She then surfed to the competing networks. CNN had a terrific shot of the tear. "God, they've got the best graphics," she thought as she made her way to Fox, then ABC, CBS, and finally MSNBC. No one had anything new. This was good. Everyone was focusing on ground zero, the radio station. She needed a different angle. Maybe she'd go for the fringe. "Oh, wait," she thought. "Mama fears for her family. Sweet!" She'd find a rattled backwoods family and do a piece on them and their response to the aliens. Southern kids had adorable accents. This was Alabama. There had to be some dust bowl-era-looking barefoot family somewhere. Potentially hilarious. Perfect.
"Brady!" she shouted.
"Yeah?" was the response from the wash room directly in front of her desk.
"You ready?"
“I'm taking a dump, babe."
"Hurry up. We've got to go."
"You got a lead?"
"I've got an idea, yeah. Finish jerking off and let's get out of here."
"I love it when you fantasize about my junk." The toilet flushed, the water ran and Brady emerged drying his hands with toilet paper.
"Are we out of paper towels?" Alicia asked.
"I couldn't find any."
"We're in a fucking convenience store, Brady. Aisle six."
"This is a fine." Brady tossed the wet paper in the trash can. He stepped to the corner and picked up his camera and remote bag. "Where are we going?"
"To the sticks. We need to find a redneck family."
"Can't we just do that in the parking lot?"
"No, no. I want to find a dilapidated house. No running water; that kind of shit."
"It's Alabama, Ali, but I'm pretty sure it's not 1936."
"You know what I mean. Let's go. You got the keys?"
"We're good. I don't know how you think we're going to drive through this mess."
Alicia and Brady walked toward the exit. Alicia stopped at the cold remedy aisle. "Wait a minute." She found a box of generic Sudafed, ripped it open, popped four red pills from the blister pack and swallowed them down. She put the rest in her pocket and made her way to the door. They took two coffees from the hospitality table on the way out.
Outside, the music was deafening. Alicia led the way and shoved past the revelers to the back of the building and the rented SUVs. They got in, Brady fired up the truck, and they began the slow trek out of the parking lot. A sea of people eventually parted to let them through the city streets.
"What do you know about this Milan guy?" Alicia asked.
"The scientist?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. This is the first time I've met him. Seems like a good guy. Why? You crushin' on the geek?"
"Whatever. I'm not that kind of horny. I think he slighted me in the last break."
"He's smarter than you, Ali. Get over it. He's not the only one."
Brady glanced over to Alicia in the passenger seat and noticed that she looked a bit sad. This was rare. In the year that they had been partnered together, he had only known her to be a brash, hard drinking, pill popping, redheaded, wonderful nightmare. He was somewhat surprised to see her ego, which was epic, deflated.
"Hey," he said, gently punching her in the arm. "You can't be the prettiest girl in the room and the smartest chick. Leave a little something for the rest of us, huh?"
"Fuck you, Brady" she said, punching him harder. "I'm smart."
"Never said you weren't."
"Maybe not doctor-of-fucking-physics smart but smart enough to win a Murrow."
"Oh yeah? When did that happen?"
"It's going to happen. It might just be this story."
"Fuck yeah," Brady smiled. "Let's get it."
They were a solid pair, albeit a mismatched one. Brady was an overweight, balding 37 year old industry veteran. He had shot film in both Gulf Wars and on 9/11. His wife hated his job and worried that he put himself in harm’s way far too often. After all, he had two young kids at home in Colorado. Truth be known Brady would rather have been playing golf but as he often told his wife, "golf won't pay the bills." He ate too much junk food and was probably one cheeseburger away from his first heart attack.
Alicia, on the other hand, was 10 years his junior, stunning and an upstart in the business. She landed at the network a year prior after cutting her teeth in Portland and Seattle, first as a beat reporter and then an anchor. Brady often thought that she was meant for another time. He was a fan of old movies, and she reminded him of Bette Davis or Katharine Hepburn. She had a dignity about her. She could be competitive to a fault though, which alienated much of the staff. Alicia was driven, and Brady sometimes worried that the work consumed her. He didn't dare tell her to slow down. It was like working with a woman possessed, and she would have ripped his head off. Still, he knew a side of her that most missed. She was genuinely charming when she wanted to be and she made the work exciting.
"Jesus Christ, this place is weird. Everyone here is drunk and packing a gun," Alicia said.
"Then there's that whole alien thing," Brady shot back as he navigated through the crowd, periodically honking the horn.
"Yeah, there's that." Alicia paused. "Is that what you think this is? Aliens?"
"Who the hell knows? What? Are you worried you're going to get probed?"
"It might be the best part of the trip."
Milan made his way through the streets. The radio station was only a few blocks away from the dollar store. A month prior, he suspected that he could have made this walk in fifteen minutes or less. Now, he struggled to move a few feet per minute. The roads were just packed. It was like navigating through some insane street festival, he thought. The music was incredibly loud, and every kind of crazy was represented here. The whirling hippies, the religious zealots, the tin-foil hat crowd. This coupled with the presence of armed police, news media of all sorts and ordinary civilians sipping beers and talking about their mortgages amidst a dimensional crack in the sky was a new sort of surreal. He pressed forward.
