"I am Aaron Lee Fairfax. I am forty-three years old. I am married to Janessa, but she wants a divorce. I work for Thagg, Morgan, and Edwards Brokerage Group in Kansas City, Missouri. I own a Maserati."
It all sounded false, these big words coming out of a boy's mouth. He sat alone, small in an adult-sized chair, clad only in shortie pajamas with Peanuts characters rampant. His bare feet did not even reach the floor. On the other side of a glass partition, formless adults sat in shadows.
"What were you doing in Santa Fe?"
He could not tell who asked the questions. "The firm wants to open a Southwest branch, Phoenix, Tucson or Albuquerque. We had visited the other cities and it was Albuquerque's turn."
"Just yourself?"
"No, four officers from the firm."
"They did not go to the Holn ship?" The intercom suggested a feminine voice.
"No. I was the only one who wanted to see it. I was curious."
"You went alone?"
"I drove our rented car to the site." He looked down at his pale, thin legs. "A small car. I was too tall for it."
* * *
[["We have reports that the children are claiming to be the missing people. Authorities are skeptical because the medical bulletins from St. Vincent Hospital say these are definitely children, all in excellent health.
"We asked Jack Theodoric, FBI agent in charge, about the coincidence that seventeen adults are missing yet seventeen children were found after the ship left yesterday."
"Very coincidental, don't you think?"
"That's all he would say. Meanwhile, authorities are trying to find parents or other relatives of these children. A source, asking not to be named, told me absolutely no one has stepped forward.
"Marinka Svoboda, CNN, Santa Fe."]]
* * *
And so it went:
Up on this table, please, take your top off, breathe deep, please, as hands encased in thin latex touch a stethoscope along his back, his chest. Open your mouth, please, an eye peeking through a hood peers in, then into nostrils, ears. Lay on your stomach, please, thump, thump, thump; over please, thump, thump, thump. Remove your bottoms, please, as rubberized hands prod, push, separate. Stand still, please, and huge adult hands press childlike fingers into ink and then onto cards. Human faces anonymous behind swaths of green cloth say little to him but much to each other.
To X-ray: lie on the table, please, as he's turned, rolled and twisted into every conceivable position (don't move, please). In a white room, more poses for less penetrating photos, but naked again: front, back, sides, chest, legs, face, arms, feet, hands—every inch photographed from every angle.
"Am I posing for child porn or something?"
No one laughs.
No one says a word.
* * *
[["Twenty minutes after departure from the New Mexico desert, the Arianespace DS1 satellite captured these images of the Holn lander linking with its deep-space engine array orbiting the Earth. Within five minutes, attitude control jets turned the linked ships and the massive nuclear engines roared to life. Scientists say the acceleration must be immense.
"All efforts to contact the ship have failed. The Holn have not answered, and the ship continues on a course away from Earth. One scientist suggests the occupants might already be in biological stasis for the trip back to the mother ship, which could take up to twenty years.
"Kinsea Lee, NBC News, Santa Fe."]]
* * *
"What happened in the Holn ship on June fifth?"
"We were inside, looking around at the displays. No warning or anything. I mean, no lights, no buzzers. The last thing I remember was looking at a holo of the Holn mother ship. Then I woke up on the hill, naked." He ran his hands down his thin chest, feeling ribs under cloth. "And—and . . . smaller."
"Do you remember anything in between?"
He stopped, stared at the floor. "Vague things. Shapes and forms. Long . . . tentacles, or wires. No one talking. Light overhead, soft sounds in the background. A curved wall, ceiling, overhead, I think . . .. Memory is a gap." He took a breath, let it out. "First thing I really remember is seeing an ant crawling along the ground. Then the ground started vibrating. I could barely get to my feet."
The anonymous green people later stuck his body into a dark tunnel. As he lay listening to the whirrings and poppings, he wondered if he would come out even smaller . . ..
* * *
[["Dr. Rolstein, why, after six years of exchanging information, did the Holn do this?"
