AMBER ALERT

Two days before Christmas, Roman Kopman, a 48-year-old anthropologist, woke up at seven a.m. like he had done for the past twenty-five years. Just as he was about to shrug out of his boxer shorts on his way to the bathroom, his attention was captured by the voice of a newsreader.

"We have an intriguing update on the cigar-shaped interstellar object known as Oumuamua. It seems that this celestial visitor, which made its way into our solar system in mid-December, is showing signs of acceleration. Oumuamua, which reaches speeds of up to 54 miles per hour, was first identified as an asteroid but subsequently revealed to have several features in common with comets. Scientists are still puzzled by the abrupt rise in pace. And while the majority believe it is due to a natural phenomenon, such as solid hydrogen bombarding the object's surface, NASA has issued an amber alert should the flying object or its potential occupants pose a threat to humanity.”

While he showered, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease, wondering if there was more to the story than what was being shared with the public. As he dried off and got dressed, he made a mental note to keep an eye on any updates regarding Oumuamua’s mysterious acceleration.

The clock chimed eight, reminding him that he was already running behind schedule for work. He slipped on his coat and grabbed his briefcase. The early morning rush hour in the port city of Gdansk greeted him with a cacophony of car horns. The sky was clear, with no clouds in sight, and despite the nip in the air, the day was sure to warm up.

“By noon, the shopping malls will be packed with people on the hunt for last-minute Christmas gifts and festive wrapping paper,” he thought.

The walk from his Kartuska Street flat to the old town where he worked at the Amber Museum took twenty minutes. Roman loved his job, and he also loved the building, which had a gargoyle-covered roof and a slim brick tower that contained the world's most extensive amber collection. But he knew that many museum visitors expressed feeling anxious after learning about the structure's terrifying past as old torture chambers. They said they found it disturbing to admire beautiful bracelets, filigree Trollbeads, and intricate zodiac signs set in silver and platinum in a location where, five centuries before, medieval psychopaths used thumb screws to force their victims to confess crimes they had most likely not committed.

The guard at the museum door gave him a reproachful look as soon as he saw him.

"Nearly twenty to nine, Mr. Kopman! The director is cross and has already asked about you twice!"

Roman disregarded the reprimand, even though he secretly desired to express his defiance in a less-than-polite manner, preferably by sticking his tongue out or making a sarcastic remark. But he knew that maintaining a professional demeanor was important, so he forced himself to stay composed, ran past the director’s office door, and headed to the second floor, which housed the amber collection.

The pieces in the display cases were mounted on black velvet to contrast with the amber hues: treacle rings, toffee pendants, butterscotch necklaces, and leaf-shaped earrings in the warm tone of ripe tangerines. The most remarkable was a 10-centimeter carving of something that resembled a rocket ready for takeoff. Inside, visible through the transparent surface, was a giant prehistoric insect, each piece clearly identifiable: a segmented body, a pair of wings, three pairs of long, spindly legs, and extended mouthparts—all preserved for eternity in Baltic resin.

He had been thinking about this specific artifact for a few days. Even after being locked in the case with the other antiques overnight, it always seemed slightly askew the next day, with the velvet all wrinkled and the sculpture's nose pointing in different directions. Roman knew the exact placement of every piece in the collection and could recite its approximate age and weight in grams, so he knew he wasn't going crazy. Not for nothing had he spent the preceding two decades explaining to tourists how the items were carved and where the fossilized gemstone was unearthed on the Baltic shore.

He was very good at his job and had a special knack for engaging with children. Their undivided attention and genuine enjoyment of his stories always brought him joy, unlike most adults.

"Each amber is unique, as you can see. If the piece is honey-colored and see-through, it formed outside the tree from resin that poured down the bark and floated in cold, salty water for millions of years.”

He'd pick up a caramel-colored dragon that the kids loved and let them hold it for a few seconds.

"There are people who practice a different kind of medicine, not like the white-coated doctors who chase after you with syringes and vaccines. Those special doctors, sometimes known as shamans, call amber "sundrops" or "tears of gods.” They think that wearing an amber amulet will protect you from evil spirits."

He enjoyed the look of surprise on their pixie faces as they handled the dragon and caressed its carved surface, trying to absorb its energy.

"Hippocrates, known as the father of modern medicine, thought that if you ground amber into a powder and mixed it with oil and honey, you could make a potion that could cure fever and stomachaches, ease asthma, and cure infections."

