John Westlund was speeding through the night in his car, eagerly anticipating being home in less than an hour. He worked as a construction engineer and designer and was returning from inspecting a building site where he had stayed late into the night. Along with his colleagues, they had been resolving some issues, so by the time he got behind the wheel, it was already deep darkness.
He had been on the road for about an hour and a half and was now driving through a mountain gorge where there wasn’t a soul for miles around. This allowed him to appropriately increase his speed. Westlund loved fast driving, and now, at night, he could indulge in it. He pressed the gas pedal hard, and the decent acceleration of his off-road Jeep delighted him. He reveled in the carefree ride on the empty road, far from the nearest towns, and it occurred to him that he could put on some good music to boost his already excellent mood. He leaned down and began searching through the glove compartment for a suitable cassette. He couldn’t find the one he wanted, so he rummaged through the cases and cassettes for a while. After a moment, he straightened up to ensure he was heading in the right direction, and that’s when he saw it! In the middle of the road stood an unmoving figure with an arm extended forward. Westlund slammed on the brakes and, at the last second, jerked the steering wheel to the side. The Jeep lurched, and with a screech of tires, it narrowly avoided the motionless figure.
“What kind of lunatic is this?” Westlund muttered to himself in relief and came to a stop.
He looked in the rearview mirror but saw no figure on the road anymore.
“I hope I didn’t hit him,” a worried thought flashed through his mind, and he was about to step out of the car when suddenly there came a tapping on his Jeep’s window.
John jolted and glanced toward the passenger window, where the tapping had come from. There, he saw a man in dark clothing with a pale face and sharp features. His strikingly blue eyes almost glowed in the darkness. Westlund shivered. The man seemed like the devil, but he quickly dismissed this terrifying thought. The strange figure tapped again and gestured to Westlund to roll down the window. Westlund had no intention of doing so, and the dark figure walked around the Jeep, tapping directly on the driver’s window. Now Westlund could get a better look at him. He stared straight into the stranger’s face. His stony, cold features appeared almost neutral, showing no emotion. He didn’t seem dangerous. Yet Westlund felt a strong wave of fear without any specific reason.
The man tapped again, this time more insistently.
“Please open,” he said in a melodic voice with an almost mechanically precise emphasis on the voiced vowels. Westlund thought it sounded like the way subway stations announce themselves or trains are called at a station. He continued to study the stranger, wondering if he should just drive off. The man seemed unharmed, so he hadn’t hit him, so why should he bother with him? He could be a criminal, a madman, or a lunatic. What normal person would wander through a mountain gorge in the middle of the night, miles from the nearest towns?
John Westlund turned the ignition key. The engine didn’t produce the expected sound. Westlund grew uneasy. He turned the key again, several times. Nothing. Into the tense silence came another insistent tap, accompanied by a request: “Please open the door. I need to deliver a message.”
Cold sweat broke out on Westlund’s forehead. He tried to start the engine again, but to no avail. He gathered his courage and attempted to adopt an authoritative tone: “Who are you?”
“I need to deliver a message. There’s no time to waste. Please open the door,” came the response instead of the requested answer.
Westlund turned the ignition key again. Nothing.
“What do you want?” he said, as it was the only thing that came to mind, and he had no intention of opening the door to a stranger for the time being.
“I need to deliver a message. Very urgently and quickly. It’s necessary, and that’s why I’m asking you to allow me to do so,” the stranger recited, almost as if he were on stage.
“A madman or some courier whose car broke down?” Westlund mused to himself, trying to bolster his courage with another question: “What message?”
“Open the door. I will tell you.”
This threw Westlund off again. He had started to hope it might be someone in distress, but after this response, he became convinced it was a lunatic. He turned the ignition key several times, but the engine remained silent. This was a bad situation.
