Descendant

by Jeffrey A. Levin

  “For now,” Barundi ruminates to himself.

  The secret high-speed subterranean train maintains speeds of up to 1,460 miles per hour. Barundi’s trip, starting in the Sierra Mountains and ending in Dulce, takes about 27.35 minutes overall, counting stops. There is no time to waste.

  Barundi’s eyes remain focused on the nerve center of his pneumatic android (TC35), which ushers in constant updates from not only this world but also the universe beyond.

  Barundi Udina is such a careful man that he actually invented a device that could not be hacked. He devised it in such a way that only he could access its complicated mathematical code. It is called the Neutrino Bath. He places all his classified information inside a liquid substance he refers to as his bubble bath. The Neutrino Bath is located three hundred yards beneath the surface of the earth.

  What will the people on Sirius, near the Orion constellation—the new contingency on Mintaka and Anilam—think? Jesus, this is a clusterfuck, Barundi wonders.

  Barundi’s fears are being amplified over and over again. Then something truly peculiar happens; Barundi receives a faint signal from a distant location. Oddly, it seems as if it is originating from the other side of the universe—not just light-years, but wormholes, away! The problem? It’s not being directly sent to him. His TC 636, commonly called Strativarius, has intercepted the rogue signal.

  Barundi places his right hand on his right temple, checking for communications. Barundi has been cautioned not to use this device too much; after all, he is already vulnerable to seizures, and his temporal lobe is weakened from too much extraterrestrial use.

  Udina knows that the Andromedans wouldn’t be happy. Their number-one operative, Zarri Dramados, has been compromised; he was brutally assaulted on Barundi’s watch. This event is going to have extreme repercussions. But when? How? These are matters that Mr. Udina will have to ponder.

  Barundi Udina glances at his watch. The time is 7:01:42. His arrival time will be 7:24:17. Barundi is perhaps the only man in the world who truly understands what is going on at Dulce—well, with the possible exception of Benjamin Eisenstein. He knows its history. He understands the nuances between the various types of extraterrestrials he will meet. Furthermore, Mr. Udina knows the time-honored agreements with each species that have existed since the days of the Eisenhower administration. More significantly, Barundi doesn’t have time for bullshit from anyone—especially anyone of the extraterrestrial persuasion. Why? Because lives are at stake, and so is the long-term existence of the human race.

  Barundi takes a greenish pill out of his pocket and washes it down with some purified smart water. The pill sharpens his neural network. His own biological neural synapses have become a superhighway of activity, making his neural nets ready and able to adapt to any and all feedback tossed toward him. He takes a deep breath, knowing he is going to need acute mental sharpness on this trip. Barundi taps his right temple twice, hoping to acquire pertinent updates on the uprisings, but nothing happens!

  Jesus, how stupid are these people? he cogitates.

  So what is Dulce? Beyond being a place of complete secrecy, it is a place where aliens from all over the intergalactic world are stored and, of course, exploited. Some are interrogated, while others cooperate. In the end, they all cooperate.

  Barundi grins fiendishly. After all, everyone has to have a philosophy. His is Mephistophelian in nature. In short, he despises weakness. Barundi’s motto is simply “Go fuck yourself!”

  A few of the species, such as the grays, barter valuable technological information for human abductions. After all, they are involved in their own research. And let’s not forget the cattle mutilations. Without their specific bovine blood, this particular brand of alien race cannot survive.

  A small price to pay, Barundi muses.

  He takes a deep breath. He knew what he’d encounter when he arrived. After all, Dulce isn’t a pleasant place.

  Barundi is expecting to get a briefing at any minute. His assistant, Zooey Hume, is odder than a reptilian at a white-tablecloth dinner on Lucifer’s space station; that’s why he likes her. Zooey was actually stationed on the moon as a young woman. She was one of those that had to deal with those nasty, mind-fucking grays who didn’t want to leave the premises when the Americans opened up shop, building their own flying saucers. These nasty, repugnant wide-eyed cusses tried to mind-control human troops, but thanks to Zooey and her foresight, a chip was placed into each of their scaly heads. Barundi hates these loathsome, dreadful bastards.