He'd choose another piece, a dark cinnamon pendant, and dangle it in front of the curious children.

“As you can see, this amber is cloudy because it was made from resin inside a tree. But that's not all. Different kinds of amber come from oak, birch, or pine sap. This fossil has so many amazing things about it."

To finish his master class, he always took out the rocket-shaped piece with the big bug stuck in the middle. As he held it up to the light, he could hear the shocked gasps while the kids examined the exoskeleton and proboscis, with what looked like a drop of liquid at the tip.

"This one is an insect that lived a long time ago. Thousands, if not millions of years. We know it's a female because only lady mosquitoes feed on blood. Males like flower nectar best."

"So mosquito boys are sissies. It's the girls who do all the hard work!" One of the girls laughed and elbowed her friend.

"Not exactly. Everyone has a job in the natural world, and both male and female mosquitoes like to lick sugary surfaces. The female only needs the protein in the blood when she is about to lay eggs," Roman explained patiently.

"This female here, let's call her Millicent, must have gotten stuck in the resin right after biting someone because there is still a dark drop on the tip of her proboscis and what looks like a thin line of liquid inside it. She probably munched on a big animal like a mammoth, a saber-toothed tiger, or maybe even Nick the Neanderthal or Harriett Homo sapiens, one of our ancestors. But we won't know for sure unless we drill into the amber, get a drop, and test it for DNA."

"Nick, the gentleman called you a Neanderthal," another little girl squealed while the named individual pulled on her ponytail and pretended to be offended.

"Well, at least I don't have legs as thin as a mosquito like you do!" Nick retorted with a grin, causing the children to erupt into more laughter.

Following the presentation, the youngsters raced about the room, buzzing like insects trying to bite each other. Roman grinned. Such moments made his job worthwhile. The kids learned about amber and human prehistory but also had a lot of fun.

So when he saw a slight shift in the position of the engraved artifact, he knew he couldn't be wrong. He always placed it in the same spot: in the center of the fabric, with the topmost triangular part facing the window. Yet, when he opened the cabinet over the last three days, it had been moved so slightly that no one but he would notice.

By the fourth day, his concern had reached a boiling point, compelling him to confront the intruder who tampered with the exhibits without breaking the locks and without taking anything. After catching up on the news (which skipped over any mention of Oumuamua) and enjoying his second cup of lemon tea, he got dressed and headed out of the flat. He walked hurriedly, hoping to avoid the drizzle that was hesitating whether to turn into a heavy downpour or cease altogether.

As he reached the old town, he could see the museum, which had been devastated during WWII but restored to its splendor from old photographs. He looked up to the second floor. A greenish light was filtering through the curtainless window. He deactivated the security system and crept into the gallery, which was also secured. He unlocked the door with a small silver Yale.

As he stepped into the room, a wave of disbelief washed over him. It seemed that all those years of speculation about the Roswell incident might not have been in vain! Right before him stood a peculiar being - small in stature, with a grey complexion, no hair, and almond-shaped eyes. Its nostrils were wide, and instead of a regular mouth, there was a creepy slit. His three-fingered right hand delicately cradled... the amber carving with Millicent, the Mosquito trapped inside.

The creature looked up and blinked his (or her) lash-less eyelids. The mouth-slit made a noise, clearly an expression of surprise.

“Barff…berff...brepp…bripp…” It sounded like the vomiting of a cat with an acute case of indigestion.

The stranger appeared to have been assembled by a deranged Frankenstein maker using a haphazard assortment of parts, defying both the principles of physics and the natural structure of the human body. His stomach was distended as if he had recently enjoyed a hearty meal or swallowed a sea turtle, including the hard shell. The dark eyes were huge and curious. At first, Roman believed he was utterly devoid of hair, but then he noticed a delicate tuft beneath his chin, reminiscent of the beard on Tutankhamun's funeral mask.

The fully dressed, middle-aged human and the grey, naked alien exchanged glances before the creature let out another burp and produced a small box out of apparently nowhere. It made crackling noises, coughed, and spat out static. Next came a voice resembling Stephen Hawking's synthesized, computer-generated baritone, with volume and pitch altered by an acoustic filter.

"Need...amber...need...insect..." said the box, followed by a sequence of crackles and some more spitting and burps and baffs and beeps.

The message was plain. The alien was after the carving, or more specifically, the mosquito trapped inside. Roman couldn't figure out why, but just as he was about to inquire, the box barked again.

"Mother sick...need blood..."

