---

Commander Pell wore forlorn determination like a mask.

His strong face was sunken and sallow. He had not slept in earnest for two weeks. He had not been so tired for decades, not since his Ranger training.

It was not lost on Pell that the future of the human race now rested on his sleep-deprived shoulders. All that weight bore down upon him. Had the weight gotten heavier or were his shoulder’s beginning to buckle beneath it?

Both, he imagined.

“Commander, NATO is green on their end. Land and sea.” The corporal looked as bad or worse as Pell. A thick cloud of exhaustion hovered over the entire war-room. Every man and woman inhaled its vapors and floated on the edge of consciousness.

“And sir,” the corporal added, locking his tired eyes with Pell’s, “the Chinese are a go, sir.”

Pell did not know he had any adrenaline left in his body, but the news from China drew out whatever remained. Pell’s heavy eyes, rheumy with sleepfulness, widened.

“Understood corporal.” Pell knew what he needed to do, but he was so tired that every act required careful volition. Pell lifted his arm – left arm he reminded himself – and checked his watch. Five after five. Only three hours and twenty-five minutes remained.

No time to waste.

Forcing his hoarse voice to command volume, Pell addressed the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen. ‘Thunderclap’ is green. Each of you knows your role.” Pell paused, uncertain what to say. “I know it has been difficult, but for better or for worse, this will all be over soon. What we do today we do for the sake of the entire human race.”

Pell turned toward the tactical screen without another word, filled with dissatisfaction over his speech.

With the slow, determined energy of a group of ground sloths, the room oozed to life. Each officer pressed on through a haze of weariness, but this was not all that slowed their pace. Beyond their fatigue, each was oppressed by the terrible responsibility of what they were about to be a part of.

For decades the concept of mutually assured destruction had kept the human race from starting a nuclear war. But the nature of the present upheaval pushed the precepts of M.A.D. past their breaking point. The binary possibilities of the current emergency – eternal Russian dominance or, ostensibly, a free world – raised questions beyond anyone’s ability to answer or prognosticate. There were, even within the American military, certain factions who believed it best to simply allow the Russians to make contact, rather than risk nuclear annihilation.

Ultimately, the decision fell to the White House, and the White House’s position had been unequivocal: Get an American to that landing sight. At all costs.

It was clear to everyone that there were no good options. The Russians knew that perfectly well. Their hyper-aggressive, multi-pronged invasion was just one part of a spider web of complex, overlapping tactical impossibilities.

It was apparent within the first few days of the conflict that no ground force could possibly beat the Russian army in time to make the meeting. Similarly, no air-based attack, no amount of conventional bombs and paratroopers, was going to be able to shortcut their way to the meeting point. Let alone hold that position long enough to complete the meeting safely.

Given enough time, of course, the Russian’s stood no chance against the combined might of the rest of the world. Only there wasn’t enough time. There were only three hours and, now, twenty minutes before they arrived. No time at all. No choices left.

Enter Thunderclap.

The plan was frightening in its stark, unfeeling simplicity. The Russian military would be bombarded, from all sides, by allied nuclear weapons – utterly destroyed in the course of an hour. This would include multiple payload strikes on the meeting area itself. Immediately after detonation, several aircraft, already in the air, would deposit a unit of 200 specially trained soldiers in the fresh, smoldering nuclear pit that would be the meeting site. These soldiers would be equipped with radiation protective suits – suits which would do almost nothing against such large amounts of radiation. Their mission would be to survive long enough to finish the meeting.

Of course, the Russians would reciprocate with a nuclear volley of their own. Major cities around the world had been unofficially evacuating for days already, uncertain of whether, or when, the nuclear seal would be broken. But even with half the world’s population dispersed in fear, the results of the Russian counter-attack would be appalling. Hundreds of millions dead, and, perhaps, nuclear winter.

The Executive was presented with the full prospectus for Thunderclap. The terrible loss of life was deemed acceptable collateral damage. Anything to avoid Russian supremacy, which the President and his military advisors believed to be a death sentence in and of itself. The hope was that whatever knowledge the aliens imbued humanity with would be sufficient to repair the damage caused by the war. The subsequent ascendance of the human race would make the casualties well worthwhile.

For his part, Pell felt a certain relief. To be sure, the plan horrified him. He did not, on a personal level, agree with it. Better to allow the Russians to “win” – to the extent winning and losing were applicable to this situation.

However, Pell had become very good, in his decades of military service, at separating the personal from the professional. Standing there in that command center, there was no Christopher Pell, son of Herman Pell, both born and raised in Nebraska.

There was only Commander Pell of the Joint Strategic Armed Forces. For Commander Pell, as with all military leaders, nothing was more burdensome than uncertainty. The moment he heard the Chinese were on board, all uncertainty had been banished. There was a plan – it may entail awesome risk and unspeakable destruction – but it was, finally, a plan. And, as far as Pell could see, it was the only way “victory” could be achieved.

One by one word came back from the various officers sending out their global communications. One by one the nuclear submarines, airplanes, and silos pinpointed their individual targets and signalled their readiness to fire.

As the final, far-flung nuclear assets took their time in responding, the young, tired corporal ran up to Pell once again. This time he had a phone in his hand.