The stranger felt for the door handle and pressed it. The Jeep’s door opened, and cold and dampness entered the vehicle. Westlund stopped breathing in horror. He hadn’t realized he hadn’t locked it. Paralyzed with fear, he passively awaited what would happen next.
“My name is Mar. Mar Robidal. I will need your cooperation, as there’s no time to waste,” the stranger said and extended his right hand toward Westlund.
Instinctively, he took it and shook it.
“It will be necessary for you to give me a ride to a populated area. I will explain everything on the way. There really is no time to spare,” the stranger said in a serious voice, looking at John with his glowing blue eyes. There was no hostility in them, no fear, no cunning, or any other emotion. They were strangely empty.
“I’m having trouble with my car,” Westlund stammered and, with those words, turned the ignition key again. The engine rumbled and then started.
John suppressed the urge to quickly shift gears, floor the gas pedal, and speed away from there. Instead, somewhat surprised by why he was saying it, he invited the stranger: “Please, I’ll give you a ride.”
The dark figure walked around the Jeep and quietly, but with confident and deliberate movements, sat in the passenger seat.
Westlund turned on the lights and slowly drove off.
“I’ve already introduced myself. My name is Mar Robidal…” the stranger said, looking at Westlund.
John understood and replied: “I’m John Westlund,” and, feeling it wasn’t enough, he added, hoping his new passenger would say more about himself: “A construction engineer and designer.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Westlund. I must deliver an important message. Listen carefully and remember my words.”
John froze. Here it comes. The man is a lunatic, and now he’ll start spouting stories about the end of the world. He slightly increased the speed, but not too much to avoid drawing unwanted attention from the stranger, and prayed they would leave the mountain gorge and reach the nearest town as soon as possible. Until then, he hoped he could maintain a meaningful conversation with this oddball and avoid any unforeseen or unpleasant situations: “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Your planet is in danger. Very serious danger. Very soon, invaders from space—a race originating from the planet Amaru—will arrive. They are technologically advanced, warlike, and dangerous. Their sole purpose is to oppress weaker planets, enslave their inhabitants, and plunder their resources.”
Westlund swallowed. This was strong stuff. He didn’t dare interrupt the stranger.
“It is necessary for the inhabitants of planet Earth to prepare for their arrival and not believe their promises.”
“What promises?” John responded automatically.
“The invaders from Amaru seek out planets with the human race, those with a lower level of development, and offer friendship and technological assistance. Once they fully uncover all your laws and technological capabilities, they infiltrate society, seize power—and then control and enslave the people. They turn Earthlings into workers—essentially slaves—and drain your energy resources.”
Westlund swallowed again: “What do these Amařans look like?”
“The invaders from the planet Amaru are members of the human race, just like Earthlings.”
“They look like us?”
“Essentially, yes. Only with slight differences in DNA structure and the vibrational band of the human genome, but those are attributes undetectable to the human eye. In simple terms—their vibrational energy is on a far higher level, but you, John Westlund, have no chance of distinguishing an invader from an Earthling.”
Westlund imperceptibly increased his speed again. He wanted to appease the lunatic with questions and buy time until they reached a populated area. Above all, he didn’t want to anger him—that was a principle he intended to stick to: “So what danger threatens Earth?”
“As I said. You will be enslaved and subjugated.”
“How can we defend ourselves against these invaders?”
“It’s simple,” the stranger turned his head toward Westlund, as if to ensure he was listening, and continued: “You must not accept their technological assistance. The invaders from Amaru will arrive as friends, in good faith, with lofty words about beneficial prosperity, mutual cooperation, and a shared future for Amaru and Earth. But they will bring only slavery and the loss of freedom and sovereignty to Earthlings.”
“But if they are technologically superior and we reject them, couldn’t they attack and overpower us with weapons?” Westlund suggested aloud, and his fear began to slowly fade. In his youth, he had been a fan of sci-fi literature and enjoyed stories about aliens and various conspiracy theories, but fundamentally, he was a realist and didn’t entertain the possibility of a visit from space. Theorizing with this madman was starting to amuse him.
