Godforsaken Future - updated 10/31/2015

[guest]

Episode 28





“The most merciful thing in the world... is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.”
-H.P. Lovecraft







-6:18 AM November 16, 1987, The Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street, London, England




Colonel Anthony Taylor stood at attention as Margaret Thatcher entered the room, when she took her seat, he relaxed his pose and prepared to begin his presentation. Conversation died and everyone else in the room shifted in their seats as the Prime Minister got herself situated "very well, let us begin. What do we have on this new threat so far?" she said without much ceremony.

Anthony cleared his throat "it would appear that after pushing outward and claiming control over the ground and airspace of an approximate forty kilometer radius around each portal, the enemy has ceased all further advances for the time being. It is unknown just what the full motivation behind this is, but it is assumed that the need to secure and consolidate all gains made up to this point is one of the main driving factors. They also seem to be quite preoccupied with continuing to destroy everything in sight."

"Enemy force estimates worldwide at this time indicate a grand total of over seven hundred of the larger ships ranging from one to ten kilometers in size. Smaller craft that fall under the one kilometer mark have reached an undetermined quantity, but it is believed that they number more than twenty five thousand at the least. Ground forces are even harder to estimate, but we have determined that they have landed no less than seven million infantry and more than a quarter of a million ground vehicles of different varieties. Most analysis seems to indicate that these estimates are on the low end however, and as more forces continue to pour in through the portals, this number continues to grow."

"As you are all no doubt aware, both the United States and Soviet Union attempted to launch attacks on enemy positions using nuclear tipped cruise missiles and intercontinental ballistic missiles to no avail. It would appear that they possess the ability to shoot down incoming missiles and aircraft at quite some distance."

"The range of enemy airborne weaponry seems to be just over three hundred kilometers for those 'bolt' weapons, and their 'beam' weapons seem to have a range just under one hundred kilometers. Needless to say, any and all attempts at flying within a three hundred kilometer radius of the portal locations has proven to be... problematic to say the least-"

He was interrupted as an uncomfortable grumbling broke out amongst some of the assembled people there.

What they were reacting to, and what he had not mentioned was the horribly failed second attempt that various human air forces had made the day following the first battle as more aircraft had been made available. The casualties from that day had been disastrous, with most formations suffering an excess of over sixty percent of their aircraft, far worse than the thirty to thirty-five percent figure from the previous battle. Over fifteen hundred aircraft had not returned that day, it was the single bloodiest air battle since World War II.

One voice rose above the others "Do we still not know anything about their objectives?" it was Deputy Prime Minister William Whitelaw.

Anthony took a deep breath "I'm afraid not as of yet. No sign of any communication whatsoever has been detected from them and aside from pure destruction, they have expressed little interest in anything else, the-"

Secretary of state for Defense Younger interrupted him "this seems awfully convenient for the bozorgs that this would happen to us so soon after our success in conducting BREADBASKET. I don't think it entirely unreasonable that we consider the possibility that there is a connection to that" he said confidently.

Prime Minister Thatcher cleared her own throat "are you suggesting that this is some form of new action by them? Or that they are allies of some sort?" she asked.

Younger shrugged "it's possible. It is my experience that coincidence is at least an extreme rarity and at most a myth" he replied.

Grumbling turned to debate and argument as the assembled parties discussed the most recently broached topic "while such a possibility should not be ruled out entirely, it should be noted that aside from the timing, there is virtually no evidence to indicate such a connection" Anthony had raised his voice in order to be heard.

The rest of the room quieted and looked at him, he continued "so far the bozorgs have all shown one single minded purpose; the absorption and collection of all biological matter that they can obtain. These new aliens seem entirely unconcerned with such a purpose. Quite the contrary, the forms of weapons they are employing seem quite well disposed to the incineration and destruction of biomass.

“Also, while the bozorgs have attacked and damaged buildings, structures, and vehicles during the course of pursuing their goals, they have never made a point of it, this new threat seems to pursue the destruction of all that they encounter with just as much priority as killing people.”

“Then there is also considerable difference in observed tactics and doctrines that each faction uses. If anything, they seem to have quite divergent or possibly even conflicting 'philosophies' which would not make them well disposed to cooperation" he explained.

Margaret Thatcher fixed him with a firm stare "are you saying that it is likely that we have a third side to this conflict then?" she said, quizzically.

He nodded "without any further evidence to the contrary, that is seemingly the most likely situation, yes" he said.
Additional grumbling reverberated throughout the room, the Prime Minister was quick to squash it however “alright, that is enough speculation for now, we can continue to debate and argue over the various aspects of this new invasion until doomsday. I could use some good news for a change, what is the status of operations in Asia?” she said expectantly.
In spite of the fact that this was not part of his planned briefing, Anthony had taken the time to brush up on the latest developments in the conflict with the bozorgs. He took a deep breath, then proceeded “well, the latest lab results regarding the bozorg mass die-offs have just come in and it is confirmed.”

“For lack of a better word, their ‘batteries’ have run dry” his explanation was met with murmuring of a far more pleasant nature this time.

“Exactly how did we miss this for so long? We’ve had satellite imagery of the region for some time, we should have been able to spot some hint of this” it was Whitelaw again, his question wasn’t confrontational, rather it seemed a genuine inquiry.

“Well, until the enemy started pulling massive numbers of ground forces into the kill zones to exploit what they saw as a breakthrough, their functional forces were more or less intermixed with their dead ones, disguising their losses. There have also been reports of them retrieving many of the bodies in an attempt to either recycle the biomass or recharge their energy reserves.”

Murmurs of acknowledgment filled the room, Anthony continued “the situation on the ground however is both a mix of resounding success and considerable difficulty. The northern region is the biggest mess, in fact the Russians are still trying to plug all the holes in their lines. Although, the Chinese have started to shift forces over to bolster the Russians.”
“The southern region is markedly better, but still slow going, we’ve just managed to fully clear the last few bits of the kill zone. Meanwhile General Sharma has managed to get as far as fifty kilometers northward according to the last dispatches we’ve received from his command.”

“Last updates on the western theatre have General Karadayi halting his advance due to logistical problems, his total distance covered so far seems to be in excess of one hundred twenty kilometers, with minimal indication of increased enemy resistance, this however is subject to change.”

“Finally, the Chinese have managed to advance almost eighty kilometers, again with minimal resistance, although the mountainous terrain has slowed their advances considerably. This is also not likely to last as the Soviets are getting anxious to pull forces from the front in Asia over to Azerbaijan They’ve already started to do so from the European front.”
Murmurs of both agreement and disapproval filled the room. No one spoke it specifically, but everyone knew the question.
Once this new enemy decided to start moving, how were they supposed to be stopped?






-2:48 PM November 17, 1987, Jaipur, India





Kelly ascended the stairs with a deliberate pace, she was nervous. , wondering just what would happen.
She thought that it was ironic that she had fought horrible alien creatures and seen things that were the stuff of nightmares, and yet this made her nervous.

To be honest, she wasn't even sure if she should have come. Of course she had the time.
Following the horrors of that first day there were two days of nothing but waiting while coalition air forces and artillery units pounded the kill zone and everything in it, in the hopes of wiping out every trace of enemy presence. Then there were an additional four days of very low intensity combat as she and the rest of her unit went through the kill zone, clearing it of any of the enemy that had managed to survive.

It was a far cry from the constant nonstop carnage that had marked her first day. They would march and march and check various suspicious looking areas. Usually they would find nothing, but occasionally there would be a warrior, or a mantis or something hiding underneath a pile of dead bodies or rubble. Firing bullets into the piles proved to be of only limited effectiveness. The creatures that hid in them rarely jumped out until someone walked near, and whatever cover they chose all too often did too decent a job of shielding them from weapons fire.

Of course, they couldn't call in an air strike or artillery barrage on every suspicious pile of rubble. They had neither the time nor the ammunition. So the only solution was to send people in to physically check anything that looked like it could hide an enemy.

The result was hours on end of absolute boredom as they marched from place to place, followed by several minutes of white knuckled tension, then possibly another minute or two of pure pants-shitting terror, rinse and repeat.

Then, when they'd finally cleared the area, her ad hoc platoon was sent back to the rear where they were moved from place to place, with some people being reassigned as new units were pieced together and the composition of the US Marine force in India was restructured to form some semblance of an organized force.

It had been boring and mind numbing, and after all that, they had been informed that they were getting shipped up north to fill gaps left by all the casualties that the Soviets had suffered. That wasn't for another two days though, so she had some time to herself.

Her mind wandered back to that day, to all the death she had seen, all the loss she had suffered. The faces of all those she had seen die haunted her nightmares, Ditty, Private Sorensen, and Private Horatio among others, his guts smeared across the ground as he tried to pull them back into the gaping hole in his stomach, helplessly mewing and crying out for his mother.

Hope seemed to have left her almost entirely then, there didn't seem to be anything to live for, so she fought and marched and followed orders, all on automatic. She had thought about that young Russian soldier who she had tried to save that day, wondered if he were alive. She had been convinced that he had died, she dared not hope for anything else, all her experiences in the war thus far had taught her otherwise. All the same, she had nothing much better to do after being shifted to the rear, so she tracked down the corpsman who was there that day. He had told her that the Russian was still alive when he had left him at the field hospital where he had dropped him off.

She managed to make her way to the field hospital and that's where the trail had gone cold. Only one person; a nurse, remembered him, and she had only treated him for about an hour before being dragged off to something else.

Kelly tried to tell herself that he had been fine, that he had made it back to some hospital shitty food being the worst of his worries, but she knew better. Good things like that didn't happen out there, not anymore.

Then a day prior, a Russian man, dressed in a Red Army Lieutenant's uniform came by, asking everyone questions about that day at Barwala, and about a particular sergeant... sergeant? That kid was a sergeant? He looked so young, maybe a year older than her, no more, and he was a sergeant.