“Sir, someone’s on the line using a call sign I don’t recognize, ” the corporal wobbled briefly in place, and steadied himself, “‘Academia?'”

Pell looked up from his reverie and reached out for the phone. “I’ll take it.” The corporal handed the phone over and walked back to his station.

Pell hesitated a moment and put the phone up to his head.

“How is he?”

Merriman’s trusted guard sounded strained. “He’s conscious sir. Very conscious.” The soldier hesitated for a moment. “Sir, I apologize, the Professor insisted I make the call. He has something urgent to tell you.”

Something urgent? Pell thought. More urgent than the impending nuclear holocaust?

Pell sighed. “Put him on.”

The line went silent for a moment and then Professor Merriman’s unequivocal voice came over the line.

“Pell, you need to end this war.”

Pell blinked. “Professor,” Pell responded by means of hello.

Merriman’s voice was taut and urgent. He pressed on. “I mistranslated.”

Pell’s pupils dilated. “What?”

“I mistranslated the Book.”

It felt to Pell as though a flaming stone had spontaneously appeared in his stomach. All around him the final officers awaited targeting confirmation. Pell turned away from them all and faced the far wall so as to hide his worry.

“Mistranslated how?” Pell growled into the receiver.

There was a moment of silence on the other side of the line. Then Merriman began.

“Originally the second and third phase of the Path appeared almost identical. I thought the differences were purely technological.” Merriman spoke quickly now, at the frenetic pace of his fully rested genius. “Both phases utilized the same symbol in their title, which I translated as ‘society’ or ‘culture.’ But I didn’t consider ordering – in certain written languages the location of a symbol in a given phrase can change its meaning entirely. It’s similar to syllabic stress changing the meaning of a word – like contest versus contest for instance, where one means….”

Pell’s interruption was abrupt. “Spare me the lecture, what does this mean?”

Merriman’s throaty swallow could be heard over the phone. “The second phase is ‘Society.’ The third phase is ‘Community.‘ That’s the word I got wrong – ‘community.‘”

Pell rubbed at his temple where a fierce headache was taking hold. “I don’t understand. What’s the difference?”

“Each step of the Path represents an evolutionary plateau. Awakening is the baseline of intelligence. Society is the baseline of technological and cultural development.” Merriman took a breath, “Community is the next logical step – not just a measure of one subgroup’s power, but a measure of the species’ power as a whole.”

Pell was out of patience. He almost screamed into the receiver out of frustration but managed to keep his voice low, though his tone was severe. “Professor, I am about fifteen seconds away from irradiating a quarter of the planet. Get to the point.”

Merriman blurted out the point. “Community means working together, Commander. We need to work together, as a species.”

Pell tried to wrap his head around what Merriman was saying. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the corporal returning from the other side of the room. “What does that mean?”

“It means unless the human race meets these beings as a cohesive whole, we lose.”

Pell stared at a spot on the wall. “We lose?”

“Eradication,” Merriman said simply. “Those who stray from the Path face eradication.” Merriman let that sit for half a second. “Pell, you need to reach out to the Russians. You need to stop this. I have no doubt they’re operating under the same misconceptions I was.”

Right then the corporal approached from behind Pell. “Sir,” he said, causing Pell to twitch around anxiously.

His commander’s sudden, nervous demeanor threw the Corporal for a loop. The young man’s confidence visibly faded. “Sir,” he said again, “all assets are green. We are ready to begin on your command.”

Pell stood hunched over, the phone still held tight to his face. Instinct brought up his watch. Fifteen after five, three hours and 15 minutes left. No time at all.

“Pell! Pell, listen to me. Unless we meet them together, we’re done. Do you understand? Pell?”

The hand in which Pell held the receiver slowly fell away from his head. As the phone lowered to Pell’s side, Merriman’s tinny voice could still be heard. “Call the Russians Pell. Stop the war! Pell! Pell?!”

The entire room turned to look at Pell. They all had their orders from on high. They all knew what the White House wanted them to do. But to a person, they also knew where their true loyalties lay. If their Commander ordered them to kill tens or hundreds of millions of people, they would not hesitate. If their Commander told them to abort, they would abort.

While his officers looked to him for an answer, and Merriman’s distant voice yelled through the receiver, Pell’s mind turned inward for a moment that felt like an eternity.

Time dilated and a moment that felt like an eternity. For the first time in forty years, Pell found himself wishing he could turn to his father for advice. Standing there in his wrinkled uniform, Pell felt once again like a lost child – in over his head. If only his dad was there, adult and certain, infallible.

Except he was not. Herman Pell was a decrepit invalid, lost inside his own home. Herman’s mind was as empty now as the 30 foot deep pit in his front yard. In the last two years of chaos, Pell had not seen his father more than a handful of times. The last time was six months ago, and the old man didn’t even recognize Pell’s face.

No, if Pell’s father ever had the answers, like Herman himself, they were well and truly gone.

How am I supposed to choose? Pell thought. How is anyone supposed to choose?

“Sir?” The Corporal stood by, confused and worried. “What is your order?”

Pell’s grip on the receiver tightened until the blood blanched from his knuckles and they turned white.

Commander Christopher Pell ordered himself to make a decision.

Choose, he commanded himself.

And then he did.

---

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