“That’s a misconception. Certain higher principles and laws govern the universe, maintaining order. This order prevents warlike conflicts, and even the invaders from Amaru wouldn’t dare engage in open combat. However, they do it all the more cleverly. They subjugate planets through the politics of offering aid. Their helping hand, however, wields a slave driver’s whip.”
“Are you also from Amaru?” it occurred to Westlund.
“No. I am not of the invader race. I am Robidal Mar. Or rather, his humanoid copy with limited temporal validity. Robidal Mar came from the planet Syrus, which was subjugated by the invaders from Amaru. He died fighting for the freedom of his own people.”
“Humanoid copy? What does that mean?” Westlund wondered with undisguised interest, scanning the stranger. His firm, seemingly muscular yet relatively thin body gave no hint that he might be some kind of robot. John was tense, curious about what story the lunatic would boast about next.
“A humanoid projection is materialized energy that absorbs the consciousness of any being and, for a certain period, can act just like the original. This technology is forbidden in the universe. However, Robidal Mar saw no other way to warn about the evil the invaders from Amaru bring, so he had to resort to this illegal measure.”
“So you’re acting now just as Robidal Mar would, even though he’s dead?”
“Yes. Exactly. I am the consciousness of Robidal Mar, but as I emphasize, my temporal validity is limited, and that’s why I can’t waste time. Once we reach a populated area, I must immediately contact the authorities and warn of the danger coming to Earth from the stars in the near future.”
John breathed a sigh of relief. Excellent news. So once they reached the town, he would drop this lunatic off directly at the police station, and that would be that.
“I’ll drop you off at the police station. Those are Earth’s security forces, and they’ll know how to help you,” he said with a slightly smug grin and glanced at the supposed humanoid copy of Robidal Mar.
“Thank you. I’ll be grateful. If anything happens to me, please spread this message further and warn your people. The invaders from Amaru bring ruin to this beautiful blue planet.”
The conversation paused for a moment, and John searched for a topic, not wanting to give the stranger a chance to think. He feared the man might come up with something unpredictable. He wanted to keep him occupied with conversation until he handed him over to the police: “So how did you get here? Did you arrive in a spaceship?”
“I am a humanoid copy of Robidal Mar. As I’ve already explained, a humanoid copy is pure energy that can materialize into any form. Energy has the ability to travel through the universe at the speed of thought. After absorbing Robidal Mar’s consciousness, I was sent to specific coordinates on planet Earth in the form of pure energy. Upon reaching the designated time and location coordinates, I took on physical form and will remain so until my energy potential is depleted. Then I will cease to exist.”
“Did Robidal Mar intend to transport you right into the middle of the road in this mountain gorge?” Westlund asked with a slightly sarcastic tone, but the stranger didn’t catch the jab and began explaining in a serious tone: “Robidal Mar didn’t know the exact coordinates. When he operated the machine that transfers energy to distant locations, he had to improvise.”
“I see. And how long until you cease to exist? How long until your energy potential is depleted?”
“The depletion time of the energy potential cannot be precisely predicted, but in Earth terms, it does not exceed 24 hours from the start of the transfer.”
“That’s not much time,” Westlund said almost sympathetically.
“There’s no time to waste, and that’s why I’d like to thank you for your help and apologize for having to use my abilities to disable your machine. I sensed that your emotions were unstable, and there was a high probability of reckless behavior.”
A lump formed in John Westlund’s throat. Could this lunatic have caused his Jeep not to start? No, that’s impossible. It must have been a coincidence, and he’s now using it to his advantage. The gorge was bitterly cold and extremely damp, and in such conditions, Westlund’s Jeep sometimes acted up.
“Can I rely on you to spread the message about the invaders from Amaru among people?”
