[Excerpted from the diary of Javier Magana (translated from the Spanish)]

Arecibo, October 14, 2101:  Officially, I am not under orders to record anything, but the Patriarchate sent one of their minders here to tell me what a good idea it would be to start a diary.  As we could be on the verge of our first alien contact since the Serial Wars, I have come to agree with him.

I am Doctor Javier Magana, Professor of Astronomy at Gonzalo State University.  For the sake of historians who will be reading this, I note that radio astronomy is one of the few disciplines left untouched when the alien Guerratecs attacked the Earth in 2060.  As a result of that last Serial War, we have been left at a level of technology roughly equal to what we had in the middle of the Cold War.  Some areas of science, like mine, are at much higher levels, but others, especially weaponry, are no better than before World War II.

The war against the 'Tecs forced us to use our entire stockpile of strategic weapons.  That included nuclear weapons, most of which were detonated north of Cd. Guatemala and in Europe and Asia.  Being on Puerto Rico, the radio telescope at Arecibo is far enough from the Wastes to be habitable, but not for very long.  No one can stay here for more than a few weeks at a time, so I share this post with four colleagues.

Two days ago, we received a transmission from orbit.  There has arrived mounting evidence that the transmission is the real thing:  an extraterrestrial contact.  We are sure that it is an ETC because we could see the signals coming from the artificial satellites that have orbited the earth since the Wars ended.  (With a couple exceptions, prewar satellites could only receive signals from Earth.)  Until now, no signals had come in from them.

We were about to send word to the Ministry of Science, or Mindecien, when the Council of Bishops itself sent us a message.  It seems that their mystics had picked up odd signals at the same time as we got ours. If they are right, and the mystics rarely announce errors, this contact may be extradimensional as well.

Whatever is trying to contact us may be our salvation.  Or our doom.


Arecibo, October 28, 2101:  Our men in Cd. Hullaga are still going through the data we got two weeks ago.  The mystics in Cali, meanwhile, are sure that they are getting signs of contact themselves.

We are still waiting for another signal.


Ciudad Hullaga, November 8, 2101:  Three bits of news have sent me home early.

The Math Department at Gonzalo State here in town sent us word yesterday that the first signals we got on the 14th are the real thing.  There is no doubt now that aliens are trying to talk to us.

In Cali, the Patriarchate mystics believe that they are hearing from women.  Actual, live women, not the marincones who dress up as such. There are millions of marincones.  In a world that hasn't seen a live woman in almost fifty years, the marincones are fulfilling a need that remains desperate.  Although we have gotten cloning technology to a high enough level to survive the loss of real women, and though the Patriarchate condemns sex with the marincones, they flourish, especially in Brasil and Kenya.

Even more importantly, a second transmission has come in.  It was much clearer than the first.  We believe that the face and voice on the other end belong to a woman, but there was no way for us to be sure.  Thus, I have taken a recording of the transmission here for my friend Andrés Montoya to see.

Andrés is one of those radicals who believe that the Serial Wars were fought by design.  As the crackpot theory goes, men used the Wars as an excuse to chain women to their homes.  When they lost all their rights, it continues, women decided that death was preferable to life under the rule of God and man.  Of course, we men had given women all the rights they ever needed.  The fact that they wanted more just proved how corrupted they were by Satan.  Andrés says it's because we treated them so badly in the centuries before the Serial Wars.  But then, he also has the abominable belief that church and state should be separate. (Because that worked out so well before the Wars.)  I can't figure out Andrés, but he's still my friend.

And at this point, as we try to keep the contacts a secret, going to Andrés is a good idea.  If he says anything, well, nobody believes any of the radicals from the Department of Racial Memory.


Cd. Hullaga, November 10, 2101:  Andrés went nuclear.

He viewed the cinedisc over and over again, all day long, and he still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.  "Do you know what this means?" he asked excitedly.

"It's a woman," I intoned.  "We might get to make real babies again, instead of clones.  If there's more than one of her."

"Look," he snapped, "remember what I said about women?  About how much smaller they were than we are?  It would be suicide for her to come here all by herself.  Patriarchate propaganda aside, the fact is, we'd rough her up pretty good before she got out.  If she got out.

