Chapter 11
July 8, 2089
Charles Jesus had briefed the presidential staff before, but only a couple of times, and each time it had been an extremely interesting, if not stressful, event. This time, unexpectedly, he was asked to the Oval Office not the West Wing. That meant the actual president of the United States would be receiving the briefing. But Charles wasn’t a hundred percent certain about what the president wanted him to be briefing. He walked cautiously beside and a half step behind the White House chief of staff. He’d have to search her name again later; he was certain, but thought she’d said Tanya Something-or-other Davidson. He uncomfortably paced as best he could to stay with her and continued fiddling with the security badge dangling uncomfortably from his lapel. The chief of staff paid him little attention.
“Right this way Dr. Jesus.”
“Uh, okay, thank you.” Charles stammered nervously as they passed the secretary and through the door to the president’s office—the Oval Office. Suddenly, he realized that more than just the president intended to speak with him. The national security advisor, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the secretary of defense, and the liaison to the United Nations were all present. This was a meeting of heavy hitters. Charles wondered if he’d become a power player as the ambassador for Earth-Proxima Space Economic Interchange to the United Nations and and no one had bothered to tell him.
There were three other men and two women whom Dr. Jesus didn't recognize. Although he didn't know them, they had the appearance of serious or especially important people, but Charles wasn’t even certain what that meant anymore. One thing he noted was that the president was not in the room.
“Have a seat, Mr. Ambassador,” the NSA said, motioning to the only empty chair in the room.
“Um, thank you, sir.” Charles sat and fidgeted a bit with the tail of his sports coat and then the security badge again. “Is the presi—”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs jumped up at attention as a door to the side of the desk that Charles hadn’t realized was there opened and the president walked through. Unclear of protocol, Charles jumped to his feet as well.
“Dr. Jesus!” The president held out a hand and patted him on the shoulder. “May I call you Charles?”
“Certainly, Mr. President. Whatever you prefer.” Charles nodded.
“Have a seat.” The president nodded and then leaned on the edge of his desk with a discerning look on his face. “Well, Charles, let me tell you I really hope that we can save those people at Proxima Centauri. And I hope that we can figure out how to make economic windfall with this very expensive endeavor.”
“Yes sir,” Charles agreed.
“More to the point, I want to. No, we have to. We must protect our interests and not bring back to Earth some sort of plague that can't be cured—that is, assuming it isn’t already here.” The president paused at that statement to see if Charles had caught what he just said. Charles heard it but wasn’t certain what it meant. How could a plague from Proxima Centauri make it all the way to the Sol system? The president continued, “Are we certain it’s not? I’m not really sure why the scientists of the world haven’t seen this or talked about it yet. Maybe because it’s not politically correct or some such nonsense, but…”
The president took a long, deep breath and paused again, but only for a brief second. Charles listened intently and wasn’t sure where this was going or if he was supposed to say something. The president then broke his silence and pointed to one of the other men in the room.
“Jason, why don’t you tell us about your studies with the World Health Organization.” The president turned to him but was interrupted by a grunt from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Ahh yes, the nondisclosure…Tanya, would you have Dr. Jesus sign the form, please…”
“Uh, sir, what’s this?” Charles accepted a data pad from the chief of staff. “Nondisclosure of what?”
“Well, you see, Charles, there’s a possibility that the…plague, virus, whatever it might be, is already here on Earth and we just haven’t noticed it yet. Or, uh, I guess Jason there has noticed it but it is in a particular part of the population that has been discounted as a cultural bias. I dunno. But the nondisclosure is to keep this classified until we truly know what is going on. Otherwise, we could start a global panic and we don’t want that.”
“Uh, I understand, sir.” Charles signed the electronic form and handed the pad back.
“Okay, Jason.” The president nodded.
“Hello, Dr. Jesus. I’m Jason Faheem. My parents are from Oman and I’m the first-generation natural-born American in my family. My specialty is population studies and the impacts on pandemics, cultural and situational hunger, and population-based disease propagation. I’ve worked with the World Health Organization and the National Institute of Health for my entire adult life.” The man paused to let his credentials sink in. Charles just nodded in understanding and listened intently.
“What you may or may not be aware of is that there are actually three locations on planet Earth to date that have for generations shown a tremendous gender discrepancy in their population census data. Those are Saudi Arabia, Oman, and a small area in Asia known as Bhutan. At times, the female percentage of the population has dipped as low as thirty-four percent in each of these places. Further study shows there are cultural reasons for fewer women or for women leaving these locations or for great influxes of men into the regions. But a closer look at the birth data shows a significant difference in the number of female babies born versus male babies born each and every year for the past century.”
“Oh my God!” Charles gasped. “This is true? That could be devastating long term.”
“Indeed, Dr. Jesus.” Dr. Faheem frowned and raised an eyebrow. “But there is no need for alarm yet. There are many other genetic populations that have a surplus in female birth that more than make up for the problem. It would appear that Earth’s genetic diversity might be protecting humanity from whatever the cause of this is. But if you look at all the imagery and video data of Proxima you will note there is extraordinarily little genetic diversity amongst the population as would be expected.”
“How nobody in the press has pointed that out is beyond me,” the president added.
“It is quite possible that the cure for the Proximan Gender Plague is actually right here on Earth and we didn’t even realize it,” Faheem said.
“Genetic diversity?”
“Correct, Doctor.” Faheem looked pleased with Charles’s quick understanding. “That means in order to save the Proximan population we must begin flooding their population with new genetic material.”