  A small smile crosses Barundi’s face. He kinda likes Zooey in a strange way, for he has to admit that she gets things done. Yet she is odder than Lady Gaga at a Trump rally, to use an ancient reference. She is his go-to. More importantly, Zooey is a no-bullshit lady, and in the modern world of deception, that is a rare commodity.

  A woman in her early thirties with rectangular black glasses and a stern square face walks cautiously toward Barundi. She leans downward, uttering the word “Crossbow.” Barundi gestures to the seat next to him. He unbuttons his top button, loosening his rather bland, formal tie. Zooey clears her throat; she sits down, taking out her notebook. Then she stares straight into Barundi’s dark black eyes, sending a laser beam of information indicating her real identity. They are safe to talk.

  Zooey notes that Barundi’s black eyes are the darkest she’s ever seen. Zooey often wonders if Barundi is a cyborg himself. Yet that is impossible according to her reasoning, for no one in his or her wildest musing could ever have created Barundi; he is an original.

  “We don’t have much time, Ms. Hume. You’ll need to work fast.”

  The train speeds up again, appearing more like a missile than a monorail. Barundi once said that if the Hadron Collider people really wanted a high-speed collision with something other than protons, this would be the way to do it. After all, the underground commuter train was a ticket to Satan’s lair. Think about it; what is our concept of hell? Grotesque entities living within the bowels of the earth? Hatred? Self-interest? Ego? You’ve got it—Dulce.

  Oddly, Barundi thinks about the bar scene in the original Star Wars film. Quite a classic, he muses. Yet this time it isn’t fiction, and the fight scene isn’t a symbol or a motif; this shit is for real.

  Zooey touches her right temple, allowing both her and Barundi to witness the well-planned agenda in the space directly in front of them.

  Air touch—what a technology! This is another thing we owe to the ETs—primarily the grays. You don’t even need special glasses anymore, just internal defined distance sufficient range (DDSR).

  “Bruno Morrice tells me that problems on the underground base are getting progressively worse,” says Barundi. “He also is aware that one of his guards was bribed, allowing Zarri to escape.”

  Zooey clears her throat. “It’s a good thing Zarri was apprehended by that man.”

  “You mean Bone?” Barundi says matter-of-factly. “He’s dangerous, Zooey; don’t make any mistake about it. He’s not who he appears to be. I want you to put SAF [subatomic fingerprints] on him. We need answers.”

  Zooey squints. “I’ve never heard you talk about him before.”

  Barundi rubs his face and closes his eyes. “That’s because he’s a rogue operative. He takes his orders from someone else.”

  Zooey glances at her watch. Her eyes look up like two glowing orbs filled with electrical circuitry. “You mean he’s an anomaly?”

  Barundi snorts. “We’ve needed him over the years. No one is better at creating unique lifelike drones than this man. He has a real talent.” He stares off into space and clears his throat.

  “So we use him?”

  Barundi laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that is sickeningly smug, as if he knows things that no one on this planet is capable of knowing or wants to know. “Anomalies are dangerous, Zooey. They’re the kind of people that you love to talk about; I guess
they’re the real 007s of the world. But we kill 007s, don’t we?”

  “But?” Zooey says with a snicker, knowing that Barundi has something at his micro GCB fingertips.

  Barundi blows on his hands and then massages his fingers, allowing them to dance hypnotically in the air.

  “You’ve been a loyal servant, Zooey,” Barundi says with a cunning smile. “But I think it may be best if you get up right now and get off the train at the next stop.”

  Zooey Hume stares at her boss, wondering what in the hell just happened.

  “Is there something I don’t know, Mr. Udina?” she says, shaking.

  Barundi smiles. “Yes, you can meet me later in Dulce.”

  Zooey shrugs.

  “If I tell you, you’ll die instantaneously. Is that what you want?”

  Zooey places her glasses back on, gets up from her chair, looks around, peering at a few passengers sitting quietly in their seats, and walks quickly toward the exit.

  Inside his glasses, Barundi observes Bone talking to two young teenagers. He switches on his neural intergalactic superhighway. Then he smiles—but it is not a nice smile. It’s the kind of smile that isn’t intended to be nice; nor is it intended to be funny.

