“If this is some kind of joke—” Glenn levers himself heavily to his feet, frowning. Gaby takes a step back, worried. Is that bulge in Agent Jones’s waistband a roll of fat or a gun?
“We have a warrant.” Agent Smith extends a sealed envelope, then contorts his face into an expression that is probably a new kind of smile that was approved after being beta-tested on Martians. “We are here to observe the programming.”
“You don’t need to be here to do that!” Gaby flusters as Smith advances on Glenn, shoving the envelope in his face. “Why don’t you just tune in like everyone else?”
Agent Jones’s face points his empty Ray-Bans at her. “We crave authenticity.”
Weird, Gaby thinks with a shudder.
“We’re not set up for spectators,” Glenn warns him. He opens the envelope and reads quickly, swears under his breath, meets Gaby’s raised eyebrows with a brief nod. “This looks … fuck.” He nods at Gaby again. “This is an investigative warrant from the FCC’s OIG for the, the Operational Phenomenology Agency? Whatever that is?” To Agent Smith: “I need to fax this to our counsel and my boss immediately. Until I hear back from them you can wait in there.” He waves at the break room. “Keep it quiet while we’re on-air, they cheaped on the soundproofing in the studio.”
“We need to listen—”
“There’s a speaker.” Gaby points at it. “You get to hear the raw, unlooped feed, no bleeps or anything, before it gets edited and goes to the transmitter. Is that what you want?”
Agents Smith and Jones nod in unison, like a pair of marionettes controlled by the same unseen hand.
Glenn gets on the fax scanner, but they’re out of time before there’s a reply, so they take their places in the studio. And they’re on-air again before she can snap her fingers. “Hello, this is your host Gaby Carson coming to you on WOCZ with tonight’s episode of The Whatever Show in Crested Butte, Colorado, capitol of high weirdness in America. And we’re going to be talking with you about government conspiracies and cover-ups, Men in Black and crashed UFOs in the hills, and who killed Kennedy. With me tonight are Danni and Glenn, and also two Men in Black of our very own, who just served us with a warrant and say they’re from the government and they’re here to help us. Calls are open, and I’m waiting to hear from you if you’ve ever seen a UFO, a Man in Black, or a little gray alien here in Crested Butte!”
As Gaby cues up “Meninblack” by The Stranglers, she glances through the double-glazed window into the break room. Agents Smith and Jones are standing at parade rest, listening expressionlessly to the speaker. She’s not sure they’re even breathing. Creepy.
“First caller’s on line one,” Danni says in her headset. “Jim, out near Peanut Lake.”
“Caller number one, Jim, you’re on air!”
“Howdy, Gaby.”
“Jim, isn’t it—near Peanut Lake? Have you seen any UFOs or aliens lately? What are your thoughts?”
“Howdy, hi, well it kinda depends. They’re not the little gray ones and they ain’t got no UFOs, but on the ridgeline up by Magic Meadows there’s a place where the trees are all flattened outwards in a circle and there’s a scorched symbol in the dirt, kinda like a five-pointed star with an eye in the middle, like the Brotherhood—”
Glenn is making a throat-cutting gesture so Gaby cuts Jim off. “That’s very interesting Jim, moving on, caller number two, hi! Seen any UFOs tonight?”
Behind Glenn’s shoulder Gaby notices Agent Smith frowning as he makes notes the old-fashioned way, with a pen on a notepad.
“Hi! It’s Billie Jean again!” She’s a regular caller, and Gaby relaxes slightly. Billie Jean is reliably kooky but catches on gracefully when her time is up, and she’s got a bright, febrile patter that fills the dead air and holds the audience’s attention, even if her stories always turn out to be bullshit. Gaby figures she calls because she gets bored. She should really get her own show. “It’s funny you mention Men in Black, Gaby, because there’s this one guy who always goes everywhere with a bodyguard of Men in Black from the government, only I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him on TV or the internet lately? And I was just wondering if he’s been abducted by UFOs?”
“That’s interesting.” No it isn’t. “Who is this mysterious man, Billie Jean?”
“He’s the—” Billie Jean falters, her silver tongue momentarily leaden. “He’s the Pres-Presi- oh damn,” she wails. “I’m sorry! It was on the tip of my tongue! He’s really famous and all and he’s at the top of the government and everybody has just forgotten him!”