"So what's the big deal?"

"Look at her clothing," he instructed.

The woman was a rubia; she had light blonde hair, curled as though she had taken a hot iron to parts of her hair.  I had to admit that it made her prettier.  I can't really describe her clothing; I tended to avoid the skin discs that flourished despite the fact that there weren't any women around to pose for them.  (Ah, the wonders of holographics.)

Andrés, however, had hundreds of discs, all of which had women doing one thing or another, and some of them were skin discs.  He had let me view them many years back, and I recall getting a sickening feeling of arousal when I saw them.  That feeling came back the first time I saw the cinedisc we were watching now.

"So?" I asked.

"Oops," he responded, head down.  "Sometimes I forget that not everyone is a women's history scholar. Okay,  the hair is real, but the style was done with a curling iron, and there is specialized paint all over her face."

"Paint that makes women look good, like what marincones use today."

"Right!  Women stopped using cosmetics about sixty years ago; there weren't enough power plants left to make them.  So this message can't have originated before the Chicago Olympics.  But looking at the clothing, that's all from the late 1900s.  Those shoes with the spiked metal heels have to have been made in 1994, '95, '96, sometime around then."

"So you think this woman was alive before the Serial Wars began?"

"In all likelihood, yes.  I've been hearing rumors from Cali that the mystics have been going as nuts as you guys have at Arecibo.  So I figure there are two possibilities.  First, this woman is real, but she's probably dead.  It's hard to believe that anyone could look that beautiful after 80 to 100 years."

"And the second one?"

"We could be talking to a the 1990s themselves."

Both his theories were wrong, but telling him that would get me jailed.


Arecibo, November 24, 2101:  We are now in regular contact with the one we now call Esperanza.  She is beautiful beyond imagination.  I have relayed some of our conversations to Andrés.  Judging from her outfits, and from the old form of Spanish she speaks, he is now certain that Esperanza is from either our past or a parallel world.

He has come closer to the truth than the Patriarchate likes, though, so I had to stop speaking with him last week.  I can, though, reveal some of the contents of my chats with Esperanza.  She says that she is from a parallel Earth, in the year 1995, but that since time is a position, she can only communicate with us.  For reasons unknown, she cannot get to the 1995 of our world.  Her world has already deviated from the history which would bring about the Patriarchate.  She says that several of her comrades actually won at Point Liberty, and it fell in 1989.  The number of women and men are roughly the same in her world, and she believes that there is a looming population crisis.

In turn, I have explained the evolution of the Serial Wars, and how the next to last one resulted in a plague that killed off our women in 2054. Esperanza has taken an interest in our plight, and has promised to arrange for the transfer of several dozen women to our world.  If things go well, she promises that more will come afterwards.  That way, we can begin to reproduce again, and her world can see relief from its pressures.

When I mentioned the last Serial War, the 'Tec invasion, she said that she is familiar with the 'Tecs.  She called them a dangerous foe that her world has already fought off.  ("No," she told me when I asked about it, "the United Nations hasn't collapsed yet."  It's another major historical deviation.)  She would also see if she could bring construction equipment to repair some of our cities.  "That way," she promised, "if the 'Tecs come again, your cities will be harder to destroy."


Arecibo, December 13, 2101:  I am near the end of my term here.  I won't be back until next September, and I go home just before Holy Week. Esperanza and I have developed quite an affection for one another, and the Patriarchate has approved construction of a satellite link in my apartment in Ciudad Hullaga.  So Esperanza and I will be able to continue our relationship.  She thinks that she and the other women, several of whom I have now met (and are almost as gorgeous), will be ready to come in the late spring.  We can hardly wait to meet.


Cali, December 20, 2101:  As a vitally interested party, I was invited to attend today's emergency session of the Council of Bishops.  The Executive Council is bitterly split as to when to announce the existence of new women to the world.  One faction has no problem with Esperanza's sudden demand for a Christmas Day notice.  Although she has taken great pains to assure me that our relationship will survive, she has been adamant about this.  If there is no official word by then, Esperanza says the other women will have to make alternate plans, and no one will come.  The other side in the argument is afraid that a public notice will rob the Patriarchate of the strategic advantage it now has over Brasil and Kenya.

