Phobos

by Steve Alten

“Correct.”

  “Then this makes no sense. I have no nieces or nephews, my only living relatives are you and Aunt Laura, oh, and Aunt Evelyn—”

  “—who will never bear offspring. Trust me on that.”

  “Then Sam was descended from me.”

  “A blood test has confirmed this as fact.”

  “Jesus, Pop, who is he? If he came from the year 2012, then the only possibility is that he’s my older brother.”

  “I can assure you, neither your mother or I conceived of a mystery child when we were your age.”

  “Then I’m stumped.”

  “Think it through, Michael. You made one assumption in your thought process. What was it?”

  “The Doomsday Event … it didn’t happen in 2012. Somehow we managed to avert it.”

  “Correct, with one major point of clarification. Our time traveler speaks of wormholes, and he has entered at least one that we know of.”

  “Then time’s been altered.”

  “And the events. Sam is here in 1990 for a reason. The 2012 event will occur as predicted by the Mayan calendar in the manner that he bore witness to, and now he has provided us with a vital clue.”

  “Pop, if it is a black hole that will consume the planet, then how can anyone stop it?”

  “Think it through. Black holes occur when an object, usually a star, collapses under its own gravity. Our sun is under no such immediate threat, which means—”

  “—which means man created the black hole.”

  “Correct. Remember, Sam first referred to it as a singularity. In researching the term I learned about a device known as a Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider, or RHIC. Apparently, physicists have built such a device in order to collide atoms and re-create the conditions following the Big Bang. Unfortunately, one of the dangers of colliding atoms is that it can form a miniature black hole, known as a strangelet. These are microscopic by nature, and the theory is that their lifetime is but a few billionths of a second. Critics, however, charge that strangelets can sustain themselves under the right—or wrong—circumstances. There is a facility in Long Island, New York—the Brookhaven National Laboratory—that conducts these types of experiments. An even larger facility is being planned in Geneva at a cost of $6 billion.”

  “These physicists … are they insane?”

  “Brookhaven’s scientists have won many Nobel Prizes. Like all evil, the first seemingly innocent act begins with the stroking of an ego.”

  Michael kneels into a squat, massaging his temples.

  “Son, are you all right?”

  “We’ve been chasing this Doomsday thing for a long time. Suddenly, the information’s pouring in at light speed. It’s a lot to digest.”

  “It is a lot to digest, but we now have a much clearer direction, guided by our mysterious new friend. Which once more returns us to the puzzle from which we’ve derived so much valuable information. Michael, who is Samuel Agler?”

  Mick stands, tears in his eyes. “He’s … my son?”

  Julius smiles. “Emotionally, it will take years before you’ll be able to accept this as fact, yet you still saw through the paradox to arrive at the truth—a truth that may very well save our species. I’m so very proud of you.”

  Mick smiles. “My son … he’s a big boy, isn’t he?”

  “Michael, we must be very careful never to divulge this to Sam or Laura. Knowledge in the wrong hands can alter the space-time continuum.”

  “Pop, it’s already been altered, a monkey could have told you that. Your grandson, who is at least twenty years older than your son, is up in the loft, banging your sister-in-law.”

  “Yes, but this same grandson has yet to be born. Knowing his identity could theoretically prevent you from meeting his mother and consummating the act that leads to his birth. I’m not even sure he can exist in the same reality as his still-to-come infant self. All of these variables, suddenly thrown together in chaos, can affect your future, his, and that of the Earth. We must be careful to remember that we don’t have enough knowledge to dare pull the strings.”

  They continue walking, father and son—unaware of the presence keeping a silent vigil high overhead.

  TESTIMONIAL May 9, 2001: National Press Club, Washington, D.C.