He asked her all kinds of questions about it, how many bozorgs she had seen him kill, how long between the time she had spotted him and when they had gotten to him, things like that. She gave the lieutenant a full account of her experiences, the best she could recall anyway and that was that, or so she thought.

She had expected that the kid had died of his wounds, that the Soviets were just gonna use his last stand as some propaganda tool to boost morale back home, maybe give him some medal posthumously.

Then the lieutenant had said that the sergeant; Nikolai Antonov was his name, had survived, that he was currently being treated in a hospital in Jaipur.

She was so excited that she practically kissed the Russian officer. She had requested and was granted a twelve hour pass to go and visit the man whom she had saved, and so here she was, ascending the stairs of this crowded hospital, anxiously anticipating her meeting with someone who she didn't even know but had a strong emotional attachment to.

*-*-*

Nikolai hated it here in the hospital, almost as much as he hated being up at the front. He hated the pain of his wounds, he hated the fact that nobody spoke enough of any language he knew to talk to(except for one doctor who spoke Russian), hated the constant suicide attempts night terrors of the other patients.

However, what he hated most of all was the boredom. There was nothing to distract him, nothing to keep his mind from drifting back to all the memories, the nightmares, the horrible images that filled his mind.

He had gotten one visitor, a Red Army Lieutenant named Agapov. He had asked Nikolai scores of questions about his experiences during the war, about all that he did, but especially about that last day in Barwala.

Nikolai didn't like talking about it, but there was no one else there to talk to, and nothing else to do, and the Lieutenant was the first other Russian he had seen in days.

He'd managed to get news from elsewhere in the world, apparently the battle had been a huge success, except in the north, where the Red Army had had to drop a whole bunch of nuclear weapons on both the enemy and their own men. He wondered if he knew anybody that was up there, wondered if they had died.

He also heard about another species of aliens invading, that they had popped up all over the world.

Theories abounded about where they were from, that they were more bozorgs, that they were actually people from the future, and about a dozen other equally crazy ideas. He really didn't care too much then though.

The boredom continued that way for days and days, until about a few minutes before when that Russian speaking doctor; Rao his name was, approached Nikolai and informed him that he had a visitor, an American.

Nikolai was confused, what would an American want with him? Maybe they wanted to present him with a bill for airlifting him away from the front line.

He was even more confused when he looked over at the door to see a young girl in a soldier's uniform standing in it. She looked pretty, and quite tall for a woman, her skin was of an olive complexion. Her face looked familiar, but he didn't know from where.

Dr. Rao stayed by his bedside, he had agreed to act as a translator for the two of them.

The girl looked nervous, but as she approached, her steps were sure and confident.

When the girl arrived at the foot of his bed, she smiled and gave him a salute, he returned the gesture, she introduced herself as a Private Kelly Vasquez, US Marine Corps. He replied with his own introduction.

Then there was an awkward silence as she stared at him quietly, her expression seemed to indicate that she did not know what to say, finally he decided to break the silence “if you're here to complain about all the blood I left on the inside of your helicopter, well you can just bill the Red Army for it” he said sarcastically.

Her lips twitched slightly, then she started to chuckle. When she calmed down she said that she wasn't there about that. She said that she was part of the unit that linked up with him at Barwala. He'd nodded in understanding “I'm sorry, but I don't remember you in particular” he apologized.

Suddenly the humor dropped out of her face, her expression changed to something else, maybe regret, sadness? He couldn't quite place it.

She said that that was alright, she wasn't that good with faces either. She said that she was just in town to see if he had made it out alright and was glad that he was okay. Then she stepped up to him and extended a hand which he accepted “well, I appreciate your concern” he said.

Then she bade him farewell and good health and said goodbye “the same to you” he replied. Just before she turned to go, she stopped herself and asked a simple question, she wanted to know what 'ania' meant.

The question surprised him, how did she know that name? He paused for a second, and it looked like she was about to leave without him telling her when he gave her an answer “it's my sister's name, but how did you-” she nodded in understanding, then turned on her heels and walked away.

As she headed for the door, recognition suddenly dawned on him -that soldier with a girl's face! It wasn't a hallucination! He yelled after her, desperately trying to get her to stop, to turn around, she either didn't seem to care, or didn't hear him.

She was almost at the door, he tried to remember some of the English that he had picked up from the Indians and Pakistani's, finally he blurted out the English words “wait, stop, please!” he shouted after her just as she was about to exit the room.

She stopped suddenly, frozen in place for a second. At first she merely stood there, doing nothing, he wondered if she might resume her pace and continue on her way.

Then she turned around and looked at him for a moment.

She started to walk back.



10:28 AM November 18, 1987, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, United States



“Well, after that I’ve got more questions than answers at this point.”

Dr. Cromwell threw a stack of papers down on the table in front of him in a gesture of exasperation. The rest of the group looked up at him inquisitively, Mr. Jourgensen was the first to speak “would you care to elaborate?” he asked impatiently.
The exobiologist shrugged “where to begin? The specimens that I saw being dissected all matched, and they were all equally enigmatic. They seem very much like living things, but artificial at the same time, like a manufactured organism” he started to explain.

Jerry Pournell furrowed his brow “you mean like the bozorgs?” he asked.

Cromwell shook his head “no, the bozorgs exhibit traits of having grown or been born in some way. Yes, each individual variety seems to have been specifically designed in a very artificial way, but the process by which they were created appears to be relatively natural. These… things seem artificial in just about every way, except they look and act like living beings, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say they look like some kind of weird caricature of a human-“

The room burst unto surprised conversation “wait, what do you mean human? I’ve seen the pictures, there is virtually nothing human about them” said James Randi.

Cromwell nodded “yes, yes. Physically they look very alien, aside from the basic bipedal form, but once you get take a much closer inspection, things start to look very familiar, if somewhat warped. All the necessary parts are there: lungs, heart, pancreas. They’re shaped differently, but as far as we can tell, functionally, they are exact copies of human organs. It’s almost as if someone who had never seen a human body before had one described to them; how they worked, the basic layout and setup of all the organ systems, their chemical makeup and composition, and then were told to build one, mind you without any knowledge of cellular biology.”

“And it gets weirder. From the looks of things, whoever made them also had increased durability in mind when they did so... kind of. A number of organ systems have redundancy, but not all, and there appears to be no logic applied to that redundancy. The heart and lungs have twins, which makes a lot of sense, the liver does not, nor do the kidneys.”

“The skeletal system is also reinforced, with thicker and more numerous ribs, and additional mass in the leg bones among others, but then there are completely ridiculous things too. Both the coccyx and appendix have backups, the spinal cord also has a spare, except that it's packed right inside of the spine next to the other one. So, chances are that if you damage one of them, the other one is done for as well, effectively defeating the purpose of having an extra in the first place.”

Confused conversation filled the room “well, that certainly is odd” said Carl Sagan.

Cromwell gave a slight chuckle “that's not just 'odd' it's impossible, until I sat in on that dissection, I didn't even think half the things I saw in that body could exist. And don't even get me started on the 'additions' that we found” his voice was a mix of exasperation and bewilderment.

More inquisitive looks met him from around the room, he gave yet another sigh before relenting “well, as you may have learned from my preliminary report, the 'helmets' on their heads are actually the heads themselves. The head has been replaced with all kinds of complex machinery which neither I nor any of the experts I've talked to so far have been able to make any sense of. Again, according to the laws of physics that I learned in school, half the stuff in there shouldn't work, and yet it does. Then there are those machines that they wear on their backs.”

“Well, I use the term 'wear' loosely. They are actually part of their bodies, I'm not sure how they work exactly, or all that they do, but they certainly seem to act as some form of energy source for both their weapons and the bodily functions themselves. Which only makes the presence of the digestive system even more confusing, there is no need for it, and yet from what I can tell, it's a perfectly good working organ system. It's gonna be another couple weeks before all the lab results come back in, but I'm not sure if we'll ever really figure these things out.”

He slumped back in his chair, seemingly exhausted by his own confusion. More murmured conversation continued throughout the room, after a minute, Pournell spoke up “well, what we have learned from their tactics and equipment only adds to the confusion even further” he said as the attention shifted over to him.

He continued “I've been going over the after action reports and gotten a good look at the captured items, and I tell you that if these things went to school, not only did they sleep through half of their biology classes, they also did the same thing for military tactics.”

“They seem to employ combined arms tactics between their infantry and their armor” he said as he pressed his finger down on a loose pile of photographs of several of the identified alien heavy land units. He picked one up, it was of a large four legged, stout looking contraption “in fact they do really well at supporting each other, but it's as if their air elements seem to care little about the needs of their ground forces. I've read accounts of those 'gunships' of theirs flying by without so much as pausing to lend a hand to outnumbered infantry.”

“Their infantry is seemingly well equipped with some very high tech toys, and while some of it seems very well designed, some of it if flawed to the point of being idiotic. Their body armor is very effective at stopping bullets, and isn't too heavy either. From what we can tell, they can take upwards of fifty or more hits from high caliber rifle fire before going down. Hell, if not for the re-chambering everyone's been doing to take on the bozorgs, we would be looking at even worse casualty ratio's than what we're seeing right now.”

“Yet, then we have those 'backpacks' of theirs. A single well placed shot or two to any of a couple spots on those things seems to do the job just fine. They could have placed some armor on those things with only a marginal increase in weight, and yet they just didn't seem to bother.”

“The only thing I could say for sure about them and their motivation at this point, is that they are alien, really alien.”

*-*-*

Forty minutes later the group had adjourned their meeting for the day, and several of them had already left. Charlie Post was not one of them, he was busy going over some notes he had made during the meeting.

He was so deeply focused on what he was doing that he didn't notice Mr. Jourgensen walking up to him until the man was standing about a foot or two away.

“How are things going Charles?”

It took Charlie a second to realize that the question was directed at him, he looked up at the source of the statement “oh... um, fine, and you?” he replied.

Mr. Jourgensen pulled out a chair and sat down “I'm doing fine, just fine. So, how has your sister been lately? I heard that she has been in the hospital back in Atlanta, what was it? Lung cancer?” he asked, his voice had a slight tone of concern, and something else...