It took thirty-one hours, but the Council agreed to Esperanza's request.

I just got off the line to tell Esperanza the good news.  She smiled. "Javi," she asked, "do you know about kisses?"

"I don't give very many of them," I answered with disdain.

"Listen, my dear little one:  they're much sweeter coming from a woman. In a most sensual fashion, she gave her fingertips an affectionate kiss, and touched her screen.  It left a touch of lipstick on my screen.  "I love you, little man."

"I love you too, big lady," I smiled.  I couldn't doubt it -- I was in live with this beautiful woman.  I couldn't say why I called her 'big,' though.


Cd. Hullaga, December 24, 2101:  Word of the announcement leaked almost the second the Council approved it, and has been spreading like bad coca plants.  Here in the state of Gonzalo, those in poor and rural areas have been streaming into the city.  A few men are staying home, willing to listen to the radio; but most want to see Esperanza on the TVs.  (I am one of the best paid scientists in the Patriarchate, and I can barely afford a fully equipped color TV.  Most men can't afford anything but a black-and-white TV, and maybe a cinedisc player to go with it.)  There have been scattered riots in town, as men fight to see who can see Esperanza on the color TVs at the best bars.  To make matters worse, all the gas-guzzling cars coming in from the countryside have been crowding the streets and filling the air with noxious exhaust. The freeways, which can usually get you across town in a few minutes, are every bit as jammed as the regular roads.

When I told Esperanza about this, she sighed in fake regret.  "I'll send some probes across the gateway," she replied.  "That way, everyone will get to see us on video."

"It's too late now, hon," I informed her.  "Don't worry too much about it; we'll live.  You should start sending probes, though.  It may be that the gateway allows signals to get through but not people.  And don't forget to mention them tomorrow; you wouldn't want to scare anyone."

"Of course I wouldn't," she smiled.


Cd. Hullaga, December 25, 2101:  I invited Andrés to come watch at my house.  He accepted, and brought over some beer and chips for us to consume.  It is just as well we are inside.  Outside, the streets are as packed as I have ever seen them, and it is hard to see through the suffocating smog.

At 1300, the big moment came.  Esperanza, along with three other women standing behind her, appeared on the world's broadcast receivers.  For most men, it was the first time anyone had seen a woman.

The announcer from Mindecom  was going on in the background, giving Andrés time to rave over the women.  "My God," he gasped softly, "they're beautiful!"  He took a breath, then resumed.  "Look at the dresses, Javier."

"Dresses?  What dresses, Andrés?  They're wearing almost nothing at all!"

"Well, yes, but now I'm sure that these women are from our past.  The leader, the blonde --"

"That's Esperanza."

"She has a dark red, one-piece outfit on.  She has huge, almost spherical breasts, which were very popular before the Wars.  The top is cut low so that they are highlighted.  The cut on the bottom is called a Belgian cut, or a French cut; I don't remember which one it is.  The idea is, again, to make her look like the ideal for the late 20th century.  She has some weird leggings, and the shoes have high, narrow heels. She's also wearing gloves that go halfway up her arms.  The fabric isn't very familiar, but that could be the reception.  But all in all, she and her friends look very much like they're from the 1990s. The other women are dressed similarly, but their outfits are black, and they're wearing stockings on their legs, made of thin, blackish nylon."

"Nylon?  The stuff that costs a hundred pesos a gram?"

"Back then, it was dirt cheap.  The most expensive stockings did cost a hundred pesos, but that was for all the fabric.  Most women could get a pair to cover everything below the waist for maybe a peso and a half."

"You mean women dressed like that in public?  That's sick!"  But there was that damned feeling in my groin again.  Why are you doing this to me, Esperanza? I asked to myself.

"No, not usually.  There were a lot of outfits worn in private, though. The idea was to arouse their male partners, usually their husbands. I'll have to look, but there was a lot of popular fiction of the time in which women did wear this stuff in public."

"So this is expensive stuff they're wearing!"

