Rhubarb (19 page)

Research and Testing has still been unable to recreate the
exact formula. It is to be your top priority to obtain this formula from the
local environment using all necessary means.

“What is this?” asked Martin.

“It’s the death warrant for your species,” said Stewart.
“You have to know what the terms mean. ‘Production’ involves setting up
processing and baking facilities at strategic locations on your planet.
‘Resource allocation’ means turning every possible inch of Earth into managed
farms for wheat, palm, canola, sugar, cinnamon, and rhubarb.”

“That’s preposterous. If this is some kind of sick joke…”
said Martin.

“I wish this was a joke. A huge amount of money was spent to
prepare for this product, and when it didn’t deliver according to the timeline,
heads rolled. They’re still rolling.”

“But a whole planet?” asked Martin. “To make pies?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Stewart. “A small,
productive planet in a minor solar system? No problem.”

“But, if you hadn’t noticed, there’s seven billion people
using this planet right now,” said Martin.

“Now do you understand why we can’t give them this recipe?”
said Stewart.

“Then why in the world did you give me all of Linda’s
cookbooks and stuff?” asked Martin.

“Because I never thought in a million years you’d actually
figure it out.”

“What happens if they figure it out themselves?” asked
Martin.

Stewart threw up his hands. “They’ve failed so far. We can
only hope that they’ll eventually cut their losses and abandon the project. But
as you read in that memo, the potential for profits is huge, and…never mind.”

“Don’t you clam up now,” said Martin. “Speaking as the sole
representative for humanity, I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

“That automated production facility has been waiting on the
edge of your solar system since 1987,” said Stewart. “And the first step of the
logistics plan is the atmospheric release of a targeted neurotoxin. Every human
would be dead in a matter of hours.”

“That’s monstrous. Who does that?”

Stewart sighed and continued. “The fabrication facility
can’t be retasked. It’s designed for this job and this job only. That means
that they’re not going to sell it for scrap, recycle it, or pay to transport it
somewhere else. It’s waiting up there. All it takes is the press of a button,
and it’s on its way. Fully automated, completely unrelenting. You won’t even
have time to ask why. Or who.”

“Can’t you see that we’re sentient?” asked Martin. “I mean,
we like rhubarb pie, too.”

“Not like this you don’t,” said Stewart. “And anyway, you’re
a few measly billion. There are trillions of us on thousands of worlds. You may
register as sentient, but no one knows about you. No one will even notice that
you’re gone, or were ever here. And even if they did, they’d probably consider
this pie to be the pinnacle of your species’ achievements.”

“But you changed your mind about us,” said Martin. “Why?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Cheryl,” said Martin.

“I know it doesn’t make sense, given what we planned to do
to your planet, but I felt responsible for her.”

“So you raised her,” said Martin.

“I fell in love with that crying, spitting, drooling,
peeing, pooping little thing. So I quit,” said Stewart.

“Then why can’t you go to them and tell them about us?”

“I’m a nobody, Martin. A low-level marketing functionary. I
was on a fast track to management—that’s why they picked me to lead the recipe
acquisition—but I was never a decision maker. And now? I’m less than a nobody.
I’m not part of the company, or any company, now. And if I went back, no one
would listen. You have to understand how my people think.”

“They’re capitalists who eat snack food. How different can
they be?” asked Martin.

“I’m sorry,” said Stewart.

“So your plan is to sit here and hope they can’t figure out
the secret recipe? Doris Solberg is an old bat, and I’d never baked a pie in my
life until last night, and we figured it out in a few hours.”

“What exactly would you suggest we do?” asked Stewart. “If
you even hint to them that you have the recipe, you’ll be in as much trouble as
Cheryl. So go ahead and call them if you want. You’ll only have to live with
the guilt for a few hours.” A rustle of foil and wet plastic came from the
trash can—the ruined pies mocking him for all his efforts.

“I barely know her,” said Martin.

“What?”

“Cheryl. I don’t even know her,” said Martin. “That one
dinner, a few mornings at the breakfast bar, a few words at the co-op. That’s
all I have.”