Charlie was confused, and a bit suspicious. Mr. Jourgensen never made an attempt at getting friendly with any of the members of the think tank, not that personally anyway. Not to say that he was rude or abusive, but there was always a bit of cold detachment, even when he was being cordial “yes, the doctors say that she has maybe a year or less” he said warily after a moment of silence.

Mr. Jourgensen nodded solemnly “I'm really sorry to hear that-” he suddenly leaned in towards Charlie and looked him in the eye, his expression suddenly one that was very serious. His stare was piercing and intense, Charlie suddenly felt very uncomfortable “you should take some time off some time soon to go visit her” he said as he slid a small piece of paper across the table toward Charlie, his expression all but screamed act like everything is normal.

Charlie tried his best to nonchalantly place his hand down on the table over the piece of paper “...uh, yeah, maybe you're right” he said hesitantly.

Mr. Jourgensen then got up out of the chair, pushing it back in under the table “I'll be sure that your request for leave gets approved when you make it. Again, I'm really sorry to hear about your sister” he said as he started to walk away.

Charlie sat there in silence as everyone else left. Satisfied that he was alone, he finally lifted his hand and looked down at the paper, almost as if to confirm that it was real and that what he had just experienced had indeed happened.

It was a small piece of loose leaf, torn off from a larger piece. It had been folded in half. Charlie pondered it for several seconds. Then, looking around the room again to see if he was still alone, he finally picked it up and opened it.

There was a short handwritten note on it. He started to read, at first it confused him, but when he read the very last sentence, his heart skipped a beat.


“Union Station, Washington, D.C.
December 6 at 2:30 PM
Give your name at the sales window, there will be a ticket waiting there, don't be late.


Burn this letter.”




-11:26 AM November 26, 1987, Lyons, France




Corporal Jean LeClerc reflexively reached up to wipe his brow, remembering the fact that he was wearing NBC gear, he abruptly jerked his hand down. He looked out over the ruined expanse that was once the beautiful city of Lyons.

Not a single intact structure was visible in any direction, in fact most every 'structure' was hardly recognizable as anything but crushed and mangled walls jutting out of the ash covered and scorched ground. Three months of brutal fighting as NATO forces were pushed out of the city, followed by the nuclear carpet bombing campaign conducted along the outer fringes of enemy controlled territory had taken a devastating toll. Jean wondered if anyone would ever live in this place again.

He took a deep breath, then sighed “alright, this area's clear, let's move on to the next one” he said to the three assembled members of his fire team. After a second he realized that there were only two of them there “where the hell is Sabatier?” he asked, annoyed as he looked at privates LaRoche, and Primeau.

LaRoche merely shrugged, Primeau nodded his head in the direction of what had once been an apartment building, it was now no more than an open topped box with windows in the sides “Private Sabatier! Get your ass moving, we are going on to the next area!” he shouted.

No answer came.

“Sabatier!”

Again, nothing.

A twinge of suspicion creeped into the back of Jean's mind what could possibly be keeping Sabatier? he thought. He gestured toward Primeau "would you go find our missing comrade?” he ordered to the other enlisted man who promptly hefted his FN Minimi and headed over in the indicated direction, quickly disappearing around the side of a ruined wall.

A minute passed in silence, then “corporal LeClerc, can you come here?! I think there's something wrong with Sabatier!” shouted Primeau from somewhere unseen.

Rolling his eyes, Jean headed on over in the same direction, LaRoche following right behind him “I fucking swear Sabatier, if we are late for linking up with the rest of the squad I am going to put my boot so far up your ass!” he shouted, annoyed, partially to berate the errant soldier, partially to mask his own feeling of worry.

Soon the two soldiers came into view, they were facing each other. Primeau turned and looked back at Jean approaching “I don't understand, he's just standing there, he won't move or talk” he said confused.

Sure enough, Sabatier was standing there, his weapon was missing, and he just started back at them, still as a statue.

“Private, where the hell is your weapon?”

There was no response to Jean's query what's wrong with him?

LaRoche stepped forward, heading toward the motionless soldier “come on Robert, let's go” he said as he approached. That twinge started to get a bit stronger, something didn't feel right.

Then he noticed something odd about the area surrounding Sabatier, there were strange, dark spots all over, they looked glossy “LaRoche...” he said, a touch of warning in his voice.

He was missing something, something big, something important. What were those dark spots? The lighting was lousy and it was hard to make out details. He bent down and touched one of the nearest spots, some of it rubbed off on his gloved hand. A closer look revealed that it was dark red... blood.

His heart skipped a beat what the fuck is this blood doing here? He realized that there were blood splatters all over everything, hard to notice with all the ash and soot all over everything, but this blood was fresh “LaRoche...” he said again “stop moving right now” he ordered as his weapon went up to his shoulder in a flash.

The Private looked at him, but didn't stop walking forward “what?” he said confused.

A horrible feeling of dread had filled his gut, there was something very wrong there, very very wrong. Why was there blood splattered all over everything? Why wasn't Sabatier talking? Where was his weapon? What was he missing?

Primeau had turned back to look at Jean again “corporal? What are you doing?” he asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

“LaRoche, stop, moving, right, now.”

The other soldier finally did stop, about half a meter away from Sabatier, he started to bring his hand up to reach for the other soldier “what's the problem?” he said as he did so.

Alarm bells were going off in Jean's head, his hands tightened around his rifle, expecting something to jump out at them at any second. Primeau stepped in front of Jean's line of fire, it saved Jean's life, and cost Primeau his.

“Corporal LeClerc, it's alri-”

He wasn't able to finish his sentence as something long and sharp shot out from the direction of the silent soldier, slamming right into his skull with such force that it went in the back and punched through the poor man's face. Something else that moved so fast that it blurred, whipped out and sliced off LaRoche's arm, he screamed in agony as he collapsed to the ground, clutching at the stump where his arm used to be.

Suddenly, the soldier standing before them was no longer there, he had been replaced by a nightmarish looking thing, some kind of large tentacled creature, a bulbous spiked abdomen sitting atop four spindly legs. A giant gaping maw filled with massive serrated teeth grinned back at Jean in a horrific caricature of a smile.

Jean hesitated, and while it had been merely a fraction of a second at most, to him it had felt like an eternity. He squeezed the trigger, his FAMAS kicked him in the shoulder, sending forth a volley of 7.62 mm bullets which slammed into the horrible thing's body. It spasmed and lurched, letting out a nightmarish scream in response. Large holes appeared where the bullets had struck, exploding in large gratuitous black spatters.

It sent out another tentacle at incredible speed in an attempt to strike back at Jean, but he was quicker and sidestepped the attack. Finishing the dodging maneuver, he corrected his aim and let out another burst of fire, the creature screamed again, then stumbled and fell to the ground. It's limbs spasmed and twitched for another second more, then they were still.

Jean remained tense for another second, half expecting the monstrosityto come back to life again, but when nothing happened, he allowed his tense muscles to relax just a bit, then lowered his weapon. He approached the now dead thing as it lay there on the ground.

Suddenly, he realized that there was something odd about it, it wasn't twitching anymore, but there was something about it's body -it's growing!

His eyes went wide with shock as he found the nearest place where he could find cover and dove behind it. A half a second later a loud pop sounded out, followed by a wet splattering noise and then what sounded like sizzling.

When he came out from his shelter, he saw that the tentacled monstrosity was gone, and his two comrades were now reduced to gruesome piles of bloody mush.





-Excerpts from the journal of Dr. Willard Maye, Phd. Archeology, Princeton University




“December 1, 1987,

At last! After months of running into nothing but bare residential portions of the city, we have finally come across something truly astounding!

Two days ago, one of our digging teams uncovered something that they thought was another set of skeletal remains, however after fully uncovering it we have discovered that it is so much more.

Standing about ten feet in height, it appears to consist of some kind of bipedal form, made from a combination of steel, stone, and human remains. In the typical grizzly fashion of much of Antarctican artwork, this particular item seems to be an idol or sculpture meant to act as a representation of some kind of religious being, perhaps some form of demon or mythical creature from their religious pantheon.

Interestingly, it is not clear just how the idol is held together, as there is no indication of just what mechanism has been used to fasten the metal to the stone, it just seems to be ‘bonded’ with it somehow.

The same can be said for the bones as well, which seem to have simply gown onto the structure itself. However, the odd thing is that there appear to be spikes that have been forced through the bones as a means of securing them into place. This would seem redundant, however one of the theories that has started floating around the staff and which I am not quite prepared to dismiss is the possibility that the victims were actually alive when they were secured to the statue.

Should this prove to be correct, it would seem that the obvious reason for the spikes is not to act as fasteners, but rather to induce pain in the victim. Considering the rather unpleasant nature of so much of the rest of Antarctican religion and culture, such a theory is not outside the realm of realistic possibilities.

Text surrounding the sculpture is limited so far, but I have managed to uncover a handful of references to some kind of great and horrible warrior which acts on behalf of the ancient gods and those that worship them. The presence of numerous bladed weapons which protrude from the limbs and body of the statue would be fitting of just such a purpose.
In spite of a number of inconsistencies with its namesake, many of the staff have taken to calling it a ’Golem.’ While not entirely fitting, in light of the difficult to pronounce ‘n’glfla’zaxn’ which appears to be its name in the original language, and in the absence of a more apt name, it would appear that ‘Golem’ is the best choice thus far.

On a side note, I have also met our ‘administrator’ today. At first I was inclined to dismiss Dr. Atwood’s distrust of the man, after meeting him today, I may have to change my assessment. In spite of his incredibly well manicured appearance, and seemingly amiable demeanor, I get very unsettling feelings whenever I talk to him.

While I am inclined to agree with him in dismissing the complaints of nightmares that have been surfacing amongst many of the staff, I am very off put by his dismissal of the sharp rise in the number of accidents and violence amongst the staff over the past couple months. Even with the increase in the amount of ‘security personnel’ that have arrived recently, they seem almost exclusively concerned with preventing unauthorized access to the dig site and artifacts rather than protecting the staff. This is something that I am NOT happy with.”