Westlund hesitated again. What if this oddball really had some paranormal abilities? If he could disable the electricity in the engine, maybe he could read minds too?! He couldn’t lie now! And he shouldn’t even think like that, because if this lunatic could monitor his thoughts, then… John bit his lip. A response flashed through his mind that didn’t involve a lie: “I’ll take you to the police and do what I can.”
“Thank you,” the stranger replied curtly and fell silent.
John grew uneasy. He was afraid to think about anything. He feared that whatever was sitting next to him in his Jeep—whether a lunatic, a madman, or perhaps the humanoid copy of Robidal Mar—was tracking his thoughts, and they weren’t entirely pure. After all, he only wanted to hand him over to the police to have him locked up! He bit his lip again and quickly threw out the first question that came to mind: “How long did it take you to get here?”
“My transmission, in the form of pure energy traveling at the speed of thought, from the planet Syrus to Earth took, in Earth terminology, a mere instant.”
“How long did it take before I ran into you?”
“I lost four hours,” the stranger said dryly, again without the slightest hint of excitement.
“So that means you have less than twenty hours to complete your task?”
“Yes. Then I will cease to exist. As I said, I really don’t have much time to spare.”
“That’s true. Especially since it’s Friday today. Tomorrow is Saturday, the weekend. Earthlings don’t go to work then. They rest, and the offices are closed. No one wants to deal with anything. That’s why I’m taking you to the police, where they can help you best. Understand?” Westlund turned to his passenger, hoping he hadn’t overstepped. He hoped the lunatic would continue playing the alien game with him and not see through his intent. The stranger tensed his body, which seemed to indicate heightened attention.
“Wait!” he raised a finger and paused for a moment: “I wasn’t supposed to arrive before the lunar weekend. What’s the date, please?”
“It’s December. December 15th,” Westlund called out.
The passenger in the dark cloak let his hands fall limply by his sides and fell silent. It looked like a gesture of despair, but Westlund wasn’t sure. After a moment of oppressive silence, he asked: “Is something wrong?”
“My transfer was scheduled for September 21st. There must have been a correlation and a time shift. Robidal Mar was operating an illegally constructed device, and an error must have occurred. I assume, therefore, that the invaders from Amaru have already landed and begun negotiations with the executive authorities here on Earth.”
Westlund laughed: “I can reassure you, but that hasn’t happened. You still have time to warn humanity, because I follow the news closely, but there’s no mention of a UFO landing anywhere. Believe me, that would be the number one story in all the media!”
The oddball didn’t respond for a while, as if thinking, and then suddenly asked: “What year is it?”
“It’s Friday, December 15th, 2006.”
“Two thousand six?” he exclaimed, surprised, and Westlund was taken aback by the sudden burst of emotion he revealed.
“Yes. Two thousand six.”
“Then it’s all in vain. You’re already subjugated and under the control of the invaders from Amaru. I’m sorry, but all our efforts were for nothing,” he said dejectedly, his voice subdued, and he clasped his long, thin hands resignedly in his lap. All his mechanical determination drained from him, and he seemed like a broken man.
“Don’t give up. We aren’t subjugated. The invaders from Amaru haven’t landed here. They must have chosen another planet. We’re in America, the land of the free. We’re free, with our rights, laws, and government. Everything is in the best order,” Westlund tried to encourage him.
The stranger chuckled: “In order? I doubt it. The invaders were targeting your planet, and I’m certain they’ve contacted you. I was supposed to shift to September 21st, 1941! The time dislocation moved me many years forward, and it’s clear that the invaders have already taken control of your planet, AND YOU ARE WORKING FOR THEM!”
He pronounced the last four words in such an icy tone that Westlund flinched.
“We don’t work for anyone. We’re free,” he tried to object, but his voice lacked conviction.
“You’re not free. You’re slaves under the invaders’ control. They contacted your governing officials. They likely kept this contact secret and didn’t inform the public…”
“It was once said that in the 1950s, the U.S. government maintained secret contacts with aliens, but no one believed it,” Westlund interrupted the stranger in a quiet voice.