  I switch off the tape. I burn it immediately.

  CHAPTER 36

  August 7, 2378

  8:18:21 p.m.

  It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

  —Winston Churchill

  Active Externalism? Hey, back in the day, we did it with radios, TV, and Internet, right? So what’s so strange about a mind that can do the same thing? I muse.

  Bone manpulates his 360 periscope. He nods his head, “all clear.”

  “Okay, Bone, I’m ready to make the mental leap.”

  He nods. “Don’t do anything stupid, all right? Just let your mind do what it’s intended to do… nothing fancy.”

  “Got it,” I say. “Hug it out!”

  Bone laughs as he wraps his huge arms around me. I actually think he’s going to cry, but heroic mountain men don’t do that, right? Maya is in tears, but she does the same.

  “What if I never see you again?” she asks.

  “Not going to happen. This is just a walk in the park, okay?” I smile reassuringly. But Project Eavesdrop ain’t no sure thing. Ya know what I mean?”

  “Now, quit being such a lemon doggy and get out of here!” Bone quips, flashing one of his wild smiles.

  I kiss Maya one more time before I send my brain waves on their way.

  “Off to Dulce!” I say, parting company with my pal and my squeeze.

  I didn’t think a mind could be made to feel hot through the power of suggestion, but the Archeleta Desert be 117 degrees. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky, and the only animals that I see are dead ones. Chuckwallas, desert rats, and who the hell knows how many barren, lifeless bodies are lying facedown in the forbidden sand, dotting the landscape like little furry rocks. The vultures, however, are alive and well. I know, because my mind flies right past a few of them. Circular, pod-shaped, floating glittery objects shot and then lingered all around the place; in certain cases, they lit up the sky like huge suspended lanterns.

  “A very peculiar place,” I tried to say out loud, but of course nothing came forth.

  Dulce is pronounced “Dul-Cee,” by the way, and it rests in the northern part of New Mexico. If you think about it, the word “Dulce” is sort of an enigma by itself—a contradiction of huge proportions. It sure as hell appears to be dull, but that’s because you can’t see under the mountains and the sand. After all, Dulce isn’t as isolated as it seems, but it is a world within a world. Actually, it’s a universe within a smaller entity, for it’s a microcosm of ETs that have been rounded up like scavengers and collected and stored like little microchips. It is a world enshrouded in secrecy.

  I observe a few supply trucks driving toward what appears to be a granite wall. Then they’re swallowed up by an invisible entrance. The door to Dulce is carved right out of the mountains; it opens and closes like a hungry mouth, inhaling its dinner, for that’s what it is. It is a home for humans, who are under the strange delusion that they are in charge. Dumb, naive humans, right?

  But to the grays, it is their invitation to devour all the human and bovine blood that their little bodies require. As for the reptilians, they are smarter than everyone, and they know it. Perhaps Zarri is the only one who wants to bring humans together with reptilians. Yeah, as the ancient Dr. Phil once said, “How’s that workin’ for you?”

  Dulce, among other things, is a jail, and the prisoners there despise the humans who keep them hostage. So whose home is it? Or is there, in fact, a home at all? That’s what I wanted to find out.

  Zeke once told me that my extended mind would move freely through concrete, so to speak, as long as my will was complete. A little hint: focusing in extended mind language is like falling asleep. The more you try to do it, the less likely it is to happen. So I just think about Maya and how beautiful she is, and then suddenly, I am flying!

  My mind moves me under the mountain, just like butter! I am inside the forbidden Dulce underground facility. I can see everything: the tunnels, the shuttle train, the rooms. Unbelievable! I can see operating facilities; the small grays; the Aleutians, with their elongated heads; the Annunaki; and the reptilians.

  Wow! Who is that man coming off the train? The dude must be important!

  I witness federal agents and security cyborgs all over the place. The man peers around, studying everything as though he is a human brain—all perception—and his human shape is just a mirage. Oddly, there is something about him that I find familiar. I try to place him but can’t. My extended mind shudders, sending vibrations into the atmosphere. The man looks up.

  Can he see me?

  I hope you’re still with me.

