none of the stuffed suits would notice. So far they hadn’t.
Shortly after Sal’s passing, it occurred to Rizzo that he might get the evening family crowd by adding televisions with sports, cartoons, and gameshows. This too had shown promise. The crown of the newly re-rebranded “Sal’s Lunch Bistro And Family Fun Emporium” was now a 75” LED 4k TV just inside the door, immediately capturing the customers as they walked in and luring them into a TV-induced stupor.
Sal himself had occasionally over the years tried to add a strange sort of ambiance to the Dive (as old-timers continued to refer to the small, decaying enterprise). Two favorite pieces of what he called his “exotic decor” was a massive crystalline lamp he claimed was carved from a single piece of Himalayan salt, as well as an ugly stone table in the middle of the restaurant Sal swore was a piece of Stonehenge. Sal knew only one of these claims was true. However, he was completely wrong about which one.
On this day, just as the news of extraterrestrial contact began breaking across televisions worldwide, a “Dave” entirely unrelated to anything involving aliens, Dave “Razorback” Mitchell, had decided his best lunch option was Sal’s. It was the culmination of a lifetime of poor choices, which recently forced him to enter the FBI’s Witness Protection Program under the unadvisedly self-chosen name Reginald Deny. The fact that Rizzo and his sister Becky (the one waitress employed at the Emporium) called him “Dave” was a clue to how well life was going for him under the WPP.
Integral to his decision to dine at Sal’s on this particular day was it was the best place to have a shot or two of Old Tolerance whiskey, in hopes the whiskey would give him what he needed to face “Intolerance” Whitney, his new boss at his new job at the SuperiOil Lube Shop.
Dave had been an ASE-certified mechanic for almost 35 years in his pre-WPP life, but Whitney thought she had something to teach him.
Of course she did have something to teach him. For instance, the first time he pulled a cabin air filter out of a sedan, with actual living seeds sprouting in the compost of leaves and debris gathered on it, he asked if the little old lady wanted to pay way too much for an overpriced cheap knock-off of the OEM filter. The poor widow driving the aging vehicle didn’t have the money, so he shook it off, blew it out with the air compressor, and put it back in. It was nowhere near good as new, but it certainly had more life in it than moments before.
Whitney spent 30 minutes explaining to him how that was not policy. Their air compressors were for customers who paid to have their tires filled to the proper level, even if the SLS Technician had to let 5 PSI out to prevent yet another overfilled tire from exploding. But while Dave was a master at complicating his own life, he had an amateur talent for helping those in need. Clearly, he thought, his employment at SuperiOil was not to be a long-term affair.
He was right. Just for the wrong reason.
As he walked into Sal’s, there in front of him, in unmistakable 3” letters was the Message. And while line after line was stacked in 75 inches of glowing LED 4K magnificence, Dave’s eyes only locked onto a few words:
“DAVE.”
“ANNIHILATION.”
“BE READY.”
The brain can do odd things, especially if it has been wired over a lifetime of terrible decisions to panic. Thinking he had been found out by the biker gang he had turned informant on, he fell into one of the chairs at the entrance, or “foy yay” as Rizzo called it, and immediately called his contact at the FBI. Voicemail. He called home to warn his wife. Also voicemail.
The terror that made him agree to leave his old life behind returned in force. In the time it took to make those calls, his brain had scratched out a reasonably paranoid scenario: he figured the FBI dude was already aware the jig was up, and was frantically calling Dave’s house to alert his wife it was time for them to escape through the back door.
He was right, but only to a point. The FBI “dude” was calling his wife, but not for the purposes of escape and planning and regrouping. It was actually much simpler than that. “Razorback’s” wife was having an affair with his FBI contact, and they were engaged at this particular moment in activities that did not involve watching breaking news or answering phones.
And since making poor choices was reflexive for him, Dave didn’t bother looking at the TV again. The adrenaline had already smothered rational thought, and he bolted out the door.