“Yes. That’s how the invaders operate. It’s their preferred method. They infiltrate your ruling class quietly and without unnecessary violence, take over power, and now control this planet. You’re in their grasp, and you’re doing exactly what they want. I’m sorry, John Westlund.”
“So no grand UFO landings in front of the president’s office?”
“Why? If the Amařans can, they infiltrate society secretly. Then they control it secretly.”
Westlund pondered. Society on Earth functioned on certain principles, but it was certainly no paradise—he had to admit that.
“Do you have any evidence? Something concrete that could prove the Amařans secretly control Earth? Something they might have done, for example, on your planet?” Westlund asked with genuine interest. He even caught himself starting to seriously consider that it might actually be true.
“A waste of words. Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop the vehicle. I’ll show you something.”
John stepped on the brake and pulled over to the shoulder. A wave of heat washed over him. They were about ten miles from the town, and suddenly, here was the situation he had feared. He had no idea what his mysterious passenger had in mind.
“Close your eyes and concentrate.”
Before Westlund could assess whether the situation was dangerous for him, something unexpected and extraordinary happened. He felt his consciousness blur and that he was sinking somewhere. The sensations were strange but not unpleasant.
And then it came.
Suddenly, he felt other beings. They were people. Yes, people, just like him. He felt their presence. He felt their happiness. He felt harmony and love among them. Mutual resonance, support, wholeness, and unity. And then something abruptly changed. He felt detachment, hatred, envy, and malice. Everything around him contracted, and he sank back into black darkness. The horrific pressure forced him to open his eyes, and he found himself sitting in the driver’s seat of his Jeep. He looked to the right. The oddball was still there, staring at him.
“So, John? The first feelings were my planet before the invaders’ assault. The second feelings were my people after ten years of Amařan ‘help,’” the humanoid copy of Robidal Mar smirked: “What feelings do you have now? You Earthlings?”
“Those first feelings… I’ve never experienced anything so amazing. That harmony, that balance…” John Westlund struggled to find words, stunned: “I know the second feelings better…”
“Believe me, John Westlund, that Earthlings would have reached a stage of harmony. You were on your way there. You would have overcome wars and progressed in the right direction. Perhaps even with help. With help from friends in the universe,” Robidal Mar said quietly, perhaps so as not to disturb the Earthling’s experience.
“But we must learn to distinguish the right friends,” Westlund almost whispered.
“Exactly. Earth will eventually learn that not every offered hand brings prosperity and abundance. Now you’re under the invaders’ control. Earthlings don’t realize it, but they’re subjugated and far from the proper principles of cosmic order.”
“Is there a way out of this?” John Westlund raised an eyebrow.
“My mission failed, but I’m not the only one who has tried or will try to help Earth, warn it, save it. Earth will regain its freedom, and people—ordinary people—might not even notice. They might just prosper more. Backroom games, power struggles, battles for dominance over planets, and fights for freedom—all of this is part of evolution. The evolution of the entire universe. Just as Earth will one day be free, so too will the universe one day unite, and races like the invaders from Amaru will have no place in it.”
“But we won’t be around for that,” Westlund attempted a joke.
“Don’t underestimate the power of an individual, John Westlund. Even if your contribution to freedom were equal to the significance of a single snowflake, don’t discard that chance. Even a single flake can trigger an avalanche.”
They fell silent for a moment, and then John said: “Robidal Mar, you still have about 19 hours left. What will you do with them?”
“I’ll try to use them so that people know what true freedom really tastes like.”
John Westlund nodded and then started the engine: “We’re not going to the police. I know a local newspaper editor. I’ll take you to him, then to the state TV, the radio… We can get a lot done in 19 hours!” With those words, he shifted gears energetically, floored the gas pedal, and his Jeep sped off toward the town.