  Hi, my name is George Filer III. The reason I am here is because George Filer the fifth is in the hangar and will be born on Friday. I am a retired intelligence officer and flyer, with almost five thousand hours, and I didn’t believe in UFOs until London Control called us in the winter of 1962 and asked us, would we chase one? And we said, “Sure!” So we leapt down from thirty thousand feet to a thousand feet, where the UFO was hovering. And we went into a steep dive and actually exceeded the redline of the aircraft. So it’s kinda dangerous chasing UFOs. And in any case, I was able to get the UFO on the aircraft radar, at about forty miles, and we could see a light on in the distance, and as we closed we kept on picking up this radar return. The point I’m mentioning is that the radar return was very distinct and solid, indicating it was some kind of metallic object. We got about a mile from the UFO, and it kinda lit up in the sky and went off into space. Very similar to what the shuttle looks like when it takes off. [ …]

  When I was in the Twenty-first Air Force, McGuire AFB, I briefed General Glau about a UFO over Tehran, Iran, in 1976. Two F-4s from the Iranian Air Force had taken off and tried to intercept the UFO, and when they turned on their fire control systems, immediately all their electric systems went out and the planes had to return to base. This was particularly significant because it was also picked up on satellites.

  In 1978, on January 18, I was going into the base—every morning I did the briefing to the general’s staff—and I noticed that there were some lights off in the distance at the end of the runway there. When I got into the command post, the senior master sergeant in charge said that there had been UFOs in the pattern all night, they were on radar, the tower had seen them, they had gotten aircraft reports and so on … and that one had landed or crashed at Fort Dix—Fort Dix and McGuire are right together. This is kinda like the “Roswell of the East.” In any case, an alien had come off the craft and had been shot by a military policeman [ …]. Our security police went out there and found him on the end of the runway, dead. And they asked me to brief the general staff, a General Tom Sadler, at the eight o’clock stand-up briefing, and I said, “I don’t think I want to do this; you know, the general doesn’t have a good sense of humor and I’m not sure I believe this.” So, I did some checking, called the 438th Command Post, and everybody had pretty much the same story. At eight o’clock that morning, just before I went on, [ …] everyone’s very worried about it; they said, “Don’t brief it, it’s too hot,” so to speak.

  That’s pretty much my story. I’m prepared to tell the story in front of Congress, and it is the truth. Now, because of this, I’ve stayed interested in UFOs. And I am the Eastern Director of the Mutual UFO Network, and between the National Reporting Center and Peter Davenport and MUFON, we get one hundred [UFO] reports a week on average of people from all over the United States that see these things regularly. And if you start checking, they’re out there, and they’re low, and people are seeing them all the time. And these are highly qualified people, all of whom essentially give us the reports by e-mail.

  —George Filer III,

  intelligence officer and pilot (ret.)

  Used by permission of the Disclosure Project

  20

  MAJESTIC-12 (S-66) SUBTERRANEAN FACILITY 15 MILES SOUTH OF GROOM LAKE AIR FORCE BASE

  (AREA 51)

  NORTH LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  The elevator descends quickly, touching down on Level 29. The security checkpoint is identical to Level 15, save for one major addition—the corridor is sealed off behind a pneumatic door that leads into a glass chamber. A warning sign is posted on the exterior wall:

  Biosafety Level 2 Containment

  No liquids or perishables permitted.

  Pierre shoots his u
ncle a nervous look. “Are we dealing with contaminants?”

  “We’re the contaminants. The BSL-2 conditions are to protect our visitor’s immune system.”

  A guard types in an access code on the security pad, waits for the bolts to release, then carefully opens the door, his effort assisted by a gust of cool air blowing outward from multiple vents.

  Pierre follows Randolph into the buffer zone, then through a second door leading into a control room. The chamber is the size of a two-car garage and resembles a home theater, its three rows of six seats staggered arena style. Instead of a screen there is a thick bay window, the glass curtained from the other side.

  “This is the visitors’ section, we’re in the bullpen.” Joseph Randolph opens a side door, leading Pierre Borgia into a hallway that resembles the interior of a radio station. They pass several offices, the windows revealing recording studios filled with electronic equipment.