Roman realized the creature could hear his thoughts.

"Where is Mother? "he asked in his head.

The alien, whom Roman was starting to think of as simply Al, answered through the box and pointed at the sky.

"Ship…human call Oumuamua..."

Roman nodded in understanding.

"Mosquito bite Mother....mosquito frozen … Mother need blood …now."

"So you have been moving the piece all along, have you?" Roman asked silently.

“But why not take it out?"

"Earth object...no teletransportation...." the box screeched.

So that was the problem! Al could come and go as he pleased, traverse walls, produce objects out of thin air, and even rearrange his molecular structure, but he had no control over man-made objects.

"No insect... no blood...Mother die..."

The triangular face expressed unfathomable sadness, and the black eyes turned almost liquid with tears.

Not quite believing his nerve, Roman took a step forward, but Al retreated, threw one of his hands to his eyes, and peered at Roman through his three fingers as the amber carving fell to the floor.

"Don't be scared," Roman thought as he took another step, fearful that Al might flee in the same manner he had entered the room.

"I want to help."

And suddenly, the alien eased into a state of relaxation, his thin arms hanging by his sides like homing doves. The uncertainty in his eyes gave way to a hint of happiness: brief, fleeting, yet undeniably happiness. The mouth-slit contorted as he fought to utter a single word: help...

Roman moved closer to pick up the carving from the floor.

"We'll have to get it out of here the old-fashioned way—through the door," he said aloud this time, slipping the piece into his coat pocket.

“We'll meet in the main square by the Poseidon fountain in twenty minutes."

The puzzled expression on Al's deltoid face made Roman chuckle.

"You seem a bit lost, don't you? Poseidon? Greek god? Hold on a second.”
He reached inside his coat pocket and revealed his phone.
"Check this out."

He Googled the Poseidon fountain and showed Al the screen, who responded with a hearty belch, which Roman interpreted as agreement.

As he put the phone away, the stranger gently grabbed Roman’s left hand. His skin, soft and cold to the touch, was a little damp. It throbbed, and for a moment, Roman thought he was holding the tail of a fish. He put Roman's hand on his chest, just above where human ribs would be, and pressed it against his flesh. The area turned transparent. Roman saw an oval organ, broader at the bottom and tapering towards the apex, pulsating against the ribs just like a human heart would. It was pumping a substance that the alien desperately needed for someone he called Mother.

"Friend…” The alien whispered through his mouth-slit, then vanished in a swish of disintegrating molecules before Roman could blink.

He picked up the cloth where the figure had been, closed the display case lid, and left the room, locking the door behind him with the silver Yale.

***

Roman was getting ready for work as usual the next day when he heard the reporter's drone-like voice again.

"In a surprising turn of events, the mysterious object known as Oumuamua vanished into thin air just as inexplicably as it had made its entrance. According to two helicopter pilots, they spotted it about 30 miles north of the Baltic coast. The object floated just above the water's

surface without any signs of rotor wash or air turbulence, which are usually caused by helicopter blades or operating engines, and then vanished before they could catch up. So, what exactly was that peculiarly shaped object? Could it have been an interstellar spacecraft conducting a reconnaissance mission, or perhaps just an unusual weather phenomenon? It seems like the answer will forever remain a mystery. However, it is undeniable that the attention has shifted towards new discoveries, and in the meantime, NASA has lifted the alert."

He switched off the radio, donned his coat, and grabbed his briefcase. He was about to start working in less than ten minutes, but before that, he decided to make a quick diversion to Costa for a Frostino. And to add some extra fun to his day, he treated himself to a hot cinnamon roll which he munched on defiantly as he reached the museum.

"Late again, Mr. Kopman. A full five minutes late!” the doorman greeted him, but Roman paid no attention and licked a bit of sugar from his upper lip.

He was already contemplating how to explain to the director that the most valuable item in the second-floor collection had mysteriously disappeared, and he was the only one with access and a key.

But his concern quickly disappeared. With a hearty chuckle, he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Regardless of what the director and the doorman thought, he had saved someone's mother. He also had a friend in a galaxy far away from Gdansk, where car horns blared incessantly on a cold pre-Christmas morning. Because that was what Christmas was about, right? It was about spreading kindness and joy, even in the most unexpected ways, even if it involved alien beings and intergalactic spaceships.

His one regret was not having asked if Al and his people had built the pyramids, given the strange resemblance of his tufty beard to Tutankhamun's. But now, he would never find out...

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