Nearly a half hour later, Milan finally made it to the block where the station was located. The military had barricaded the perimeter several days before. Milan knew that getting past would be a challenge. He approached a soldier, flashed his press credentials and waved the gentleman closer. They would each have to shout in each others' ear to be heard.
"No press!" the soldier yelled.
"I understand! I'm a scientist! I'm not a reporter!"
The soldier looked him over for a moment and finally shouted "Stay here!"
With that, the soldier left the line and walked behind one of the armored trucks that guarded the city block. Milan saw snipers on the surrounding buildings. Behind the line, ambassadors from throughout the world, military minds and scientists like him huddled in the old Victorian home that doubled as the radio station studios where this entire debacle began weeks before. Milan desperately wanted to be a part of whatever was happening behind those closed doors. It was moments like this, however, that he cursed the day his agent had talked him into signing the consulting agreement with the network. Sure, the money was fantastic. The shot to his credibility amongst his peers, though, made it hardly worth it. He had become a "Mr. Wizard", as his colleagues often joked. It was unfair. His credentials were impeccable. They knew this.
One of the soldier's superiors appeared from behind the truck and approached Milan. Since his arrival in Alabama, earlier that morning, Milan had detected a palatable fear in the eyes of everyone he encountered. Even the new age freaks welcoming their new, next dimensional masters with drum circles and crystals held a spark of terror in their gaze. This man's cold stare was fearless. Something about that was reassuring to Milan who was, admittedly, as nervous as the next by-stander.
"What is your business here, sir?!"
"I want to help! I'm a doctor of physics! I have a few theories about what is happening!"
"We have plenty of physicists working on this!"
"I can't imagine that one more would hurt! My name is D
r. Milan..."
"I know who you are," the man interrupted. He paused for a moment and finally waved Milan through the gate. "Follow me."
Behind the perimeter was a flurry of military activity. There were several tents set up and Milan could see a number of personnel working diligently at their computers. It was a relief to leave the mass of people behind. Milan followed the man down the block and up the concrete steps of the yellow house. On the porch, they were greeted by two armed guards who parted immediately at the sight of Milan's escort, saluted and opened the double doors to the home.
Inside, the house boasted high, ornate ceilings. An elaborate chandelier hung above them in the entryway. A mahogany staircase to their right was full of traffic as people ran up and down the stairs, carrying files and various pieces of equipment. To the left, was a conference table now occupied by a number of dignitaries, apparently awaiting a presentation of some sort. The soldier told Milan to stay put, and he vanished around the corner, into the conference room.
He emerged a few moments later, this time accompanied by a familiar face. "Milan! Welcome to the war zone," he said. It was Dr. Charles Trumboldt, an astrophysicist. He and Milan had attended several conferences together in the past. Both were in-demand speakers. Milan smiled and shook his hand.
"Let's hope it's not a war zone," he joked.
"Yeah, I suppose that's debatable. You have to admit, though, it does feel like something out of H.G. Wells. Are you in town with the network?"
"Yes. I just arrived this morning."
"I'm surprised they let you in. No one here wants to leak anything to the press until we have a better understanding of what's happening."
"I understand, but I'm not here as a reporter. I want to assist in any way that I can."
Charles knew that Milan would bring a unique perspective to the assembled group. He was, after all, an accomplished physicist. His theories were sound and, truth be told, he might be useful as a trusted spokesperson should the need arise. Still, Charles had been given strict orders to avoid leaking information. That said he felt he could trust Milan.
"You'll have to quit the network. Effective immediately. No more reports."
Milan didn't hesitate. This was the chance of a lifetime. "Consider it done."
Charles shook his hand again. "Welcome aboard. Come on back."
Milan followed Charles to the conference room. Along the way, he removed his press credentials and tossed them in a nearby trash can. He simply wouldn't return in an hour as he had promised. This probably wouldn't come as a shock to the network as they had employees abandoning their jobs by the hour. What were they going to do? Sue him? Milan was pretty sure he would win whatever court battle he'd be facing given the circumstances. In fact, it was strange, he thought, that this concern even crossed his mind.
Almost immediately, Charles and Milan were stopped. A stern-looking woman with piercing eyes halted them as soon as she caught sight of them. "Where's this man's clearance?" she demanded.
"He's only just arrived. This is Dr. Milan Janáček. He's a respected theoretical physicist. His input will be very helpful. We're fortunate to have him," Charles pitched.
She paused and seemed to quickly size up Milan. She didn't appear to sense a threat. "I'll need to run him through," she concluded.
"I'm sure that will be fine. Milan can you please follow Ms. Hendrix? She needs to run a background and security check on you."
"Certainly. That will be fine," Milan smiled. Ms. Hendrix didn't smile back but waved him into an adjacent office.