“I’m sorry,” said Stewart.

“I’ve been in love with her since almost the first time I
saw her, but I don’t really know her,” said Martin. “I don’t know what I’m
trying to say.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Stewart said, “I’ve never
approved of any man for Cheryl—not that she needed my approval. But I think I
approve of you.”

“Thanks,” said Martin. “But I can’t believe you’re just
going to give up on her.”

“This isn’t giving up. I know she’ll come back. She may not
be the same person who left, but she’ll be returned sooner or later. We’re
going to have to be patient.”

“They’ll return a single person, but they’ll murder an
entire species?”

“Company procedure, I’m afraid,” Stewart replied.

“Is this why that wormhole, or whatever it is, down on
Highway 360 exists? So you can come kill us all to put your snack company in
the black?”

“No. The portal’s nothing more than an off-ramp. Your solar
system is simply another node in the network. My people have been stopping here
for centuries.” As Stewart spoke, Martin followed his gaze to the staple gun in
his hand.

“I’m going to keep this,” said Martin. “I’m tired of waking
up with it pointed at my head.”

“But…” said Stewart.

“No. You want another one, go on down to the co-op. Lester
keeps two or three in stock,” said Martin.

“Fine,” said Stewart. “But be careful with it. Remember what
we’ve talked about here. And don’t do anything stupid.”

“Lake Havasu City, Arizona. You’re Beyond Insomnia with Lee
Danvers and guest Marilyn Pringle-Carlson.”

“I’ll get right to the question. Marilyn, is this the end of
the world?”

“I’m sure you get asked that a lot.”

“I do, Lee. At almost every talk I give, it’s the first
question. People feel helpless, dragged along by forces they cannot control.
Fear is a natural state. But is it the end of the world? My favorite way to
answer that question is to say that it will be the end of the world as we know
it. But will it be the cataclysmic apocalypse we see in the movies? No. Caller?
Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“This is Sheila.”

“Why do you think you’re afraid?”

“I been hearing so much about it, and I don’t know what to
believe. I want to protect my family, but it’s so hard with so little
information. You’d think the government would put out announcements about how
to get ready, but when I see that they aren’t, it scares me that maybe there’s
nothing I can do.”

“I in no way want to belittle your fears, Sheila, but I hear
worries like yours all the time about the coming alignment. I’m saddened that
all the hype tends to breed instead of quell fear. Most people—sorry to say
that many of them have been guests on your show, Lee—don’t view these calendars
through the correct lens. And until you understand the original authors, you
can’t understand the intent.”

“Who were the authors?”

“Before I answer that, I want to look through the lens of
who we are now. Our society has been steeped in a culture of Western religions.
And those religions—Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and all their
offshoots—prophesy an end brought about by their gods as a fulfillment. Those
ends are nasty affairs, in which many suffer. Say the phrase ‘the end of the
world’ to most Americans, and they will imagine colossal wars, devastating
earthquakes, piles of plague dead, zombies, the sky ripped open. Need I go on?
And it’s all a bit ironic, because the Western calendar is completely open
ended. What are our Westernized minds to make of a calendar with an apparent
end?

“But the authors of this calendar did not hold such a bleak
outlook on life, nature, or the course of history. They viewed cycles as the
natural order of the universe. Lunar cycles, seasonal cycles, solar cycles,
cycles of life, death, and rebirth for plants, animals, and people. But—and
this is getting to an answer for Sheila—they also observed critical galactic
cycles that we are only beginning to relearn as a civilization.”

“Why are these galactic cycles important?”

“These calendars demonstrate a sophisticated understanding
of the cosmos not possible through direct, unaided observation of the stars.
Pre-Olmec cultures first recorded the calendar as an attempt to interpret the
universal cycles described to them by visitors. The pre-Olmec people believed
these visitor beings were gods, but you and I might have a different name for
them.”

“In other words, we should read the calendars through the
combined perspectives of these visitors—technologically advanced aliens, if you
will—and the pre-Olmec culture?”