"For us, yes.  Only the high class marincones can afford it.  But then, most women in even the middle classes could buy one or two outfits.

"They're very sexy," he concluded.  "They'll be very powerful once they come here."

At long last, Esperanza spoke.

"Men of the Three Nations," she started, smiling.  "Merry Christmas!  My name is Esperanza Arroyo.  My colleagues and I represent what you would call a parallel version of your world.  History has evolved differently here, and the Serial Wars will not occur here.

"I would like to send my love and thanks to Doctor Javier Magana, without whose assistance and support our communication would not be possible.  Dr. Magana has apprised me of the situation on your world; I deeply regret the loss of your women in the Wars."  Esperanza frowned ruefully, and paused respectfully. The other women bowed their heads, too.

She continued, then.  "I have recently spoken with the heads of all Three Nations.  With their permission, I have arranged for the eventual return of women to your world.  With hard work and the grace of God, we women and you men can rebuild Terra.  Perhaps one day in the not too distant future, we may all even reclaim the Wastes in the North, and all the technological marvels that were lost in your struggle with the Guerratecs.

"I am addressing you through something called a Gateway, a point that could allow travel, and one day trade, between our worlds.  Your present technology does not permit you space travel, but ours does, and we will first confirm that the Gateway is, in fact, safe for human travel.  To that end, we are launching a series of probes to map your world and establish a permanent route there.  In the next several days, most of you will see a number of large spheres fly through your skies.  Do not be alarmed, and do not attempt to interact with them.  These are our probes, and will not harm you in any way.

"We are familiar with the 'Tecs, and the damage of which they are capable.  Therefore, when we have established a path to your world, we will be sending large robots to repair your major cities, and give you the opportunity to improve your infrastructures.  When these robots have completed their task, your major cities will be well protected in the event of a second 'Tec attack.

"The repairs should be completed by the end of the spring of 2102.  At that point, a party of thirty-six women will arrive in your major cities to begin the process of rebuilding your genetic stock.  As many of you know, the years without women have done great damage to your gene pool. These women will be selected on the basis of their ability to improve your pool.

"We ask only that your governments prepare you for our arrival. Thirty-six women cannot handle over a billion and a half inhabitants of your world all at once, so we request that you select men, perhaps seventy-two from each of the Three Nations, to be the first to interact with us.  As we grow accustomed to each other, more and more women will come, and more of you will be able to meet us, but at this point, you should begin to select the men for first contact.

"We will be speaking to you again in the near future.  For now, have a safe Holy Week, and our kindest regards.  May God bless you all."

The transmission ended, and Andrés turned to me.  "Something's not right, Javi.  The way the women in black moved:  there was something they weren't telling us.  And Esperanza had an odd look on her face."

"Like?" I asked.

"I don't know.  For all I know, it could be a misreading.  The historical records of women in the 1990s could be wrong in a way.  But the looks on the women's faces say that they have something else in mind.

"But then, too," he shrugged, "I could be another crackpot at the Department of Racial Memory."

    
Cd. Hullaga, January 22, 2102:  Esperanza's probes came and went, leaving in their wake crowds of awed men.  All they did was fly from one point to the next, stopping as though to take pictures of the ground below.  In the Andean backcountry, some of the peasants swore that they shot laser beams late at night, but our boys at Arecibo detected nothing of the sort.  (Neither did the Brasilians or Kenyans.)  Other than the fact that their stops formed a hexagonal grid, there was nothing to suggest that the probes did much of anything.

Esperanza herself seems rushed and tired.  "Things go much faster than you think," she explained to me. We have spent a lot of time discussing, of all things, sex.  "It is so wonderful," she keeps telling me, and then proceeds to tell me just how nice it is in explicit detail.  I always found the idea disgusting, but as she keeps pointing out to me, "How else are you supposed to make babies, little man?" as though she wants mine.  I have finally gotten used to exchanging kisses with her over the link, but I'm not sure I want to go farther than that.

Even worse, that feeling has appeared again in my groin.  Esperanza has been wearing less and less since her speech, and I am sure that is what is causing it.  I think she is doing this to me on purpose, and I am afraid to explicitly mention it to her.