She instructed Milan to have a seat and he sat on a couch amidst boxes of what appeared to be radio station business. Commercial orders and spreadsheets were messily stacked in white cardboard, labeled with black marker. His OCD kicked in. He felt a compelling urge to begin organizing the files but that would be clearly inappropriate. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap as Ms. Hendricks sat in front of a laptop computer and began asking him questions: full name, social security number, address, etc.
"Where were you born, Doctor?"
"Chicago, Illinois."
She began to read from her computer screen. "Your parents were Czech immigrants; your father a pianist, your mother a home-maker. You received your B.S. in physics from Columbia College in 1976 and your doctorate in theoretical physics from The Rockefeller University in 1981 under Professor Spalding Ianthe. You later worked with Professor Yashmir Andropov of Tel Aviv University. You've since authored ten books, numerous articles on quantum mechanics. Your books are equally praised and criticized for their informal style, and you are routinely credited by both fans and critics as having a talent for communicating highly abstract scientific concepts in ways that are accessible to everyday readers. This talent led to your being hired as an on-air science consultant for the Triton Broadcasting Network. You currently hold the Ivan Acker Chair and Professorship in theoretical physics at City College of New York, where you have lectured for more than 20 years."
"Wow," Milan laughed. "All of that from a few keystrokes. Are you in some sort of government database? At least it's all good, right?"
"It's Wikipedia. You were arrested in 1982 for driving under the influence, you have five outstanding parking tickets in three cities, you have three active memberships to online adult websites including..."
"I get it. Wait. That's on Wikipedia?"
Hendricks shook her head 'no' and just then Charles ducked his head into the room. "We're ready to begin. Are you finished, Ms. Hendricks?"
Hendricks continued typing on the laptop and spoke as her eyes darted around the screen. "He looks okay. No major criminal history. I'll give him a pass."
"May I go?" Milan asked.
She nodded, and he got up to follow Charles. The conference room was now especially crowded. Milan vaguely recognized a few faces in the crowd, but this didn't seem to be the right time for introductions. The shaking air was beginning to irritate Milan. It was as if he were surrounded by sub-woofers, all rattling out the same silent, steady bass note. The curious thing to him was that this nonstop vibration did not appear to influence sound waves. He would assume that this should somehow affect the way he heard noise; the rate at which the voices in the room would travel. Also, the hum appeared to create an illusion that the oxygen in the room was heavier than it had been prior to the rip. The vibe was just an irritant, albeit one that had appeared to increase its velocity in recent moments.
The general that had escorted Milan to the house stepped to the front of the conference table. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're ready to begin. I believe a recap of sorts is in order." The lights in the room dimmed, and a power-point presentation began with the general narrating each slide.
"On May 22nd, the radio station which we now occupy began experiencing signal interference. This began as minor static charges inhibiting their broadcast. A local radio DJ reported the discrepancy to the station's engineer. Upon investigation, no equipment failure was found nor did there appear to be any local interference from other licensed stations. As the engineer continued to search for the issue, the interference became stronger until finally a voice appeared on air. Here is a recording of the voice that most of you are already familiar with."
The sound clip played from the laptop computer. It simply sounded like a long distance radio broadcast bleeding into the station's frequency, but what the voice was saying was clear: "The Dark Age is nearly complete. Stand by."
The general continued. "This occurred on May 24th. The following day, the local DJ was engaged in conversation by the voice on-air. The voice was much clearer now. Again, many of you will recognize this recording."
"Graham, we can hear you."
"Hello?"
"Hello, Graham."
"Look, I don't know what's going on, but you're interfering with our station. This is an FCC violation."
“We look forward to your return.”
A new slide appeared on the screen. It was a photo of Graham on the cover of a radio indu
stry trade magazine, ten years old. The general explained that Graham Barry was once a successful major market radio disc jockey, popular in Detroit and Dallas. At the height of his fame, he developed issues with alcohol which eventually led to him losing his job, etc. It was a typical fall from grace story. At 35, Graham eventually landed in Tuscumbia, Alabama five years ago, settling for a much lower paying job as the afternoon drive talent and Program Director for a Rock station.
"These brief conversations continued in much the same way for several days," the general said. "The community began to take note, and it was assumed that this was some sort of radio stunt being executed by Mr. Barry. He assured the radio station owner that this was not the case. It was the following exchange that began to alarm citizens and began the official FCC investigation at the request of the radio station owner."
The general played the recording as a transcript appeared on the screen:
Graham Barry: Where are you located?
Voice: Just as you are located in your universe, we are located in ours.
Graham Barry: So, I'm speaking with a voice from outer space?
Voice: This is inaccurate.
Graham Barry: Well, if you're a space alien how do you know our language?
Voice: You know our language.
Graham Barry: We speak your language?
Voice: This is correct.
Graham Barry: Mind blowing. Dude, seriously, I hope you understand that there are huge fines and even jail time associated with this kind of...
Playback was interrupted, and the General advanced to the next transcript slide. "The next exchange brought the communication to the attention of Dr. Trumboldt as the assumed pirate broadcaster revealed an equation considered to be of great scientific value. During this broadcast, it should be noted, the local DJ took a call from an audience member who asked the voice how one might travel at light speed...”
Ascension: Invocation Page 2