The Spawning by Tim Curran

something.
    Well, if anything’s going on, Nicky, we’ll start seeing the signs, I suppose.
    And that’s exactly what Coyle was worrying about.
    He was sitting with Frye and Danny Shin, the geologist, all three of them sipping their drinks.
    â€œThis is pretty goddamn amazing,” Shin was saying, pulling off a bottle of Rolling Rock. “I mean, have you guys even taken the time to think about this? About what it all means?”
    â€œWhat does it mean, Danny?” Frye said. “Being a scientist and all, maybe you better explain it to a dumb shit like me.”
    Shin sighed. “It means the best part of you ran down your uncle’s leg.”
    â€œNo shit? Well, least we got something in common, because the best part of
you
ran down your mother’s chin.”
    Shin laughed and stroked the mustache trailing off his face. “You know, that’s your problem, Frye. You have no interest in anything important. Just that shit you spew from your mouth. Science means nothing to you.”
    â€œYou’re right, Danny. I have no faith in it. Ever since your mother’s birth control failed, I just don’t trust it.”
    Coyle tuned them out. Their arguments went on incessantly like a game of Monopoly. They were always picking at one another. Yet, whenever there was a gathering, they sat together. Go figure.
    He studied the tinfoil flying saucers and stars that were hanging overhead, Doc’s CPR dummies that were painted green and given big alien eyes and antennas like
My Favorite Martian.
The photos of bug-eyed alien monsters from 1950’s B-movies like
It Conquered the World
and
Invasion of the Saucermen
that had been printed out and pasted just about everywhere. These were only outdone by Locke’s contributions which were artist’s conceptions of other planets and various blurry UFO photographs, not to mention blow-ups of the Beacon Valley megaliths that were plastered all over the internet. One of these was nearly the size of a mural with spooky gigantic lettering over its face which asked the eternal question: ARE WE ALONE?
    Coyle pulled from his Captain and Coke, watching the people and trying to get a sense from them of what they felt about it all. How they felt about video from Callisto.
    Horn sat by himself, looking mildly amused and mildly disappointed as he did at all gatherings. Ida and The Beav were swooping around with platters of food like mother birds looking for hungry beaks to fill. Hopper and Special Ed and Doc Flagg had taken up their spots in the back of the room. Everyone else was just loosely scattered around. The Coven—which consisted of Gwen Curie and all the other females in camp: Ida, The Beav, Gut, Cassie Malone, and a cute GA named Lynn Zutema that everyone called “Zoot”—were pretty much mixing as was Locke and his impromptu UFO conspiracy study group. Slim was cozying in with the Coven, doing shots of tequila with Cassie and Zoot. The FEMC crew—Facilities, Engineering, Maintenance, and Construction—which consisted of Koch, Cryderman, Hansen, and Stokes were at their usual table listening to Cryderman’s cynical wit and wisdom. Gwen was shaking a mixer of martinis, her breasts jiggling beneath her jersey which read: I LUV ANAL PROBES. Harvey was alone, looking around to see who the Freemasons were. Every time Coyle caught his eyes, and Coyle was trying hard not to do that, Harvey would smile conspiratorially and quickly glance at one of the crew as if to say,
yeah, that one, Nicky. He’s one of them. You can tell by their eyes.
    He was very suspicious of the FEMC crew.
    â€œYou know what your problem is, Frye?” Shin was saying. “You’re just plain ignorant.”
    â€œMaybe I’m ignorant, but I ain’t so ignorant that I can’t admit when I’m wrong. Like some fucking eggheads I know.”
    â€œOh yes, start with that crap. Us against them. The scientists versus the