And she keeps calling me "little."  When I ask why, she explains that she is an unusually tall woman. Maybe she's just teasing me, but she hasn't told me just how tall she is.


Fortaleza, January 29, 2102:  I am on vacation in Brasil, or more precisely, off the coast.  I brought my link with me, so Esperanza and I can keep in touch even as I fish the Atlantic Ocean.  The construction robots she promised have arrived in the Patriarchate's big cities. They're so loud, nobody can hear himself think.

Esperanza has been detailing the repairs underway.  Basically, the 70-meter-tall robots from across the Gateway are reinforcing the major streets and buildings of the city.  The numbers she has been quoting to me regarding the strength of the new infrastructure are astounding. Personally, I think that it is overkill to make buildings that can support masses of almost three thousand tons, but "that's how heavy some of the 'Tecs are," Esperanza assures me.

I made the mistake of standing up during one of our conversations.  That funny feeling was more intense than ever, maybe because today Esperanza was wearing one of those skimpy outfits Andrés described for me.  (I do admit to rather liking the shoes she was wearing; she called them "stiletto-heeled pumps" or something like that.)  She noticed the bulge in my crotch through the pants, and giggled at me.  "Better get used to it, little man," she warned slyly.  "Once we women are across the Gateway, you'll have to deal with the big crotch all day!"  At that point, she went on about how most of the women coming here will find me a particularly attractive sexual partner.  I am not sure whether to be flattered about this or frightened.


Cd. Hullaga, March 19, 2102:  I am back home now.  The huge robots are still working, and it is incredibly noisy around here, but Andrés assured me that it was much worse when I was gone.  Most of the robots have moved on to Brasil; I even passed a couple while coming back on the Amazon River Ferry.

Now that I've finally accepted the fact that Esperanza's very presence arouses me these days, and that I am going to have to actually engage in sex when she and her friends come, she has toned down her clothing, and our conversations have returned to more comfortable subjects, like the complications involved in coming across the Gateway.  She is not only sure that travel across it is safe for both us men and her people, but also prepared to move up the date on which the women will come here. They may be here before the beginning of May.

She has also selected a preferred site.  Although Cali and Sao Paulo both thought that Esperanza would land at the old Chilean rocket site in the Atacama Desert, she has instead chosen Arecibo.  Brasil doesn't like this, but as Esperanza said, "Tough bananas.  I can't wait to meet you in person!"


Cali, April 30, 2102:  The approval finally came for the women to land at Arecibo (after lots of horse trading with Brasil), and Esperanza is close to choosing a date.  The negotiations are secret, but that is the way the Patriarchate works.  The government spent two weeks having me introduce Esperanza to some of the senior Cardinals, only to leave me out when Esperanza called to make the final arrangements.

More disturbing is the way Esperanza has treated me lately.  Her tone has become more and more patronizing as the days pass.  I am beginning to wonder if she hasn't been stringing me along all those months.


Cd. Hullaga, May 11, 2102:  A great fear has suddenly developed in the Council of Bishops, even as the arrival of the women approaches.  I have been told that all of the mystics have been having nightmares lately. One report says that three of them have killed themselves, but that is still rumor.

In the streets, though, there is no fear, only anticipation.  The Arrival, as it is being called, is scheduled for May 21, at 1500, and the level of rioting all over the world is mounting.  This is making all the waiting that took place before Christmas pale in comparison.


Cd. Hullaga, May 19, 2102:  Esperanza has stopped talking with me altogether.  I don't think she took my reaction well.  The Select 72, those men slated to be the first to meet the women, were picked, and I didn't make the list. I was angry with the Tri-National Commission for not choosing me, after all the work I'd done in arranging for the meeting.  And I was doubly angry with Esperanza for not stepping in on my behalf.  Anyway, the six dozen men are on a three airplanes to Puerto Rico even as I enter this in the log.

The Council showed me a copy of the autopsies of seventeen mystics who have died in the last month. The Church Coroner can find a proximate cause of death -- they all died of brain hemorrhages -- but cannot figure out what caused those.  Naturally, this news is a state secret; I have not even told Andrés, though he senses something wrong, too.