"The question of the decade don't you think? Only the decade, though. The question of the century is, why did they come in the first place?"
"You don't have any idea after six years?"
"We can give one answer, of course, the same answer to the question of why we went to the Moon. To beat the Soviets—I mean, to find out what's there. We did sort of advertise our presence, did we not, by beaming our TV signals all across the galaxy. Hogan's Heroes, Gilligan's Island, Howdy Doody. I wonder what they think of a wooden doll on strings pushing Nestle's chocolate, eh? So they came to find out what the Sam Hill was going on over here. Gave them an earful, I must say."
"What did we get in return?"
"The answer to Enrico Fermi's question: Where are they? Right there, Dr. Fermi, with a lot more out there, we now know. On a more prosaic level, some information on new metal alloys and rocket engines. No warp drive, sorry Captain Kirk. Their engines are practical examples of technology we've already thought about. Nice computers, though, machines that'll make ol' von Neumann green with envy. New polymers, some other stuff making DuPont go nuts. No cure for cancer, though, I'm afraid. Their physiology is much too different."
"What did we give them?"
"Ah, an interesting question. On the surface, not too much, no? I find it a wonder they didn't leave after—or during—the Millennium Riots of ought-4. Maybe they found tear gas tasty. Or perhaps they found it all amusing."
"In all the exchanges of information between Earth scientists and the Holn, there was no suggestion they would kidnap seventeen humans for experiments?"
"Not unless we missed something in the fine print. Besides, we don't know they did experiments. Maybe they offered them a ride. 'Come wiz me to the Kochab.' And the humans said 'Why not?'"
"How do you explain the children?"
"I have an idea about that, but for now, I am keeping my mouth shut."
"Unfortunately, we cannot pursue that line of thought. We switch now to Rolf Treadwell in Washington where the president's spokesman is about to issue a statement. Perhaps later we can discuss your theory, doctor. This is Marinka—"
"If you pursue it too far, young lady, you'll be burned as a heretic."]]
* * *
"Aaron Lee Fairfax." The words swiftly faded to nothing.
He sat alone, legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Ages had passed since the day on the hill, but hospital staff kept telling him the rocket had left only yesterday. Now this day was fading to black . . . another night of terror ahead . . .
He glanced at the wrinkled paper in his hand, a photocopy of his driver's license. In one corner, an image of a man: strong chin, no folds of fat underneath; broad face; set mouth; receding hairline; looking out with confidence, perhaps a touch of arrogance. Vital statistics deemed necessary to know by the State of Missouri—Date of birth: 2-27-65; Height: six feet, two inches; Weight: 197; Eyes: brown; Hair: black; Physical Disabilities: none; Glasses: no.
"You continue to insist this man is you?" The gargoyle in the sterile gown had held the photocopy two inches in front of his face. "Look at yourself in the mirror, and tell me again: Is this man you?"
"Yes, sir." Meekly.
The gargoyle made a sound deep inside the mask.
"Look at yourself." A gloved hand thrust open his pajama top. "Where'd your muscles go? Look." He poked with a finger. "Nothing there, just a kid's skinny chest. Your biceps." He pulled an arm out, squeezed with his other hand. "Nothing. Weak as a kitten." He pushed Aaron back, yanked down his bottoms. "Look at this. You call this a man's penis? And these genitals. These aren't a man's equipment, they've never been used. And not a hair on them, slick as a newborn's." He leaned forward until his masked face was inches away. Aaron could see only brown eyes glaring at him. "You still say you were once a man?"
"Y-yes. Yes. I was a man once."
"Shit." The gargoyle crumpled the photocopy, threw it down. "Get dressed." He stomped away.
Now alone in the cold, sterile hospital room, the boy wrapped his arms around himself, bent forward and took deep breaths.
I am Aaron Lee Fairfax, 43 years old; I own a Maserati. I am an adult.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
I will not cry. I will not.
"They did something to us."
A tear slipped out from beneath an eyelid and down a cheek, paused a moment at the edge of the jaw, then fell to oblivion.