“December 2, 1987,


They can't do this!

One of the most significant finds that we have managed to uncover since beginning the excavations, and they have restricted my access to it! How do they expect me to do my job if they are cutting me off from the very artifacts that I have been sent here to study?!

I took my complaints to the administrator, yet he refused to change his mind, merely saying that ‘operational security’ demanded that the Golem be placed under tight security for study by ‘the proper experts’ whatever that means.

And who are these supposed ‘proper experts?’ that he mentioned anyway? As head of this dig I am supposed to be in close communication with all research staff on site. How can I successfully run this dig if they are bringing in people who I don’t even know who they are let alone have any kind of communication with them?!

I’m starting to wonder if Dr. Atwood wasn’t being overly paranoid after all. Next thing I know they are going to start opening my mail and censoring it too.”





-1:53 PM December 3, 1987, Lambda Complex, Blackbird Research Facility, Nevada, United States





Dr. Gordon Frohman hurriedly walked down the corridor. He reached up quickly and wiped his sleeve against his forehead, attempting to dry his dripping brow.

Things had been frantic at both the complex and the entirety of Blackbird ever since these new aliens had shown up. People wanted answers as to who these new invaders were, where they were from, and how they were able to break through the jamming. Gordon wished he could have come up with an answer to even one of those queries.

He rounded a corner and quickly approached a door at the end of the corridor, two guards were standing at either side of it. As he came to the door, he raised up his ID to the one on the right “thank you sir, just a moment” he said in a disciplined and orderly fashion. Turning around, he entered a code into the keypad behind him, after a second the door hissed open and Gordon walked through it.

The Arrowhead Network Control Center bore a strong resemblance to a mission control center in a space port, just far smaller, there was only one row of computer terminals with a total of six workstations. At the moment, the room was full of activity as each workstation had a technician at it who was frantically entering commands into the keyboards before them, others were observing the various instrument panels that lined the walls of the room and others were frantically talking on phones to persons unknown.

At the front of the room was a large image of a map of the earth projected against on the wall. On that map were various different symbols marking various things of interest. The most numerous of which were the various green dots representing the orbital position of each of the satellites in the Arrowhead Network. Interesting he thought to himself it hasn't been this hectic in here since- his thoughts were cut off when he noticed something about the map.

It took him a second to realize what that was, or rather wasn't.

“What's going on? What happened?”

He asked in the direction of Bob Griggs who was reading some information off of a monitor along the wall. The scientist took a second before prying himself away “it's the portals, the big ones. They've closed, all of them” he said finally.

“I can see that, but when did it happen? Do we have any idea as to what the cause is? Do we have any information other than just that?”

Gordon's tone was annoyed, and while he was certain he already knew the answers to all of those questions, it made him feel better to just ask anyway “no, they just... closed. It was very sudden and it happened all at once, but that's about it” said Dr. Griggs as he shook his head.

Shit.

Gordon got a very bad feeling at the pit of his stomach as he walked over to the nearest available phone and picked it up. He waited for a dial tone then dialed the switchboard operator “communications” came the prompt reply.

Gordon took a deep, troubled breath then spoke into the handset “this is Dr. Frohman, get me the White House” he said with reservation.

[The Vortex Empire]

Things just keep getting worse and more confusing. At least these new aliens suck at fighting us.

[AgentPalpatine]

The mistake the Hive Mind made earlier was deploying the "titans", which ate up so much biomass that it was hard to maintain the rest of the front. That still leaves the question of what the Hive Mind is doing with that huge superstructure, which I suspect will be second on the destruction list after the newcomers.

I think Mr. Jourgensen finally has names and places on the pieces of the puzzle that he was looking for, since the nature of the Antartica remains is oddly simular to the newcomers.

This new force came all this way to plant a earth-cracker and flee? This is'nt good.....

[guest]

This new force came all this way to plant a earth-cracker and flee? This is'nt good.....

Who said that they fled?

[Tandrax218]

so when is the next part coming up??????

[PhilosopherOfSorts]

Bad form to ask, it makes people like me think there was an update. Also, anybody who uses more than one punctuation mark is clearly insane.

[Andehtron]

So did I! Feed him to the Bozorgs!

[dragon]

Very nice story finally got around to reading it. Since it's set in 87 I had to rethink my military equipment. Here's a toy for you. The M270 launcher went from 1983 to 2003 at which point it was replaced by the HIMAR and others.

The weapon can fire guided and unguided projectiles up to 42 km (26.1 miles). Firing ballistic missiles, (such as the U.S. Army Tactical Missile System—ATACMS), it can hit targets 300 km (186 miles) away; the warhead in such shots reaches an altitude of about 50 km (164,000 ft). The M270 can be used in shoot-and-scoot tactics, firing its rockets rapidly, then moving away to avoid counter-battery fire.

Nice ranges on it granted different missiles have different ranges.

M39 (United States): Army Tactical Missile System (Army TACMS), with a range of 97 km with 950 antipersonnel and antimateriel (APAM) M74 grenades.

M26 (United States): Rocket with 644 M77 Dual-Purpose Improved Conventional Munitions (DPICM) sub-munitions, range of 32 km.
M26A1 (United States): Extended Range Rocket (ERR), with range of 45 km and using improved M85 submunitions

And more including single warhead high explosives

link

Being stuck on a base that has the US Army Field Artillery Meusem has it's benefits I guess.

[guest]

Okay boys and girls, I apologize for the long wait, RL has been a bit chaotic for me lately, but I am returning to you, not just with a new update, but also a fresh map and a pair of wiki articles that summarize a lot of the details of this story. First, here are the wiki articles:

http://wiki.alternatehistory.com/doku.p ... ken_future
http://wiki.alternatehistory.com/doku. ... -ye_bozorg

And then the map, which is actually a little different than usual, green dots are the new aliens footholds and the red outlined areas are bozorg controlled territory:




sorry, but no update right now, it's more or less finished, but I am in a rush to get out the door and I still need to do a little bit of editing on it, will post it either tonight or tomorrow morning PST.

[The Vortex Empire]

Sweet. And nice choice with the DEFCON map, that game always had great visuals.

[guest]

As Promised, here's a new update

Episode 29




“Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future.”
-Fulton Oursler






-8:29 AM December 5, 1987, Mount Weather, Virginia, United States








“So they’re just sitting there?”

Major Brian Shaw thought that the President looked old as he stared back at him inquisitively, the look in the old man’s eyes seemed tired and a bit distant. Of course the president had looked old for quite some time, he was seventy-six, but the man had always had a sort of youthful vigor to his manor and appearance, despite his wrinkles. However, lately he looked practically ancient, his skin seemed to hang off of his bones like a shirt that was two sizes too big for him, and his once shiny, dark hair had turned a dark shade of grey. For years, debate had raged at whether or not Ronald Reagan used hair dye to avoid going grey. Well, now the public knew the answer to that.

Brian shook his head “well, that’s not entirely accurate. While they have made no indications of any movement beyond the forty kilometer radius surrounding the initial footholds, satellite telemetry has shown numerous hot spots in and around each foothold, and seismographs in the surrounding area are recording significant ground vibration emanating from each location” he explained.

The President nodded “so it would appear that these… enigmas are quite busy then. Do we have any idea what they are waiting for before they do something more threatening?” he asked.

Brian had to suppress the urge to raise an eyebrow at President Reagan’s usage of that term. So far no one had come up with an official name for these new aliens. However about a week previously, Brian had heard that some news anchor; not a very bright one, had heard some expert guest refer to these aliens as an ‘enigma’ and mistakenly taken that for a name.

Anyway, at first it had been a joke at the anchor's expense, but without a better name for them, it had started to catch on with the public at large and now had evolved into something of an official designation.

Roger Jourgensen cleared his throat for attention “as with so much else that these new aliens do, we have as yet been unable to ascertain the true goals to their actions. Satellite imagery has been somewhat inconclusive due to the extremely crowded nature of the airspace in each area, but from what we can tell, they are doing something on the ground below. They could be setting up some kind of base of operations or unpacking some kind of new weapons that we haven’t seen before, or maybe they just don’t like conducting offensive operations in December. There is just not enough information on hand to do anything but speculate” he said as he put his hands up in an exasperated gesture.

The room filled with unpleasant grumbles “alright then, let’s pack this up. We’re going back to Washington” said the President resolutely after a moment.

Vice President Bush attempted to protest “but there’s still a threat-“

He was interrupted as the President raised a hand “the enigmas could attack in five minutes or next year, I will not hide away in a cave somewhere during the worst crisis in American history George. This nation needs me out in the open, where they can look to me for leadership, not hidden away, out of sight” he said decisively.

That seemed to have stifled any further argument, and so that; as they say, was that.








-3:18 PM December 6, 1987, Union Station, Washington, DC, United States






Roger is twenty six. It's about forty degrees out and the rain is pouring on him as he stands out there at a bus stop in downtown East Berlin. The rain which appeared abruptly less than half an hour ago has already soaked his blue coveralls and East German made work boots through and through. A shudder is sent through his body momentarily, it isn't due to the cold.

He has just thought of what will happen if things go wrong for him that day, and it isn't pretty.

He then returns his attention to the tasks at hand, his energy is focused on a number of different activities.

First is the fact that he has a cigarette pressed between his lips; some lousy Polish brand that he doesn't even know the name of, and he's trying to act like smoking is a pleasurable and natural experience for him while in reality he has to suppress the urge to choke and gag on the smoke. Second is the copy of Neues Deutschland tucked under his arm. He's trying like hell to keep it dry, or rather to keep the document folded into it dry.

Third, and possibly most important of all is that he is watching something, and doing everything in his power to make it appear that such is not the case. That thing is a man, forty five years old, with salt and pepper hair, of slight build, wearing a grey trench coat that is a bit too big for him, and clutching an umbrella in his bony right hand as he makes his way around the corner across the street.