  A pale-skinned man in his thirties exits the only double-door office in the corridor. He is dressed in physician scrubs, his red hair tucked beneath a surgical cap. “Joseph, good to see you. And you must be Pierre. I’m Dr. Robinson, but please, call me Scott, we like to keep things pretty informal. We’ve placed towels and fresh scrubs in your lockers. Why don’t you shower and meet me in the Green Room in ten minutes. The rest of the team’s already inside.”

  Borgia follows his uncle through the double doors into a small hallway segregating the men’s and women’s locker room doors. They enter the men’s facility and a changing area labeled SOILED.

  Borgia finds his name on a locker. Inside is a towel and pair of disposable shower shoes.

  “Get undressed and leave your street clothes in the locker.”

  Borgia strips, slips the sandals on his bare feet, wraps the towel around his waist, and follows his uncle into the showers. The two men soap up from head to toe, rinse, dry off, and exit into another locker room labeled CLEAN. They toss their towels and shoes into a vacuum-sealed laundry basket, find their new lockers, and change into a matching set of purple scrubs and sandals.

  Randolph leads his nephew into the Green Room, an antiseptic lounge equipped with a small kitchen and a dozen padded chairs. Four men dressed in scrubs are inside, two of whom are in the middle of a heated discussion.

  “Gentlemen.” The argument ceases as Joseph Randolph enters the room. “Pierre, allow me to introduce the members of our interview team. Dr. Steven Shapiro is our critical-care physician, Reynaldo Lopez is our telepath, and these two cackling hens we call Heckle and Jeckle, so named because they live to argue.”

  “Jeckle” offers Pierre a warm smile. “Dave Mohr, a pleasure to meet you. I’m the team physicist. And this is—”

  “I can introduce myself, thank you. Jack Harbach O’Sullivan, engineer, resident Ping-Pong champion, and the point man during these sessions. Has your uncle explained the rules?”

  “Uh, have you?”

  “All verbal communication ceases once we enter the interview suite. We’ll be seated in a circle, each station equipped with a keypad. If you wish Reynaldo to ask the subject a question you must type it out, then press SEND. The question will appear on Jack’s monitor. Jack must approve the question before sending it on to Reynaldo’s teleprompter. Reynaldo will pose the question telepathically. If and when he receives a telepathic response, he will type it out so that it appears on everyone’s screen. Dr. Shapiro will limit the session to what he feels the subject can handle.”

  An interior door opens, revealing Scott Robinson. “We’re ready in here. If you’ll take your places around the horseshoe.”

  The interview suite is dark and cool, backlit by lime-green ceiling lights. The “horseshoe” is an oval ring of seven stations, with one end remaining open. Jack leads Pierre to a vacant post, activates the keypad and monitor, then takes his place at the master station.

  Reynaldo Lopez is seated inside the horseshoe, facing what appears to be a heavily cushioned wheelchair with a built-in chest plate.

  Seated upright in the chair is the extraterrestrial.

  The being is frail, the size of a ten-year-old child. Its skin is hairless, more beige than gray, its skull elongated and bulbous. Its lidless black eyes are the size of baseballs and turned upward at the corners, the pupils reflecting green from the interior lighting. The E.T.’s neck is centered at the base of the skull, giving the head a top-heavy, unstable appearance. The torso is hidden behind the chest plate, its limbs protruding from arm and leg holes. The hands are thin and double-jointed, possessing three long fingers and an opposable fourth digit. The alien’s legs are not visible from Pierre Borgia’s vantage.

  The E.T.’s movements appear disjointed, bordering on the intoxicated, its mannerisms revealing a subtle sullen state. Clearly, it does not wish to be here.

  Reynaldo receives a list of prepared questions on his monitor. Closing his eyes, he enters a semi-meditative state. How are you feeling?

  Thirty seconds pass before a response appears. Release or terminate.

  Help us to comprehend your vessel’s propulsion system and we shall release you.

  Zipil na.

  Reynaldo ignores the alien retort. The tachyon carrier wave appears to be a data-encoded medium. Please communicate the energy formula.

  The E.T. grows restless within its sealed chair. “No response” appears on-screen.