“Exactly, Lee. And neither held an apocalyptic view of the
world. They celebrated the ends of ages, welcomed them, even though each new
age brought change and fresh challenges. Sheila, I hope that this can put your
mind at ease. I know through my past-life regression that I personally have
lived through a similar time in history. When I was Teoronuc, I was a celebrant
in the temple. The people were not fearful, but came out to worship and greet
the new age. If you want to prepare yourself, prepare yourself for something
beautiful, something wonderful.”

“That’s so great to hear. My husband will be happy. I’ve
been worrying him to death about this. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Sheila in Lake Havasu City. I’d like to know
more about these galactic cycles, but first, let’s go out to the Waker Nation
for another call. Billings, Montana, you’re Beyond Insomnia.”

“Am I on?”

“Yes. Go ahead, caller.”

“Oh, I’m so glad I got through. This is Martin.”

“Hi, Martin, do you have a question for Marilyn
Pringle-Carlson?”

“I don’t know. It may be a little off topic, but it is about
the end of the world.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

“You had another guest on a month or so ago who talked about
UFO sightings and alien visitation in Brixton, Montana. Do you remember that,
Lee?”

“I do.”

“I have to tell you that it’s all true. And it’s still going
on. I’ve talked to these aliens. I’ve even got video of them arriving. I can
show you right where their vehicles appear and disappear.”

“What’s your question, Martin?”

“I have to warn everyone that some of these aliens are
planning on killing everybody and taking over our planet. I didn’t know who
else to tell. If we do something, we might be able to stop them. Please don’t
hang up on me. I know how this sounds, but I’m not making this up. Like your
guest said, they’ve been coming to Brixton for years. They eat at the Herbert’s
Corn…”

“Thank you, Billings, Montana. After this break, we’ll be
back with more from researcher and former ancient Mesoamerican priest Marilyn
Pringle-Carlson.”

“Don’t hang up,” said a voice that was not Lee Danvers.

“Hello?” asked Martin.

“Stay on the line, Billings,” said the voice, a young man’s.
Was this X-Ray, the engineer? “Lee’s going into commercial, but he wants to
talk to you.”

A few seconds later, the line clicked over. “Martin?” asked
Lee Danvers.

“Hi?” said Martin.

“Sorry to have to cut you off. It’s not that I don’t want to
hear your story, but I’ve got to keep the show on topic. Hope you understand.
Now, you said you have video of their ships coming and going.”

“Well, coming,” said Martin.

“And you took this video near Brixton, Montana?”

“About seven miles south,” said Martin.

“Are you a professional photographer, videographer, computer
graphics specialist, or anything like that?”

“I’m a salesman,” said Martin.

“Good. Have you shown this video to anyone? Put it on
YouTube? Anything?” asked Lee.

“No,” said Martin.

“Excellent, don’t. Do you have a pen? I’m going to give you
a number. I want you to call it tomorrow. Not tonight. Tomorrow after 9:00 a.m.
Eastern time. You’re going to ask for Alicia. She’s one of my producers. If
your video’s good, we’ll issue you a contract for exclusive rights. It’ll get
put up on wakernation.com, where everyone can see it, and you might get up to five
hundred dollars. How does that sound?”

“I don’t care about the video,” said Martin. “I’m trying to
tell everyone about the…”

“The invasion. Sure.”

“It’s not an invasion. They’re going to extermin…”

“I appreciate you listening, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have
time to be anything but rude. I get about a dozen alien invasion calls a week.
Ring the number in the morning and tell your story to Alicia. If it’s worth a
segment, we’ll get back to you. I’ve got to get back on the air. Got your pen
ready?”

~ * * * ~

The complimentary breakfast at the Lone Pine Inn in Sidney
had a different waffle setup than the Brixton Inn. The batter had been
pre-poured into little cups and set in a special plastic tray. But no
insightful red-and-yellow placard told Martin what to do next. So they don’t
trust me to dispense my own batter, but they expect me to instinctively know
how to operate a griddle? Martin wondered.

As Martin poured his chosen cup of batter into the black
grooves, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He dropped the cup and had to fish
it out of the pooling batter.