Illegal Alien

Frank looked over at the Russian sub. It was already returning the signal: the first five prime numbers in sequence, cycling repeatedly.

The pilot was wearing a radio headset. Frank shouted at him. "Get the Kitty Hawk to use its searchlights. Tell it to blink out a reply at the ship. The first five prime numbers, over and over."

The pilot relayed the message. It seemed to take forever — with Frank fidgeting through each second — but eventually a large searchlight just below the carrier’s radar antenna started flashing out the sequence.

The yellow beacon sticking up from the lander went dark.

"Could we have said the wrong thing?" asked Clete.

The Seahawk touched down on the flight deck. As the rotor was twirling down, Frank got out, the wind from the blades whipping his hair. Clete followed a moment later. Hunching over, they hustled away from the chopper. The captain, a bald-headed black man of about fifty, was waiting for them just inside the base of the conning tower. "The Russians are still signaling the same thing, too," he said.

Frank frowned, thinking. Why had the aliens shut up? They’d replied exactly as the aliens had, showing that humans understood prime numbers, and—

No. All they’d shown is that humans can parrot things back at them. "Try continuing the sequence," said Frank.

Clete nodded, immediately seeing it as well. "They gave us the first five primes; give ’em the next five."

The captain nodded and lifted a small intercom handset off the wall, pulling it close to him. "Signaling room — continue the sequence. Give them the next five prime numbers."

"Sir, yes sir," said a staticky voice, "but, ah, sir, what are the next five?"

The captain looked at Frank, eyebrows lifted. Frank made a disgusted frown. Clete rolled his eyes. "Eleven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, and twenty-three," Frank said.

The captain repeated the numbers into the microphone. "Sir, yes sir," said the seaman’s voice.

"We better get up there," said Clete.

Frank nodded. "How do we get from here to where the controls for the searchlight are?"

"Come with me," said the captain. He led them to a circular metal stairwell and took them up to the radio room. As they entered, Frank saw the seaman who had been operating the light. He was a young white fellow, maybe nineteen, with a half centimeter of blond hair. "The aliens have started flashing again," he said.

"What was the sequence?" said Clete.

"They repeated back all ten prime numbers," the seaman said.

A wide grin spread across Frank’s face. "Contact."

The captain was looking out the window. "The Russian sub is signaling the ten numbers, too."

Frank pointed. "And here comes that damned cruise ship."

The yellow beacon started flashing again. One. Four. Nine. And then so many flashes that Frank lost track.

"It’s gotta be squares," said Clete. "One squared; two squared; three squared; four squared."

"Give them five-squared as a response," said Frank, looking at the young fellow. "That’s twenty-five."

The seaman started clicking the trigger button for the searchlight as he counted out loud.

"God," said Clete, pointing out the window. " God."

The alien craft was lifting out of the ocean. It rose about twenty meters above the waves, water streaming off it. Its hull had stopped changing colors; it was now a uniform dark green. There seemed to be four jets of some sort positioned on its underbelly. They churned up the ocean surface beneath. The ship started moving slowly horizontally. It flew in the direction of the Russian submarine, but stopped just short of the vessel, apparently to prevent its jet exhaust from blasting down on the sub. The lander then flew over to near the cruise ship. With binoculars, Frank could see people on its deck taking photographs and home videos. Then the spaceship changed direction and headed toward the Kitty Hawk. It stopped about five meters off the projecting bow of the flight deck, and just hovered there.

"What’s it doing?" shouted Frank.

Clete shrugged.

But the seaman spoke up. "Sir, I believe it’s waiting for permission to land, sir."

Frank looked at the young man. Perhaps he’d dismissed him too quickly.

"I believe the boy is right, Frankie," said Clete. "They know this is an aircraft carrier. They’ve seen our helicopter take off and land from it, and they can probably tell just by looking at the planes out on the flight deck what they are — they’re clearly designed according to aerodynamic principles."

"By all means they can land," said Frank. "But how do we tell them that?"

"Well, if the question is obvious, the answer must be, too," said Clete.

"Give ’em the prime numbers again. Do it correctly, and that’s ‘yes.’ Do it incorrectly — say, one, two, three, five, eight — and that’s ‘no.’ "

Frank nodded. "Signal the first five primes," he said.

The seaman looked at his captain for confirmation. The captain nodded, and the seaman used his thumb to operate the light trigger. In the window, Frank could see the alien ship moving over the flight deck.