The Journal of Ingeborg P. Hoffman

Calliope Island, Gulf of Guinea

April 28th, 2106

In the corner of my office is a box. It’s so nondescript, you would be excused for passing over it without a second look, except that it clashes with the homespun Gaucho aesthetic I’ve tried to cultivate in my workspace. A perfect cube, 5 by 5 by 5 cm, made of metal and painted with a black matte finish, the only imperfection in its exterior is in the top right corner of the upright face; a small red light that has flashed on and off, on and off for the past six years, and may well go on forever. 

    The box is beautifully made, however. The seams are so precisely welded together, that upon close inspection, one is less convinced that this box was made at all. Rather, one has the impression that it came upon its existence spontaneously in some sort of distant world of perfect cuboids, like some mathematician’s fantasy. But of course it was made, and it was my boss who made it. 

    The box is a transmitting device, connected to a larger array built on top of the mountain, which, in turn, is connected to a space station over 12 light years away. I am one of two people on Earth in possession of such an object. There are only four of us who know what they do.

    Two minutes ago, I was sitting at my desk watching the little red flashing light, trying to find the right words to say. Frustrated, I looked out of my window, as if the answer lay out there. Then, staring into the almost perfect, hollow golden wheat and red reflection of my office in the darkness, the air by the door behind me moved. I swiveled around and saw Tommy Albrightely, the stowaway.

    He was standing in the threshold wearing his Outersky technician’s jumpsuit, as real and physical as he was when I first met him. (For how much I’ve thought of him, it’s amazing I only spoke to him that one day.) I wasn’t afraid; I knew he wasn’t there. But there he was. Tommy didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, his hands tucked into his pockets, his teenage pock-marked pink cherry syrup cream face broadening into a grin. Then I must have blinked. And he was gone. 

    I got up and waved my hand through the air where his body was. Then I crossed my office and pressed my cheek against the pane to see the lights of our massive launch yard built on top of the tropical bay. There’s no activity there at this hour. In daylight, I have one of the best views on the island. From my office I can see Mt. Calliope rise from the jungle, and past that out into the Atlantic Ocean. I felt lightheaded so I sat back down, and checked my heart rate and my forehead for fever. But I don’t appear to be ill. Then I started writing this.

    Tomorrow is the sixth anniversary of the launch of The Majestic. In just a few hours, several light years from Earth, its crew (plus Tommy) should be waking up from six years in stasis. Can souls travel faster than the speed of light? I don’t know; I don’t ask those questions anymore. I lost the fear of God I was born with, years ago. But I went to a Quaker meeting this evening. I even rose to hold them in the light.

    This afternoon I received a text from my ex, Dr. Akuna Appiah. This is a rare enough occurrence. All the message said was, “the truth will out.” I don’t know what he thinks he knows. But it’s not what he thinks. Akuna never could keep a secret. Not like me.

    I’m so tired of the lies and outright deceptions. There is only going to be truth in this journal. Tonight I feel the first stirrings inside me of an old interest, an activation. I knew it would come; it’s been on its way for six years, or maybe much longer. (I’ve actually been irked that it hasn’t come sooner!) I’m going to write the truth about the day The Majestic left Earth; about how we got there, and what has happened since.

    I shared Akuna’s message with the boss, Wiles Gregory (or Xeno Phillipyde, as he’s known among the Sambat, his own people. It is the closest approximation of his name in English. Phonetically it sounds rather similar to how he himself pronounces it in both High and Low Sambat.) His office is right down the hallway from mine. He scanned the text, unconcerned. “Anything else?,” he said, scooping a handful from the giant ceramic bowl of candy he keeps by his desk. 

    His mind is on other matters; the fighting in Klax most of all, but also the announcement of the agreement between Outersky Industries, their research subsidiary (and my employer) Calliope Group, and the United Nations. He must be worried about it. Our future depends on it. Recently, he’s been praying for hours each day. I don’t know where he goes. I think he’s carved a temple in a cave up on the mountain. It’s the one place on the island I don’t know where to find him.

    I have spent the last six years in close consultation with Xeno Phillipyde, known as the Facechanger, a.k.a. Wiles Gregory, my boss. I have been researching and writing the first history of the only alien species humanity has ever known with certainty to have existed. The boss is a Sambat, a member of what I have come to believe is the greatest civilization yet encountered by mankind. I’m calling my book, The First Light. It is in seven volumes. 

    But I haven’t just been writing my book. For six years, the senior staff, Wiles, Ronny Cheung, Milosz Lukas and I (and Trena Arsillion, before she died) have been readying our response to our people and to the world at large. If all goes to plan, in about two weeks I will be seated next to Mr. Gregory when he tells the world that aliens exist. And that he is one of them.

    Yet, in all of this writing, I recognize I have abandoned myself. I haven’t placed myself in the story, even in the places I could have. For the purposes of a fuller history, my record must be given. I have begun thinking of my own mortality. (The immortality treatments that Trena developed, available only to high-net worth individuals, select Calliope employees, and really anyone who is friends with Milosz, hold no appeal for me at this time. Perhaps that will change.)

    I don’t know what to do about Akuna. Last year, for the fifth anniversary, Milosz really went all out. It was the biggest party I’d ever seen; at least, it was the biggest since his 164th birthday party a few months before that. Many said it was in bad taste. Akuna refused to attend. Though we live five minutes from each other on the island, I hardly ever seen him anymore. None of us do.

    With no fanfare, this year has a decidedly different feeling. In an odd way, it feels like we are finally looking forward. But there’s a shift in the air. I can feel it. Even as I write, the foundation shakes beneath us.