The man is nervous, very nervous, it's quite obvious to anyone who is paying close enough attention. He looks over his shoulder regularly, and his footsteps are abrupt and deliberate, like he’s in an incredible hurry to go somewhere, but would do anything to avoid reaching his destination. This in turn makes Roger very nervous.

While he could easily pass for a gardener or librarian, the man is actually a filing clerk for Stasi; the East German Ministry of State Security.

Three weeks prior, he had decided to start cooperating with the Company in regards to intelligence gathering and disinformation.

The man walks up to the front door of the small grocery store across the street and walks inside out of the rain, he's so nervous that he almost drops his umbrella while closing it before entering. Roger doesn't blame him, he isn't too interested in being there either, and technically, he's not supposed to be.

His presence at that rain soaked bus stop is entirely the result of an accident, one that he wishes had never happened.

Chance

Three weeks prior, when the clerk decided to turn, the man's handler; a field agent by the name of Sadler, was required to bring along someone to help verify some records that the man had brought as a sign of good faith. In order to ensure that he was a genuine source, they needed someone who could read German, and who was good with numbers and records to go over the provided documents at the first meeting.

At the time, no one else was available, Roger spoke fluent German; among other languages, and he was on temporary assignment at the embassy.

Really, he was just a nameless analyst who normally worked in a cubicle somewhere in the depths of CIA headquarters in Langley, hardly field agent material. He had decided to take some field qualifying courses as a means of helping him out next time he was up for promotion, but he hardly had considered that anyone would seriously consider him for any kind of field work.

Anyway, he went to the meeting, went over the documents, checked the information on them against some already known intelligence, and verified that they were the real deal. All went well and that was that. Roger had assumed that he was done with that cloak and dagger bullshit; a one time job to help out the company, maybe even get himself a nice mark on his next evaluation.

Then two days ago, the clerk's handler was hit by a drunk driver, he's got three cracked ribs, his hip is broken in four places and his jaw's been wired shut, there is no way that he can make the drop off. Worse is that this source is incredibly jittery, he's terrified of what will happen to him, and to his wife and two children should he be caught. He won't meet with someone he's never seen before. Again, Roger doesn't blame him.

So that leaves Roger, who's standing out in the rain, freezing his ass off.

The rain keeps most everybody indoors, and the traffic on this particular street is virtually nonexistent. That makes it easy for Roger to keep track of just about everybody out there within about a three block radius. There’s a man down the street by the corner to Roger’s left, he’s trying to change the tire on his Zastava 750. He just kicked over the hubcap and is cursing loudly because apparently he'd kept the lug nuts sitting in it.

A couple is also standing at the bus stop with him, they were smart enough to bring an umbrella, they don't seem to be paying much attention to Roger.

A block away, in the opposite direction from the cursing motorist is a woman standing on the corner, her body language suggests that she is waiting for someone, she has been doing so since before Roger arrived. Her clothing and overall appearance renders her mostly unremarkable and plain, in fact Roger wouldn't have even noticed her there if he didn't know who she was or what she was doing.

Clarice is Roger’s primary form of protection out there, as a matter of fact she’s pretty much his only protection, and she’s standing so far away for her own protection, well for both their own protection really.

If there is a sniper staring at Roger through a scope somewhere, chances are that Clarice would stand a very high likelihood of being the first target to get put down. She has to avoid looking like she is associated with Roger in any way, shape, or form, because if she doesn't she stands a very good chance of getting killed, and if she gets killed, she won’t be able to protect Roger.

A car pulls up and parks across the street right in front of the grocery store. It immediately sets off alarm bells in Roger’s mind. It’s a black sedan; a Moskvitch, and it looks new too, which is a bit out of place in this part of East Berlin, but that isn’t what has Roger so worried.

There are four men in the car; two in the front, two in the back. They haven’t gotten out. Roger tries to calm his nerves, there isn’t anything concrete that he’s seen so far to indicate that anything is wrong.

Maybe they‘re lost and consulting a map, maybe one of them remembered that they’re supposed to pick up milk and they are waiting for the rain to abate a little, maybe they just decided to pull over for a smoke, anything innocent is possible, it doesn’t have to mean something threatening. These explanations do little to calm Roger, he believes them about as much as he believes in the tooth fairy.

After another minute, one of the men in the back seat gets out of the car, he walks up to the front door of the market and enters. Roger breaths a mental sigh of relief, maybe his theory about the unexpected grocery run is right.

His hopes are dashed about thirty seconds later when the sound of a van screeching to a halt down the street to Roger’s right at the next intersection reaches his ears. The van has stopped right in the middle of the intersection, a fairly blatant move and as two more men in coveralls exit it, his greatest fears are confirmed.

Mere seconds later another vehicle; Roger thinks it’s another sedan this time, pulls a similar maneuver over at the other intersection, Roger’s heart is already pounding like a drum at this point, the extra car only makes it pound like an even bigger drum.

Fear

Three of the doors to the sedan across the street swing open and three men in dark grey suits step out, their body language is practically screaming at Roger, they are here for one purpose, and he knows exactly what that is.

Roger is pretty sure he knows exactly what will happen next. The minor details may change here or there, but the overall setup will be the same.

The man who already walked into the grocery store either is or soon will be standing at the clerk’s back, a gun jammed into the nervous man’s ribs. The other three men who just got out of the car will cross the street and approach Roger. They may ask nicely, or they may dispense with the pleasantries and go right to pulling a gun on him, it makes little difference at that point. If he tries to run, Roger will undoubtedly be intercepted by the pair of men down at the intersection, or whoever just got out of the sedan over at the other one. There is no fourth direction for him to go in, behind him is an eight foot wall that runs the length of the block.

Roger’s thoughts go to the attractive female agent holding position down at the corner. Chances are that she’s already been spotted, in which case either there’s a snipers bullet with her name on it, or if she’s lucky -and smart- she’ll walk away and the folks at Stasi may decide that she isn’t worth the trouble. There are two men, undoubtedly armed and well trained. He knows that Clarice can handle herself in a tight situation, but those odds do not sound good at any time.

Roger considers his options, he could try and run, but he knows that he won’t be able to get far. He certainly can’t fight, he’s not armed, and certainly not well trained in self defense. Even so, there are at least seven East German men with very hostile intentions.

Roger tries to imagine what the inside of the interrogation room in Berlin-Lichtenberg will look like, wonders just what techniques will be used against him. The thought chills him.

As the three men cross the street, Roger spots movement off in the distance to his right in the corner of his eye IIIno! Get the hell out of here, don’t be stupid.III His fear amplifies as he realizes that not only is he about to be captured, but Clarice is about to get killed while trying to save him.

The door to the grocery store opens, and out walks the clerk with one of those four Stasi goons at his back, the clerk looks up at Roger, a look of pleading desperation in his eyes. Roger feels for the man, but there is nothing he can do, they both now share the same fate.

Suddenly, an engine roars, tires screech, and puddles splash off to Roger’s left. A ZAZ Zaporozhets zooms down the street that bisects this one. It turns sharply and hops the curb, driving up onto the sidewalk and heads straight for Roger. The three men across the street reach into their jackets, ready to draw weapons, but they are interrupted by the sound of gunfire.

Clarice is walking toward the three men across from Roger, in her hand is clutched a gun which she fires two more times in the direction of the Stasi goons who immediately scatter to find cover. To Roger's surprise, the two men who stepped out of the van are lying on the ground, they show no sign of movement.

The Zaprozhets skids to a halt mere inches from Roger, the passenger's side door swings open, in the driver’s seat is Peter Malthis, he’s another field agent and is responsible for transport today. He looks intently at Roger “hurry!” he shouts.

Roger obliges the man and without delay throws himself into the car’s passenger seat. Before he even manages to close the door, the car is moving again with far more acceleration than it was built to achieve. While on the surface it looks like your garden variety Soviet made compact sedan, it has received substantial modification to its drive train and suspension. The need for such modification are quite obvious to Roger under the circumstances.

Tires squeal against the pavement and the engine roars as they tear down the street. A series of audible pops tells Roger that the Stasi men are done scrambling for cover and have started to open fire. The sound of metal meeting metal and shattering automotive glass hammers this home. Reaching the corner where Clarice is, they skid to a halt once again. Roger doesn’t need to be told to open the rear passenger side door.

As soon as the other agent has leaped into the back seat, they are off again. As the distance grows between them and the team of secret policemen back at the bus stop, Roger’s heartbeat slows just a bit as relief starts to wash over him.

“Are you alright?” he says to Clarice as he looks at her in the back seat. She smiles at him, not a single hint of being scared or nervous.

“Of course I’m not alright, my hair is soaking wet and my makeup is smudged all to hell.”

Her tone is light and confident, you’d never guess that she had just single handedly fought and incapacitated two armed and well trained men.

Roger laughs nervously as he turns his attention back to Pete and immediately notices a pained expression on the other man’s face, then he sees the expanding crimson spot on his left leg “shit! You’ve been shot!” exclaims Roger.

Pete merely shakes his head dismissively “nothing serious, I’ll be able to make it long enough to get patched up” he says stoically.

Suddenly, Roger is reminded of that poor clerk back there at the market, and that look in his face as he was dragged off by that Stasi man. That image will be with Roger for the rest of his life, he knows that the fate of that poor man is not going to be pleasant, nor will it be for his family either.

Roger will later learn that the clerk was executed for treason.

Guilt

Pete is unable to have the bullet removed, he will forever walk with a limp, keeping him from ever taking a field assignment for the rest of his career. Roger is incredibly grateful to Pete for getting him out of that situation and taking a bullet in the process. The two men become good friends in later years, with Pete being one of the very few people from the Company who manages to bridge the gap between Roger’s personal and professional life. He is at Roger’s wedding, and the christening of Roger’s son.

*-*-*

As he paid for the coffee at the cash register, Roger was brought back to the present. He put his wallet back in his pocket and cast another glance at another nervous middle aged man who was buying a newspaper in stead of groceries this time.