“And what’s the best way to do that?” the president asked.
“Commerce,” Charles agreed knowingly.
“He gets it.” The president smiled. “I knew you would, Charles. I’ve watched most of your presentations to the UN over the past few years and I knew you would get it.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“But there’s a catch, maybe,” Dr. Faheem added.
“A catch?”
“Of course, it is only a hypothesis that genetic diversity is a cure. So far here on Earth it is at least keeping the problem at bay. Actually, the problem is almost unnoticeable and has mainly gone unnoticed for more than a century, but it has always been there.” Faheem held both hands palms up, gesturing for emphasis. “But what if the reason there isn’t genetic diversity on Proxima is because the plague wiped out the other races?”
“But the imagery data and videos are all similar over their history,” Charles protested.
“Are they?” Faheem asked. “Their imagery and video technology is less than a century old. Looking through their artwork we did find some interesting paintings of lighter and differently shaded skin colors. Perhaps they existed centuries or even millennia in their past and they died out.”
“The point is,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs interrupted, motioning that Dr. Faheem was done speaking for now. “The point is, son, we don’t know enough of their history to know if they just died off, were killed off, or some other more troublesome thing happened. And…”
“And, General, we can’t take that chance on a guess.” The president stood, smiled, and then walked around his desk and sat in his chair. Charles thought for a second that he was going to make a motorboat sound as he leaned back. But he didn’t. “We just don’t know. So, that is why we are here today. How do we save them, and protect us, and maybe make this good for everybody on Earth at the same time?”
“Mr. President, the mission is one way and none of the people will return to Earth. At least that is the current plan,” Charles explained, realizing that he must have known that as soon as he had said it.
“Of course, of course, we all know that’s the mission plan for the Samaritan,” the president replied. Then he followed his thought more succinctly. “But who’s to say for sure? We will not know what’s going on out there once the mission gets going. The way I understand it is that in just a matter of months after they initiate the Samara Drive engine they will be out of touch and out of the control, really, of any government here on Earth. Those crazy, brave souls will literally be on their own, and who knows what decisions they might make along the way?”
“Yes sir, I understand that. But what does that have to do with me exactly?” Charles was confused. He was a commerce ambassador to the United Nations, nothing more. Granted, with the new information he had just been given, he understood the severity and the unknowns of the problem much better. But Charles wasn’t sure why he was having this conversation with the president and his senior staff.
“Let’s slow down for just a second, why don’t we?” The president sat upright and squared himself with the desk. “Mr. Ambassador—Charles, am I to understand that at one point you asked to go along on the Samaritan but for some reason you changed your mind?”
“Yes, Mr. President, that is true, but that was before it was decided it would be a one-way trip. I am not sure I’m ready to give up life on Earth just yet.” Charles recalled how he had wrestled with himself about the decision to withdraw from consideration on the mission. After he withdrew, he had suggested that somebody who understood history and multicultural commerce needed to be considered as part of the crew, even if it wasn’t himself.
“Charles, my sources tell me that you have no family, no girlfriend or significant other, and as far as I can tell your economic stature isn’t extremely good or bad. As an outsider looking in at your life, it would seem that you’re not sure what your direction in life is or should be?” The president made it as a statement, but added the slight inflection of a question at the end.
“I still am not sure what I can do for you, sir,” Charles replied.
“Well, Charles, I would like you to go Proxima Centauri b as America’s first ambassador to the people there with hopes of somehow, someday in the future, bringing new economics to both worlds, and upon assessment of the plague, maybe even bringing them the cure by creating an influx of new genetic material through workers, tourists, immigration, explorers, and such. You’ll need to come up with a plan for that.”
“Seriously? I’m not sure what to say, sir.” Charles was surprised by the request. He was flattered, to say the least, a bit excited, and somewhat uneasy.
“Say yes, Charles. Just say yes,” the president replied with a grin.
“It can’t be as simple as that, sir.” Charles shrugged. “I mean, that is the kind of job that requires a staff, resources, and…well, I’m not sure what else. And atop that, the crew of the Samaritan might not be too excited about such an addition.”
“You’re right, Charles, it’s not as simple as that.” The president paused and looked long and hard into Charles’s eyes, and his smile melted away. For the first time Charles could see the age in the man's face. He considered how the job of president must weigh heavy on a person. The president finally let out a sigh.
“Somebody has to make sure that they follow the rules out there. Somebody has to make sure that the crew doesn't go insane. Somebody has to make sure that they don’t return to Earth and bring a plague that can’t be cured. Somebody has to make sure that a bunch of scientists with lofty notions and unclear understandings of how governments work aren’t the only people this new culture sees. Somebody has to go that understands or has the propensity to understand an entirely new form of government and how that must interact with our governments. Somebody—you, Dr. Jesus—needs to go because you understand the full story, the big picture, the behind-the-scenes information that the general public, scientists, and crew does not.”
“And you think that person is truly me, sir?”
“Why not?” He almost laughed. “Yes, Charles, I do. I think it’s you—with the right team. You will need military advice. You will need economic advice. You will need legal advice. You will need historical, philosophical, and theological advice. You’ll have scientists all around you that can’t wait to tell you their opinions. And, like any ambassador setting up an embassy, you’ll need protection.”
“Protection sir?”
“Yes, protection.” The president turned to the three men and two women standing along the wall of the Oval Office. “General, please introduce our security team to Ambassador Jesus.”