Agent Smith looks at Agent Jones behind the window, and gives him a slight nod, just a dip of the chin. Agent Jones scribbles on his pad attentively.
“So, mysterious government man guarded by Men in Black, kidnapped by UFOs. Men in Black just like the two we’ve got right here in the office, huh?” Gaby keeps it light to cover Billie Jean’s breakdown, but she’s fuming: BJ is a reliable two-minute filler before the ads and she just doesn’t fumble like this.
“Y … Yeah, that’s right,” Billie Jean agrees. Agent Jones leaves the break room, heading for the parking-lot exit.
“But you can’t remember what he does. Escort of Men in Black, huh. Are they hunky? Maybe he’s the mayor of Pittsburgh,” Gaby free-associates. “I once saw him go past in a motorcade out east, with about thirty motorcycle cop outriders and five cruisers, all with their lights lit up. I thought Christmas had come early. But, huh, no sign of the actual UFOs, right? Remember, people, today we’re on UFOs, Men in Black, and aliens. Lines are open.” She cues up “UFO” by Sneaky Sound System and breathes a shaky sigh of relief.
They get through the next two ad breaks and half a dozen calls without any untoward on-air corpsing by the call-ins, and only one god-botherer, who is good for amusement value for about two minutes—he’s quoting scripture, something about Ezekiel and flaming wheels in the sky being the true origins of UFOs. Some time after Billie Jean’s call, Agent Jones comes back in, but the two G-Men in the break room mind their own business. Then there’s a call to make the blood freeze.
“Hi Gaby, this is Brother Drake.” The voice is warm, male, and has a southern twang. Nevertheless something about it sets Gaby’s teeth on edge. “Brother Drake from the Circle of Friends of the Lord of Sleep, with a message about Billie Jean, who called earlier. There is a reason we don’t talk about the Man, why we forget we ever heard of the Man, and a message for anyone who thinks talking about the Man is a good idea: get some sleep and you’ll find a whole new perspective. No, really, you should take a nap, and if you don’t, then at any rate you should keep your lips zipped unless you want to sleep with the fishes like Billie Jean up by Peanut Lake. Don’t bleep this out or you’ll be next.”
The line goes dead.
Gaby gapes slack-jawed at Glenn for a couple of seconds as Glenn frantically loops backwards to dub over the threatening call with the channel signature jingle. “What the effing eff?” Danni swears on the studio circuit. (Self-censorship in the presence of hot mikes is a reflex in this business.)
“We just had a, a…” Glenn’s face is pale. “Can you handle this on out, Gaby? I need to call the Sheriff’s Department. No callers, just playlist and sponsors.” He reads her expression. “Don’t get creative.” He cues up “Dr. Mabuse” by Propaganda, which is obscure and off-format but buys them a good ten minutes.
“I don’t like this,” Danni bursts out. Her shoulders are shaking. “I, I quit!” A residual sense of professionalism prompts her to add, “After this program, I mean, not right now.”
Glenn is dialing the PD. In the break room, Agents Smith and Jones are putting their heads together, conversing in low, urgent tones. This time it’s Smith’s turn to leave, striding robotically out the door. Gaby, hands shaking, reorders her playlist and pulls in some backup material. Glenn’s right: she doesn’t trust herself to go live just now, not after receiving a clear death threat with the promise of a body out by the lake. Who the hell are the Circle of Friend
s of Sleep? she frets. Is this some kind of bad joke? The remaining Man in Black in the break room stands motionless, like a cockroach in a cheap suit. She surreptitiously pulls out her phone and photographs him, mentally picturing the doge macro she’ll post on the show’s Facebook page later, when this all blows over—very sinister, much Kafka, wow. Assuming it doesn’t end up as evidence in a criminal trial.
Fifteen more minutes squirm by before Gaby can cue up the closing sequence. Glenn cuts back over to WOCZ’s syndicated programming for the rest of the night, and they’re off-air. Gaby pushes back her chair and stands, forcing stiffening limbs into motion. “Well, that was different,” she says, stretching. “And I don’t mean that in a good way. Glenn…?”
“Sheriff’s sent a car.” He hunches over, looking rough. “I can’t believe that…”
“I quit! I said I quit, didn’t I? I quit!”