  Can in-flow energy be controlled in the ZPE-toroid reactor via field drag?

  Release or terminate.

  When the reactor is used for advanced propulsion as a point-lead hypergravion lobe-field power plant, how is the breach window in aexo-hyperspace achieved?

  Release or terminate.

  Reynaldo turns to Jack, his exasperated expression all but demanding a new topic of discussion.

  Pierre hesitates, then types a question and presses SEND.

  Jack reads it. Looks back at Pierre, then sends it on to the telepath.

  Reynaldo reads it twice, then closes his eyes and translates. How would you prefer to be terminated?

  The extraterrestrial cocks its head awkwardly, its black eyes, tinged green in the light, targeting the newest member of the human inquisition. Elaborate.

  Pierre reads the response and types in his own. Reynaldo transposes it telepathically.

  Is there a sacred rite of passage in your culture?

  Yes.

  While we would prefer to release you, we wish to respect your traditions. Will the sacred rite offer passage for your soul?

  The soul must be cleansed before its journey home.

  Pierre types furiously, the other members of the team having been sidelined, yet clearly fascinated by the exchange. How can we help you cleanse your soul?

  Illogical response.

  How can we arrange a sacred rite of passage?

  Return me to the cell. Provide a container of soil, a candle’s flame, a container of water, and an untarnished blade.

  Pierre nods to himself. Three of the four sacred elements: Earth, fire, and water, His last gasp the missing element—wind. You have something it wants, use it to barter. He thinks, then types out a new response.

  Before we can provide the elements for the sacred rite of passage, we need to know why you are here.

  Harmonic convergence.

  Jack glances back at Pierre Borgia, who shrugs.

  Dave Mohr types: Does the tachyon carrier wave rely on harmonic convergence?

  The extraterrestrial becomes agitated again, its head wobbling. All things rely on harmonic convergence. Harmonic convergence is threatened. Hunab K’u will end.

  Pierre’s eyes widen. He types in a question, only to see it buried behind a dozen others.

  Is Hunab K’u a weapon?

  What was your vessel doing when it crashed?

  Are there weapons on the moon?

  The alien writhes in anger, bashing its head against the chair’s padded chest plate. Zipil na! Zipil na!

  Dr. Shapiro and Dr. Robinson rush into the horseshoe-shape
d pit as the E.T. foams at the mouth, one man stabilizing the flopping head, the other administering a sedative directly into the lipless crease of its orifice.

  Scott Robinson paces through the Green Room, livid. “We had a breakthrough, it was cooperating! Why the hell would you shift back to a subject you knew would cause it to shut down?”

  “You’re overstepping your boundaries, Dr. Robinson,” Joseph Randolph snaps. “This is a military base, not a state university. First protocol is always to calculate a potential threat. You think that Gray was just monitoring traffic over the Long Island Expressway when it crash-landed in Moriches Bay? We’re dealing with superior intellects controlling superior weapon systems that have the ability to shut down our ICBMs. This creature has been uncooperative since day one. We need to put the fear of Jesus in it.”

  “Fear it already has, and in great abundance,” Reynaldo interjects. “What I sensed was a sea-change in attitude when Pierre posed his question. This being desperately wants to die, perhaps because it cannot exist well in a theater of fear—”

  “—or perhaps,” states Randolph, “because it knows it’s getting closer to revealing important technological information about its mangled spaceship that can lead Dr. Mohr and his team to an actual breakthrough. I’m recommending to my committee that we resume the shock therapy.”

  Dr. Shapiro stands, pointing a threatening finger at his superior. “Listen to me, you Nazi butcher—I’m not going to allow you to harm that being anymore!”

  Randolph rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Doctor. The Jew dramatics don’t impress anyone.”

  “Hey!” Now it is Dr. Mohr standing, hovering over the gray-haired Texan. “What’d I tell you about that stuff?”

  Jack steps in to separate them.

  “Let’s all take a breath,” Pierre says, his voice firm but rational. “I think I know of a way to get the information you seek without torturing this being.”

  “How?” Dr. Robinson asks.