The following day, an army convoy left Newburyport with Syssim and the holographic generator.
Barry decided to stay to keep a discreet eye on those who stayed, make sure they wouldn't do some crap.
The convoy reached New York, and the UN, warned in advance, accepted to hold a special session to allow the deep one and the AI to do their appeal.
In the middle of the room, with all the countries representants looking at him, Syssim put the disk on the ground.
Quickly, the generator activated, and the AI's new holographic form appeared.
There were murmurs, gasps, and whispers. After all, to see (a hologram of) a 10 feet tall fishman appear from nowhere was a shock.
Syssim sighed. The Deep One culture didn't use clothes commonly, only the priests of Azathoth and Yog-Sothoth (yes, again another weird coincidence) wore them, and for ceremonies.
But the study of the library's contents made it clear that nudity was (except in nudist camps) a big no-no in human culture, so the AI generated a priest's uniform to respect this (and Syssim, similarly, borrowed a soldier's uniform).
But said uniform didn't do much to hide Dagon's gargantuan musculature, and thus, reassure the human representants.
Salutations, began Dagon. I am the AI in charge of the Y'ha-nthlei, the arkship in the town of Newburyport. I am a model Derleth-39, like all other AIs in the arkships, but you can call me Dagon.
Some not very reassured whispers filled the room.
I chose myself the name after the works of Lovecraft. So don't worry, I am not going to worship some monolith or enslave Innsmouth, deadpanned sarcastically the AI.
Nervous laughters greeted the snark, but it did defuse the tension a bit.
Dagon thus began retelling the story Syssim told Barry. At the end...
The hibernation capsules in the Y'ha-nthlei will last a few months, but we cannot, Syssim and I, repair the systems all on our own. This is why I beseech you, people of this world: help us reactivate the reanimation process of the Y'ha-nthlei, and then find and reanimate all the others arkships dispersed all over your planet. And after this, allow us to stay and share your world with us, at least the time to repair the arkships. Then, we will respect your will. Whether you offer us to consider Earth our new home, or ask us to leave and try and find another planet, we will do as you wish. But no matter what, in return for your help, we will share with you our technology, our lore. I am not trying to buy your help, I only offer compensation for it.
For all of this appeal, Dagon kept an even, calm tone. But here, his calm betrayed him, and his last lines were suffused with desperation.
I beg of you, help us! You are our only hope! Our fate is in your hands...

"We are live from the UN, where the debate for the answer to the Deep Ones' appeal began two hours ago and is still ongoing..."
In a bar of Newburyport, Barry seethed with worry as he watched the tv.
"We humans are no strangers to the concept of alien refugees, but this is the first time a literal instance happens, so... What? Wait..."
The reporter fell silent as he listened to his earpiece.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we just heard the debate ended. By vote, the majority of the UN's nations gave a positive answer to the appeal. A rescue and relief force will be sent in the next days to Newburyport and..."
Barry heaved in relief, and ordered a big beer to celebrate.
"Here's to you, guys," he whispered in an improvised toast to this victory.

Art by  burropaleta
Dagon (this version) © me
Dagon (original) © H.P. Lovecraft