Glenn rubs his forehead tiredly. “Nobody’s stopping you, Danni, but do you think maybe you can send Mae an email tomorrow morning?” Mae handles HR for the studio. Danni may be an intern but there are still forms to be observed.
A throat-clearing from the doorway catches Gaby’s attention. It’s Agent Jones, his suit beetle-black, plump as a false widow’s abdomen, dark glasses glinting curiously as he looks around the studio.
“You are resigning, yes?” he addresses Danni directly. “Clarify?” His words are halting, as if they must be internally translated from a language other than human before they can be uttered.
“I don’t work here any more!” Danni singsongs as she picks up her daypack and casts the G-Man a poisonous glance. “I’m going home and you can’t stop me!”
“Oh, but I can.” Color creeps into Agent Jones’s voice: the heavy indigo velvet of gloating satisfaction. “You were employed by this station during this program.” His blindsight gaze sweeps around the room, beaming out a signal of purest malice. “I witnessed you speaking with callers, and recorded you on-air broadcasting un-American propaganda. You are all under arrest.”
* * *
Back at the safe house in DC, Officer Penrose is nearly dead on his feet, but before he can unload the spoils of his Walmart shopping spree from the pickup, Mattingley waves him into the front room and shuts the door. “Tell me about the gimp suits,” Matt says, tight-lipped and standing uncomfortably close.
“I’m—” Sam yawns, his jaw cracking. “Sorry, sir. Gimp suits. Right…” He knuckles his eyes, then unloads the contents of his cop-brain, the ever-vigilant observer who rides shotgun behind his senses even when he’s too fogged by fatigue to pay conscious attention. Mattingley listens, his long face getting longer the entire time. Finally Sam runs out of recollections of the silver-suited watchers, and Mattingley shakes his head.
“Okay, you’ve got three hours to sack out right now. Set an alarm for four. Be prepared to move out by four thirty: we’ve been here too long.”
Sam shakes his head. “Sir, if you think I was followed, don’t you think we should evac early—”
Mattingley cuts him off. “If you were followed we’d already be dead. So we’ve got time. Nevertheless, I want us out of here by nightfall.” He hesitates. “You’re on PPD during the move. If you think you can handle that?”
Sam blinks. His eyelids don’t want to reopen. “Sir. I’ll need to load up on Provigil again.” He fights off another yawn. “Otherwise, I’m good.”
“Good man.” Mattingley nods approvingly. “Go get some sleep.”
Sam doesn’t bother to go upstairs to the bunk room. He simply sets the alarm on his phone and lies down on the sofa and closes his eyes. A moment later the alarm goes off and he opens his eyes. It takes his shaking hand several attempts to unlock the phone, stilling the alarm. Three hours have passed. He sits up, punch-drunk, and stumbles to his feet, leaning heavily on the furniture. The front room’s door is open and there’s a pile of kit bags stacked just outside it. Agents in polo shirts and chinos bustle about, carrying equipment downstairs and out to the SUVs in the front yard. Sam climbs the stairs to the bathroom, uses the toilet, washes up, and splashes water on his face to wake himself. It’s a futile gesture. The face looking back at him from the mirror is a decade older than his years. Pills, he thinks fuzzily. Someone’s left an opened bottle of Provigil on the sink-side, and he raids it ruthlessly, dry-swallowing the tablets. Then he heads for the bunk room to get ready for his shift on personal protection duty.
PPD requires a ballistic vest, a sidearm, a windbreaker or similar jacket to conceal the equipment, and more consciousness than Sam can currently muster, even after three hours’ sleep—the most he’s had in a week. He checks his Sig Sauer carefully before he holsters it, wondering who Officer Mattingley wants him to guard.
The house is buzzing as the seven men and four women of the Secret Service team move their gear out to two F-150 crew-cab trucks and two armored Escalades. Mal is up on the roof with a Barrett, standing watch. Sam shoulders a couple of kit bags (keeping his right arm free) and hauls them over the second Escalade’s tailgate, then turns to go back. There’s a stranger standing just inside the front door, looking out at the activity with an odd expression. Crow’s feet at the edges of his eyelids, salt-and-pepper hair tending towards white, once neatly cropped but now growing slightly wild. He seems to be a well-preserved sixty, tall and lean. Something about the way he holds himself signals that he’s used to being the center of attention. Sam is instantly on guard. “Hello.” He nods.