Union Station was very crowded that day, incredibly strict gas rationing has been a massive boon to the popularity of mass transit. The number of trains and buses running in DC was twice as high as it had been two years prior. Interestingly, bus efficiency had increased due to the drastic drop off in traffic congestion.

Roger checked the time on his watch and picked up his pace, he only had about fifteen minutes to make the train. The excessive crowding at the station was both a help and a hindrance to him. On one hand he can much more easily evade anyone watching him, but on the other hand, he’ll have a harder time spotting any potential threats.

His mind drifted back to another moment in his life, a moment that shares something very crucial with that rainy day in East Berlin.

*-*-*

It is now four months ago. Roger is sitting in the office of Assistant to Deputy Director of Intelligence Peter Malthus. His good friend has done well for himself over the past decade, in spite of being removed from field duty permanently.

Roger has spent the past week trying to track down a friend of one of the scientists in his think tank, a physicist named Atwood, who is supposed to be working at MIT. He isn’t though, in fact Roger can’t seem to find out where the man is at all. He’s managed to talk to the man’s friends and family who tell him that they regularly exchange letters, but large portions of each letter have been redacted, sometimes to the point that merely a handful of sentences can be read. The return address is a P.O. Box in Desmoines, Iowa.

The letters fail to reveal where the doctor is or even who he is working for. All that Roger has been able to determine is that just before going off to wherever he is now, someone who supposedly works for the US government paid him a visit at his place of work at MIT.

Roger receives a break though when he manages to find out the license plate number of the car that brought this mysterious visitor to the MIT campus. The number is indeed a government tag. A little discreet checking confirms that it is an NSA vehicle.

Roger also manages to find that certain documents were checked out of records pertaining to OBSIDIAN MIRROR right around the same time, yet the identity of the person doing the checking out has been redacted, completely. Roger isn’t suspicious just yet, he’s thoroughly familiar with inter-agency rivalry. The boys over at No Such Agency and DOD must be doing this out of spite, he doesn’t entirely blame them. He wouldn’t care for someone from a different agency coming over to check up on his records either.

He knows that he technically has the authority to demand access to these records, but he would rather do things more diplomatically. So he figures that maybe by talking to someone with a slightly higher pay grade, someone who he’s on really good terms with, he can get the right wheels greased.

Which has led him to Pete's office. The two men discuss old times, they joke. It feels good to not be all work and no play all the time, but soon it is down to business, they’re both busy men after all, not much time to bullshit.

Roger broaches the subject, he mentions Atwood and his fruitless search, he also mentions the documents he’s trying to gain access to but are being denied him “so yeah, I’ve really been getting a lot of bullshit over these motor pool records from this spring. I swear, sometimes I feel like we’re nothing but dogs, pissing on our territory” he says lightheartedly.

Pete nods with a chuckle “alright, no problem. I’m sure I can help you out. Anything for an old friend” he says as he gets out a pen and a pad of paper “so you said you needed records from this May right?”

Roger feels like his heart has completely stopped, he didn’t mention what specific month, he didn’t say ‘last month’ he just said ‘this spring’ he tries to keep his cool, and hopes that he’s managed to keep his expression calm “uh- yeah, May” he says, using every ounce of effort to make sure the tone of his voice stays even.

Pete scribbles a few notes down on a pad of paper, Roger’s mind is racing. It was probably just nothing, probably a slip of the tongue, nothing major.

Chance

His attempts to rationalize it are futile however, working for the Company all these years has made him paranoid. A slip of the tongue it was indeed, but which kind? Pete has a very sharp mind, before his injury he was a field agent who undertook dangerous and high level ops on a regular basis. He knew how to keep secrets from people trained to catch the slightest hint of deception, people with more training at it than Roger ever had, but that was a decade ago. Without practice, even the most ingrained of habits and skills lose their edge.

Pete stops writing and looks back up at Roger “and I might as well take a look into the whereabouts of this doctor too, what did you say his name was? W- Atwood? What was his first name?” he asks, the way in which he stumbles with that ‘W’ is subtle, but Roger notices it, the man clearly had to stop himself from saying the doctor’s first name, at least he caught himself that time, aware that Roger had never mentioned it.

Roger’s heart is pounding a mile a minute at this point.

Fear

When he first started hitting dead ends in his search, he got a little suspicious, creeping thoughts nagged at him from the edge of his mind, telling him that something just wasn’t right, something more sinister than a little inter-agency rivalry at play here. At first he just pushes those thoughts aside, probably just being a little paranoid, that’s all.

Now those thoughts are practically screaming at him, telling him that something very wrong is going on. He doesn't like where his thoughts are taking him, not one bit, and for the first time since that rainy day in Berlin, he was actually, truly scared.

He’d been afraid a number of times certainly. One time Bobby didn’t come home from school when he was supposed to, they spent three hours searching for him, almost called the police in fact, but it had just turned out that he was at a friend’s house and forgot to call about it. The bozorgs terrified him, the things he knew about; what they were and what they were doing, they sent chills down his spine like nothing else.

This however, is different. It is basic, and primal, and animalistic.

Roger does his best to calm his nerves and extricate himself from the conversation.

A week later, Pete would pay him a visit, telling him that he had managed to track down the records, that the license plate number was actually one digit off and belonged to the DoD, that the number he got must have been wrong and that Dr. Atwood was doing just fine working on something over at Skunkworks and wouldn’t be available to Roger.

It sounds pretty logical, and realistic, and very convincing. It is also total bullshit, Roger did some more of his own checking and he knows for a fact that Dr. Atwood is nowhere near Lockheed Martin or any other aerospace related project.

*-*-*

Back in the present, Roger stepped out onto the train platform, he surveyed the area looking for any potential threats or anyone following him. He thought that perhaps he was being a bit overly paranoid, that no one had caught onto the fact that he had caught onto… whatever it was that he had caught onto, but he didn’t want to make any mistakes. He had switched cars three times and changed clothes four times before arriving at the train station, all in an effort to lose anyone who was following him, he’d hoped that it worked.

Roger spotted the train he was to take and made his way to it in a circuitous pattern, trying to look a bit aimless, like he didn’t know where he was going. He boarded and headed for the sleeper car just as the train pulled out of the station. Fifteen minutes spent waiting there, and then he grabbed his briefcase and made his way down to the next car, spotted the compartment he was looking for and entered it.

Clarice was sitting in a seat behind a dining table, one hand held a cigarette, the other was resting beneath a jacket that was draped over part of the table, a threatening looking bulge underneath it.

There was a smirk on her face as she watched him close the door behind him “punctual as ever Roger” she said.

Roger nodded as he walked across the compartment to the seat next to Clarice, his eyes went reflexively to the bulge under the jacket “little paranoid are we?” he asked.

Clarice gave a silent guffaw “you were the one who suggested that I take extra special care” she replied with a raised eyebrow as she withdrew her hand from under the jacket.

Roger maneuvered himself into the chair as he placed the briefcase on top of the table “well, I spotted our new friend at the train station, he should be walking through that door any minute now” he said plainly.

She took a drag from her cigarette “you sure he's up to it?” she asked, the question was one of seemingly pure curiosity. If there was any apprehension in her voice, Roger couldn't detect it.

“He's a little jittery, but yes, I think he'll do fine.”

She nodded in acknowledgment.

After a few minutes of waiting the door opened, and Charlie Post poked his head through nervously as if he expected to be shot. His expectation wasn't entirely outrageous as Clarice's hand quickly went back under the jacket the second she heard the sound of the latch being worked.

*-*-*

Charlie quickly looked back into the narrow corridor of the sleeper car, then when he was sure that there was no one else in there with him, he walked into the compartment entirely. He was surprised to find himself face to face with the woman who mere seconds before was sitting on the far side of the compartment behind the dining table, she was fast.

His eyes went wide as he saw that she had a pistol with a large metal cylinder on the end of it “excuse me” she said cordially as she gently nudged him to the side and poked her head out of the door into the corridor. After several seconds she pulled back into the compartment “it's clear” she said with a professional tone as she locked the door.

She accompanied him back to the other end of the compartment, and they both took seats at the dining table, Mr. Jourgensen rose to his feet as Charlie approached “thank you for coming, I trust that you had no trouble in following my instructions” he said as he extended a hand. The CIA man had an expression that he assumed was meant to pass for warm and friendly, but Charlie was far too nervous for it to have the intended effect.

He took the proffered hand as the woman returned to her seat “no, no problem” he said abruptly as he took his own seat. His heartbeat slowed a bit as he saw the woman place the pistol down on the seat next to her, out of sight “I think it's only proper that I introduce you to my good friend Clarice” said Mr. Jourgensen after it was clear that Charlie was properly seated.

The woman extended a very well manicured hand. It was then that he noticed just how attractive she was. Her makeup was nicely done, but not overly ostentatious, and her long dark hair was neatly tied back in a pony tail, overall her look was attractive yet professional. They shook hands “nice to meet you” she said in a far better attempt to appear warm and welcoming.

Charlie nodded back in reply “same here” he said.

Mr. Jourgensen placed a hand on the briefcase sitting on the table in front of him “alright, now that we’ve all been acquainted, it’s time to get down to business. I’m sure you‘re wondering just what is going on, and why I asked you out here in such a fashion” he said as he shifted his glance back and forth from Charlie to Clarice.

Charlie nodded “you could say that, is it about William? Do you know where he is? Is he alright?” he said nervously, his eyes drifted back to looking down at the table, in the direction that he knew that the gun was located but was obscured from his view by the tabletop.

The CIA man took a deep breath and nodded “yes, this is about Dr. Atwood. No, I don’t know where he is, and as of right now, I’m pretty sure he’s alright” he said as he exhaled.

Confused and concerned, Charlie raised an eyebrow. He most definitely did not like the qualifiers to that last answer “w- um… I’m confused, what do you mean? How can you be pretty sure he’s alright if you don’t even know where he is?” he inquired.