  I know how amazing this sounds, but my mind is detached from my brain and body; I’m just floating within the facility. Where’s my body? It’s where I left it, back at Bone’s place. What’s my body doing? It’s on a sort of air mattress couch, literally just hanging out.

  Anyway, I feel like the ultimate Luke Skywalker. It’s a strange feeling, but why should this place remain secret? I remember hearing a quote that kind of pertains to the situation. F. Scott Fitzgerald once referred to Gatsby as “roaming like the mind of God.” For once I understand what that means.

  So what do I see? More accurately, what do I perceive? Again, I can’t really see, because I have no body, which means I have no eyes. Yet, like a bat, I perceive images through swirling vortex perceptions. Cool, huh?

  First, I’m in what would probably be referred to as the East Wing of Dulce. It is marked “Heliospheric Spacecraft.” There are a number of different species here, working in the lab. I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking at. There are tables, huge computers, small computers, computer chips, lab tables, measurement facilities, and, oh yeah, there are cameras everywhere, checking out the outside and inside. However, if you’re looking for luxury, this isn’t the place. I feel as if I’m inside of a sterile hospital.

  There are men and women with long skulls. I see robots scuttling back and forth, bringing reports to the scientists. And yes, a number of different types of ETs are present. I see the three-foot grays, seven- to eight-foot grays, Aleutians, and reptilians shuffling about. However, there is no sign of Zarri. The reptilians all look purposeful, as if they’re on a mission. I see labels: “Gamma Ray,” “Infrared,” “Spectroscopy,” and “Physical Chemistry. There’s another section labeled “LEP Theoretical and Experimental Research / Heliospheres,” “Interstellar Mediums,” and, finally, “Study of Solar Coronal Mass Ejections (CMEs).”

  Ya know, I’m probably stressing out my body quite a bit, but to tell the truth, it’s rather serene up here. Have you ever heard the expression that feathers appear when angels are
near? Well, that’s not what I am feeling. Honestly, I feel more like I’ve made a pact with the devil. I’m floating leisurely, but I’m spying, and I don’t belong here. You can put that in the bank.

  Anyway, lastly there is another section just north of the other two, marked “Monograph.” It is labeled “Recent Developments in the Area of Presolar and Chemical Isotope Analysis.”

  There’s something happening everywhere! Bone is going to want a complete analysis, but I don’t really understand what I’m seeing. It’s just too much! My extended mind wanders farther.

  Quite an array, I reflect. By the way, the reason I repeat things in my brain is so Bone and Maya can record my observations. I’m guessing that most of what I’m observing deals with interplanetary travel.

  Now I go a little bit north. I’m exhausted! It isn’t easy using all your mental energy to stay afloat. By the way, traveling without one’s body can be cool, but take it from this phantom that moving through the air like a spook is weirder for me than it is for you. I float on.

  There’s a section labeled, “In the Event of Global Cataclysm.”

  Bone? Hey man! I hope you and Maya just heard that… incredible!

  Now I see huge bunkers. Huge cities are waiting to be occupied! There is a humongous section of nuclear-power facilities. There are also weapons of all sorts. Dear God! There’s a cyborg army ready to be activated.

  I’d take a breath, but I don’t have a mouth or lungs. I’m wondering how everyone is doing back at Bone’s place. Actually, how am I doing? I’m assuming my body is just resting, waiting for M. E. to return.

  Now I’m moving west in the facility. There are antigravitational spaceships equipped with bombing mechanisms. Hmm!

  I go over to the next room. This area seems to be the small gray area. There are hundreds of them roaming around. Some are lounging about, while some are watching images that are simply simulated in the air. I observe pictures of other small grays on their own planet. Believe it or not, they are attending a concert. I hear noise coming from the interplanetary screen. I actually hear vibrations that might be applause. I don’t think the small grays actually are making noise, yet I feel vibrations coming from their minds; their subatomic particles are vibrating at a high speed, culminating in rapid vortex movement. There’s no way of knowing what sound I’m hearing. I’d like to imagine it is laughter. Anyway, the small grays are being guarded by cyborgs with gun-like weapons; lasers are attached to their mechanical hands.