U.S. Jet Shoots Down Flying Object Over Canada
Prime Minister Justin Trudeau said he and President Biden had ordered the object violating Canadian airspace to be taken down, a day after another object was shot out of the sky near Alaska. (NY Times 2/11/23)
Triggered by unseen relays at the edge of outer space, klaxons begin to wail. Or, to be more accurate, klaxon-shaped devices start to emit a shrill ultrasonic vibration that you’d recognize as an alarm if your species had evolved in an aquatic environment and then transitioned to an atmosphere-based existence for the purpose of interplanetary travel and had been forced to reconfigure an entire evolutionary path’s worth of technology to a new carrier medium.
“Report.” A pleasant baritone voice gurgles over the thrum of liquid respiration. Thankfully, while the auditory phonemes of the alien language would be incomprehensible to any human ear, the written form bears a striking resemblance to English. Go figure.
“Command, we’ve been attacked again. At least, we think.”
A screen blinks to life, displaying a stout, toad-like creature encased in a pale yellow vapor suit, sitting entirely too near its camera. Bulbous eyes blink, filling nearly half the screen. The fact that both the screens in the command station and the eyes of the overseer were originally intended to work under liquid ammonia seas instead of the gas-based atmosphere of the mothership does nothing to help the scout’s appearance.
Distorted and swollen, the creature on screen blinks again.
“Think?” The overseer barks (although perhaps ‘ribbits’ is a better term). “How can you think we’re being attacked and not be sure?”
The bulbous eyes look aside, and muffled croaks are overheard as the crew covers the microphone to confer among themselves.
“Well, we were definitely attacked. No question. Our second scout was just shot down. But we don’t think they know what they’re shooting at.”
“Interesting.” The overseer leans back, stroking a moist chin with two webbed digits. “So these humans have the capability to detect our scouts, engage with them in the sky, and even damage them. But they don’t care what they’re attacking?”
“Yeah, that’s about it. It looks like one group of humans sent an unmanned gaseous aircraft over the territory of another recently, and since then, they’re shooting at everything that moves.”
“Wait, that doesn’t make any sense.” The overseer leans forward again, reaching up to swipe several times at a nearby screen.
“Here.” A squishy digit presses against the smooth, crystalline surface. “Humans, space-faring, nuclear age. I mean, they’re actually more advanced than us in a few areas. Our scientists are still trying to make sense of their approach to quantum physics. Why would two groups be shooting at one another’s aircraft? We have no record of interplanetary travel. They’re all basically trapped on this rock together, right?”
More muffled croaks as the scout looks for answers among its crew. “I think so. Yeah, that’s the shape of it. But they’re very xenophobic from what we’ve seen. There are very arbitrary territorial designations that don’t make much sense to us from aerial observation. And they seem extremely concerned with their land masses. They already have about 80 times more biomass packed onto the land than they do in their oceans, so maybe that’s why they protect it so aggressively. We’d like to observe more, but we’re concerned about additional losses.”
“Understood. Seems like the council was wrong about this one. Maybe humans will be ready for contact in another few cycles. Communication monitoring has confirmed that they know full well what they’re doing to their own ecosystem. They’re going to have a lot of opportunities to work out these aggressive tendencies among themselves before another survey mission comes through this quadrant. You’re cleared to return to Central Command. We’ll begin preparing to move on to the next target when you arrive.”
The frogman blinks again before the screen goes dark. The overseer pulls up a log and enters several notes, none of which you would consider flattering if you were an ape-based descendant of the planet Earth. The room is quiet for a few moments, save for the bubbling respirator and the ever-present hum of the ship’s engines, while the overseer’s digit hovers over the word submit.
Finally, the creature sighs, and its clammy digit drops with the finality of a gavel. The report compiles and whisks away down whatever internet-like series of tubes these amphibinauts dreamt up in the depths of their ocean home.
The command ship awaits the return of its scouts before turning its massive heft, igniting its engines with a sickeningly green glow, and disappearing into the darkness of space.