“Because, if he was dead, his body would have turned up somewhere, with considerable evidence pointing toward a random mugging, car accident, or perhaps a fire at his house. Something very mundane and perfectly believable. Whoever has him would want his body found, they wouldn’t want people looking for a missing person, asking questions, performing investigations.”

Charlie blinked, what was he talking about? It seemed that he was getting more questions than answers here. Mr. Jourgensen looked at him with a sympathetic expression, he started to speak again “perhaps I should start from the beginning, if you’re going to be helping me, you’re going to need to be brought into the loop” he explained.

“Wait, what? Helping you? With w-“

The other man put up a hand “I promise you, all your questions- at least all the ones that I know the answer to, will be answered, just bear with me” he said with a reassuring tone.

After Charlie made it clear that he would hold his questions until later the story began.

“What I’m about to tell you is known only to the three of us, and is not to leave this room.”

Mr. Jourgensen gave him a stern look, silently demanding compliance, Charlie looked back at him and gave a nod. He continued.

“After you asked me to track him down, I did some checking and kept coming up empty handed. As far as I was able to tell, he was working for a government agency of some kind.. I however was unable to even figure out what agency that was, nor the location he was at.”

“Just to give you an idea of just how difficult a thing that is, after Madrid got nuked, it scared the shit out of a lot of people in very high places, the White House included. Being in the position as the head of BLACKBOX meant that I was granted access to a lot. There was virtually no door that was locked to me, no information that I couldn’t gain access to. The fact that I cannot even find out what agency your friend is working for is alarming enough, especially considering that his line of work places him directly within my purview.”

“From what I can tell, someone operating under the auspices of the US government approached your friend this past May and recruited him for some kind of work, the nature of which I cannot determine. Whoever this someone is has access to personnel, funds and resources in about a dozen different government agencies in about a half dozen different countries, probably more. I’ve been able to locate funds moving into and out of bank accounts that are directly connected to various covert CIA, GRU, KGB, and DoD operations. Operations that are allegedly closed and have been for years.”

“These bank accounts should not be open, and officially, both to the public and within the intelligence community they should not exist anymore. Yet, billions of dollars are being moved through them every day, funds which seemingly disappear shortly after leaving. Whoever they are, they have people in the banks in question as well as various other financial institutions around the world.”

“I know for a fact that their reach extends to the office of the CIA Deputy Director, and if that doesn’t freak you out enough; from what I can tell, Dr. Atwood is working for OBSIDIAN WINDOW.”

Silence hung in the room between them, after a minute Charlie was able to speak again “but that’s- how…” he trailed off.

Jourgensen gave him a knowing look “exactly. Whatever is going on here, it’s big” he said in a grave tone

Charlie didn’t like where this conversation was heading, during their meetings, the think tank at BLACKBOX regularly discussed horrible things, casualty figures in the millions, human extinction, the end of all life in the universe, and Roger rarely batted an eyelash at it all. This was the first time he had seen the man show this much concern “alright” he said with growing trepidation “so what is their aim? What do they want?” he asked.

Mr. Jourgensen sat back in his seat and folded his arms “that is a very good question, though all the conclusions that I have been reaching haven’t been good” he said, again that grave tone in his voice.

“So what do you need me for?”

“Well, due to the inherent risks this all poses, I have been unable to use anything but purely passive information gathering techniques. I could probably find out more, but it would let someone know that I was onto them, if they don’t already suspect.”

Charlie didn’t like the sound of that last statement.

“What I have managed to uncover however, is a steady flow of funds going to a business checking account connected to a carpet cleaning company located in Boston, after a little digging, I have determined that this company can not possibly pay all of its bills with the amount of business it is receiving, yet it has been in business for twenty seven years and reports profits to the IRS every year. Everything about this company checks out otherwise, except for a tendency to regularly post ads in about a dozen different newspapers.”

The CIA man reached over and unlocked the briefcase, he then released the latches. Opening it up, he reached in and pulled out a stack of six 3.5” floppy disks “I had all of the advertisement pages of all the newspapers in question copied, then secretly had the text from them transcribed and stored digitally. These disks contain about ten years worth of ads.”

He placed the stack of disks on the table directly in front of Charlie “now, I know that on top of theoretical physics you minored in mathematics at MIT, specifically advanced algorithms and that the NSA attempted to recruit you for cryptanalysis before you decided to go into physics. What I need from you is to take these ads and run them through the super computers up at QUIVER, look for any-“

Charlie cut him off “you want me to look for coded messages hidden in the ads” he said, finally understanding.

Jourgensen nodded “that’s right, whoever is running things is probably sending messages to someone using the ads, possibly some sort of field operative” he explained.

Taking a deep breath, Charlie reached over and placed a hand on the stack of disks “I should have you know that any number of factors could mean that I’ll never be able to decode anything. If they change the cipher regularly enough, or send enough nonsense messages to throw anyone else listening off” he said, picking up the disks.

Jourgensen shook his head dismissively “I understand, however I suspect that due to the already hidden nature of the communication as well as the fact that contacting the other party in order to inform them of any new cipher keys represents a security risk all its own, I would bet that it’s something relatively simple.”

He then reached into the briefcase again and produced a folded piece of paper and placed it on the table.

“On that piece of paper is a phone number. If and when you find something, don’t talk to me about it at work. In stead I want you to find a payphone and call that number, it will redirect you to a voice mail service, simply say ‘sorry, wrong number’ then hang up, either I or Clarice here will contact you within the next couple days about it.”

Charlie retrieved the piece of paper and gently unfolded it, sure enough there was a phone number at the top, handwritten in black ink. There were also an address on it. Roger seemed to sense the question that had formed in Charlie’s mind “in the event of a problem” he started to explain, Charlie didn’t like the emphasis the CIA man put on the word ‘problem.’

Jourgensen continued “again; call that number, but in stead of leaving a message, press pound-2-3-8 and hang up. Then I want you to head for that address, it is a safe house and no one except me and Clarice know of its existence. If you think you are being followed or cannot get to the safe house in some way, press pound twice and go to Union Station and wait on the platform until one of us comes to get you. If someone approaches you claiming that I sent them, don’t believe them. The only person I would send for you is Clarice.”

“I know that this is a lot to deal with, and I’m sorry that I had to bring you into this, but trust me. If I had any other option I would have pursued it. Can you handle this?”

Charlie sat there in stunned silence for a moment, he didn’t know what to say, his head felt like it was spinning, and he didn’t know if he wanted to get a stiff drink or run away screaming. He realized that the other two were staring at him expectantly, he took a deep breath and grabbed the edge of the table as if to steady himself. Finally he spoke.

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

[guest]

hey, guess what...


Double update .

[guest]

Episode 30



“Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.”
-Karl Marx




-8:17 AM December 10, 1987, outskirts of  Sinop, Mato Grosso, Brazil
 
 
 
 
 
The ash fell slowly and peacefully, like snow, covering the ground and everything else.  Che liked to think that it was snow in fact, that he was in the mountains, where there weren’t any bozorgs anywhere to be found, where it was cool and the jungle was miles away.
 
Such wasn’t the case however, he was in the jungle, or whatever was left of it anyway.  As far as the eye could see, burnt and scorched tree trunks jutted out of the ground, like gargantuan matchsticks.
 
Even through his protective gear, he could swear he smelled the odor of the burnt forest, and he took a sort of grim satisfaction in that.  He had grown to hate the jungle, and of course the bozorgs as well.  The fact that he was walking through the burnt and ruined bones of the jungle, that mankind had scorched it with atomic fire to keep it out of bozorg hands felt like a triumph to him.  He supposed that he shouldn’t have felt that way, but he didn’t care, he was willing to take whatever victory he could.
 
Private Bernardes cautiously made his way past a small grouping of trees up ahead, his FN FAL was held at the ready.  After a few seconds, the private stopped, throwing one hand up in a simple gesture to indicate that he had spotted something.  Che and the rest of the platoon came to a halt.
 
The falling ash had reduced visibility considerably, so they had to rely on each other to see further into the distance.  He took a few steps toward the Private “what is it Bernardes?” his voice came out muffled through his mask.
 
The young soldier visibly nodded to indicate something off in the distance up ahead “I dunno, looks like vehicles of some kind, might be the road we’ve been looking for.  Che nodded in acknowledgment, the platoon had lost its bearings about an hour previously, since then they had been looking for highway 163 to get reoriented again.

Lieutenant Garcia came up behind them “problem Sergeant?” he asked.
 
“Think we’ve found the road again sir.”
 
The Lieutenant nodded in an agreeable fashion “very well, let’s check it out” he cocked his head to the right “B squad, go take a look.  Sergeant, you’ve got the lead” he ordered.
 
Che grunted affirmatively as he turned to face eight other soldiers “alright, let’s take this nice and easy, don’t get too complacent, I really don’t feel like carrying any dead bodies back with me” he said gruffly.
 
Cautiously they advanced through the barren trees toward the group of seemingly abandoned vehicles.  It was quiet there, far too quiet for his own comfort, he understood that it was the result of the nuclear detonations killing just about everything for miles around, but it didn’t stop him from feeling uncomfortable.
 
It also didn’t stop him from remembering the distant sounds of weapons fire cutting through the silence occasionally.  Clearly the bozorgs had not been fully driven from the area.
 
As they got closer, it became apparent that these were military vehicles of some kind, their broad utilitarian outlines were quite visible through the falling ash.  Closer still and it was quite apparent that they had no external damage either, he wondered where the men who were supposed to be manning these vehicles were, or if they were even alive.  That last possibility didn’t fill him with reassurance.
 
As they made their way down into a clearing, it started to become clear that they had come out into the parking lot behind some small restaurant of some kind and that the vehicles were M2 Bradleys, Americans.
 
Corporal Menezes was the first to reach the area and he started his sweep.
 