The stranger gives him an avuncular smile. “Hello, Sam. Forgotten me again?”
Sam blinks. Something about this man is screamingly familiar, as if he’s known him half his adult life … “Arthur?” he guesses.
“Very good.” Arthur nods approvingly, like a paramedic checking a car-crash victim for signs of concussion. “Matt says you and Sylvia are my shadows this afternoon. Can you remember anything about me? Anything at all? From last time, maybe?”
Anything about … Arthur. Arthur. “You’re OSCAR,” Sam dredges up from somewhere. OSCAR is Arthur’s Secret Service codename. The SS assigns these names to the people they provide bodyguard details for, the really high-ranking senior politicians like the, the—Sam frowns. The word is at the tip of his tongue. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s the, uh, hostiles messing with me again.”
Arthur nods. “You’ll remember more as you get woke,” he reassures Sam. “The geas sinks its fangs into you while you sleep, but you’ll be okay.” He glances at the Escalade. “You think we’re about loaded up?”
“I’ll go check, sir. If you’d step away from the front.” Without quite knowing why, Sam finds that he’s standing between OSCAR and the open doorway, scanning the drive, his right hand hovering just inside his open jacket.
Senior Officer Mattingley clears his throat. “Let’s move out, people. The next safe house is waiting for us, we can be there in forty minutes if we leave now.”
Sam and Officer Sylvia Haas lead Arthur out to the second Escalade and sit to either side of him, as Officers Murphy and Cho clamber up in front. Sam feels extremely rough, but at least he’s no longer hallucinating. Also, he has a feeling that being PPD for OSCAR is really important, not just a senator or congressman—he’s something else. The word stubbornly refuses to come to his tongue. Something powerful and symbolic, like the Stars and Stripes or the Pledge of Allegiance. This is an important job, that—
“Any word from the First Lady?” asks Arthur.
“Nothing to pass on,” says Sylvia, “but her team’s status canary is still green. We’d know within a couple of hours if anything happened to them.”
Arthur sighs unhappily. Another jigsaw puzzle piece slots into place as Sam realizes with a twinge that the First Lady is important to him, and that Arthur hasn’t seen her any more recently than Sam has seen Jenna, Brad Jr., and Kyle—the First Lady is his wife, the wife of the—
Sam shakes his head as Murphy starts the engine, then settles back to keep watch.
“All good, eh?” asks Arthur.<
br />
“You can depend on us, Mr. President,” says Cho, as the convoy moves out, making haste to move on to a new safe house. “We’ll keep you safe.”
* * *
[Transcript of PowerPoint presentation delivered to private-sector stakeholders.]
CLASSIFIED: SECRET NOFORN OPA GODWAKER
[Slide 1]
• Welcome to the Operational Phenomenology Agency
• Defending the USA against alien threats since 1929
• Now integrating proactively with NSA, NRO, Homeland Security to deliver a Safer Republic
[Slide 2]
The Threat
• Iterated computation has direct and indirect side effects on the structure of reality
• Too much thinking attracts alien intelligences/computational feeders
• Historic origins of “spells” and “demons”
[Slide 3]
Examples of Weaponized Magic
• Curses, geases, bindings, summonings, containment grids, sacrifices
• Ritual magicians are susceptible to K syndrome
• (Computers are not)
[Slide 4]
We Are Not Alone
• Zombies: origin, invocation, containment, and binding
• Vampires: origin, containment, binding, and feeding
• Non-human species co-resident in Earth’s lithosphere and abyssal regions
• Alien hominids from elsewhere in the metaverse
[Slide 5]
The Singularity
• Moore’s Law: computing ⇔ thinking
• Exponential up-slope, no end in sight
• Big Data: “The Cloud” is Hell (literally)
[Slide 6]
Necromantic Cosmology and Existential Anthropic Threats
• Alien Gods are Existential Anthropic Threats
• Summon the wrong one and humanity ceases to exist
• But we are here (so no alien forerunners in our universe have made that mistake, so far)
• Summon the right one and we can keep the wrong ones out
The Labyrinth Index Page 12