After a couple minutes of looking the area over, they had managed to determine that there was no one alive there.  As he stepped onto the pavement he felt something loose and hard underfoot.  At first he thought that it was gravel, but when he kicked some with the toe of his boot, he heard a high pitched metallic noise shell casings he started to get a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
 
He signaled for the rest of the platoon to come down, it was clear that whatever had happened there was over, for now.  Menezes was standing next to one of the deserted vehicles “think it was radiation?” he asked.
 
Che raised an eyebrow, even though he knew that the Corporal couldn’t see it “if only we were that fortunate corporal” he said as he picked up one of the spent casings.  He shook his head “no, I think this is something worse” he said as the rest of the platoon filtered onto the parking lot.  Suddenly he noticed a rather large blood splatter on the side of one of the armored vehicles “far worse indeed” he reaffirmed.




-10:28 PM December 14, 1987, Vatican Archives, Vatican City




The cold stone steps passed under his feet quickly as he made his way down toward the lower levels of the archives, the part that no one knew existed, that only a handful of the clergy actually had access to.

Father Arthur MacDonough clutched a small piece of paper in his left hand as he reached out with his right hand and shoved the heavy door open with a good amount of effort for his sixty-seven year old frame.  Saying a little prayer, he passed by countless rows of book cases containing countless volumes and tomes, some of which were centuries old.

He paid little attention to the notations on the ends of each bookcase, he had no need to do such a thing, he knew exactly where the thing he was looking for was located.  Of all the documents contained within this room, it terrified him the most, and he had never forgotten the day that he had first learned of its contents.

As he reached his destination, he turned to the right and headed down one of the narrow aisles between bookcases.  Within seconds he was at his destination, a quick scan revealed the location of the book he was looking for.

It was leather bound, and looked ancient, there was little to differentiate it from the volumes that surrounded it, the title on the spine simply read "book 718" and that was it. The nondescript title hardly seemed appropriate considering the horrific knowledge contained within its pages.  He supposed that the original author had been too terrified of its contents to give it a name, and perhaps in doing so it was denied some kind of power over any who may read it. 

As he pulled the book out from its resting place, he thought that such superstition seemed unbecoming of any devout christian, but then again, anyone who knew of the contents of book 718 could easily be forgiven for questioning his or her faith, Arthur knew that he had that day all those years ago when he had first read it himself.

Clutching the piece of paper and the book between his hands as though the evil contained within them might escape out into the world if he dropped them, he made his way over to one of the reading tables on the other side of the room and set the items down.  Turning on a light, he opened up the book and flipped through the pages, scanning them occasionally to see if he was near the particular reference that he was looking for.  When he reached the page in question, he shut his eyes and prayed once again.

He begged God for his moment of recognition to have been just a trick of the mind, a mistake, an error, that when he opened his eyes and compared what was on the piece of paper to what was on that page he would realize that they weren't the same.  He prayed that one day in the distant future he would look back on this day and laugh at the scare that a little trick of his memory had caused him.  He knew that this prayer would probably go unanswered.

Slowly he opened his eyes and laid out the small piece of wrinkled paper over top of the open book, the drawing on it laid bare for him to clearly see.  When his eyes gazed upon the drawing on the paper, and then on the thing displayed on the page before him, dread filled him, his heart sank, and a malignant sickening feeling welled up in his stomach.  He let out a ragged breath of despair, and wondered.

Which would last longer?

His faith or him?

The answer to that question eluded him.
 
 
 
 
 
-Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Willard Maye, PhD. Archeology, Princeton University




"December 19, 1987



We're finally starting to reach the location of one of the really big 'pyramids' that we spotted on  ground penetrating radar and already we are getting a very good idea of just what it was used for.

Just this afternoon we managed to uncover a massive pile of semi-fossilized human bones, so far it looks like at least three hundred separate skeletons, possibly more.  Of particular note is the distorted condition of the pones, largely consisting of proportions and shapes not typical of an average human skeleton.  This may be an indication of widespread genetic mutations or some other kind of birth defect, possibly as a result of the rampant inbreeding which much of Antarctican text refers to.

I've been making increasingly urgent demands of our Administrator to heighten security for the dig personnel as we've seen a marked upswing in the amount of altercations occurring, especially around the location of the pyramid.  Just two days ago one of the workers, a Mr. Aubrey Preston attacked Dr. Maitland with a pickaxe, fortunately there were two other workers there who managed to subdue Preston before it resulted in a fatality, but the doctor is now in the infirmary with a skull fracture and massive blood loss.  I'm told that he should come out of it alright, but it could have been far worse.  We've already had scores of other incidents and twelve fatalities since starting the dig which I'm told is the most they've had here since the station was founded three decades ago.  It's certainly the most fatalities I've seen at any archaeological dig in my career.

I continue to get increasing reports from the staff about nightmares and hallucinations which I am still just attributing to the isolation here, but is disconcerting to say the least.  Bradley has indicated that he has been experiencing nightmares as well and has expressed a strong desire to return home as soon as possible.  While I am allowing him to attend to some things back at Princeton as well as take back some documentation including disks with copies of these journals.  He's slated to fly out on the thirtieth and return two weeks later, he insists that he should be fine if he can just get some good solid time away from the dig, I certainly hope he is right, his assistance has been invaluable during the course of this dig, as has his companionship."
 
 
 
 
-2:23 PM December 21, 1987, northern tip of Cozumel Island, Mexico




Cool ocean breeze felt good against Lieutenant Martin Reyes' face as he made his way out past the line of trees onto the beach. Three other members of his team accompanied him, their progress was as cautious and smooth as was his. Like the other three, he raised his CAR-15 M3 to his shoulder and scanned his surroundings for any sign of threat- any sign of immediate threat. The skies above were filled with scores of enigma warships, silently moving through the air at a seemingly leisurely pace, along with hundreds of smaller aircraft flitting about between their gargantuan brethren.

Nothing immediately presented itself.

The enemy had paid little attention to Cozumel, opting to put only a few dozen infantry and a handful of medium land units on the whole island. That was one of the primary reasons why Cozumel had been picked for this mission.

As they reached a position with a good view of Cancun, Martin raised his hand “alright, we'll establish our perimeter here” he said quietly, just audible enough to be heard over the sound of the waves as they gently crashed on the beach.. The other three SEALs quickly complied and they all went to a knee. Out across the water, over thirty kilometers distant, just north of the still smoldering wreckage of the once bustling tourist town of Cancun was a massive cluster of enigma warships, maybe fifty or more and they were hovering over... something. With unaided eyes, it was hard to make out anything more than basic details, from there it looked like some kind of mountain, but angular and metallic. And judging from the distance at which they were and how high above the horizon it rose, it must have been thousands of feet high. He didn't know what its purpose was or what it was doing there, but it wasn't his job to wonder about those things, far more pressing matters required his attention.

Again, he reveled in the feeling of the breeze, not so much because it cooled him, but because it reminded him that they were finally deployed on a mission once again.

In the nearly two years since the bozorgs had landed in Afghanistan, this war had been the most brutal that the world had seen. The United States and in fact all of humanity was struggling for its very survival, and while hundreds of thousands went off to battle and died, Reyes and his team, and the overwhelming majority of special forces teams in militaries around the world had seen surprisingly little action.

It wasn't entirely unexpected. The kinds of objectives that were needed to be achieved against the bozorgs weren't what special ops units were meant for. Covert operations, and deadly precision wasn't a high priority against this enemy. Worse was that no military wanted to risk “wasting” the highly qualified and skilled warriors present in their special forces, and so they had largely been stuck sitting around waiting for the call to arms. He had heard that some DELTA force had been sent to India, and that the Soviets had made some use of their own Spetznaz in various areas, but otherwise it was relatively quiet for the likes of Lieutenant Martin Reyes.

It was maddening really, to see so many good men and women go off to die fighting this enemy and to be stuck, unable to contribute themselves. SEALs were the best, the most elite and deadly fighting force the world over, and they were seemingly powerless against this alien threat, at least until two weeks prior.

After maybe twenty or thirty seconds of scanning the area; looking for any sign that the enemy had taken notice of the presence of four men on the beach there and concluding that they in fact had not, Martin signaled to the four men waiting back by the treeline with two large carrying cases between them, each about five feet in length. Without any words or any other indication of acknowledgment, the four men promptly sprang to their feet and started to lug the sizable items across the beach.

The two teams moved with almost effortless grace despite the massive items that they carried, and within seconds they had managed to make it to their positions where they went down on their knees with both speed and precision.

*-*-*

Chief Warrant Officer Ian Law strained as he helped Chief Petty Officer Danik rest the case gently down on the sand. The cargo carried within the case was precious indeed, and fragile too. If it was damaged before being able to carry out their objective, then the entire mission would have been for naught.

“Let's make this quick boys and girls.”

Lieutenant Reyes' voice was steady but commanding, Ian didn't bother responding as he went to work. His hands moved quickly but with rehearsed machine precision as he popped the latches on the case and opened it up. He quickly glanced down at its contents.

He had heard that the Japanese were experimenting with digital camera technology, but had never expected to actually see one, at least not this soon anyway. When they had received it finally, he was practically drooling all over it.  The other members of the team had joked with him about finding the manual with sticky pages one night, he just laughed it off.  He loved this shit, and the fact that he was getting to handle cutting edge equipment like this was a dream come true.

While Danik pulled out the camera's tripod and mount, Ian retrieved the camera itself, it was a heavy piece of equipment.  It was big too; over a foot in length and covered in various wires, buttons and LEDs, and he hadn't even attached the battery or lens yet.

He rested the device on his right thigh while he pulled out the battery and began to attach it to the back of the camera.  It slid into place smoothly and the crisp click of plastic and metal signaled that it was properly secured in place.  Then he finally reached into the case and retrieved the lens which was about a half a meter in length.  Without delay he mated it to the front of the camera, and another series of clicks signaled that it too was properly secured.

In all, the fully assembled camera came to a length of just over a yard and weighed in at more than twenty kilos.  With steady, deliberate motions, he hefted the camera between his hands and moved it over toward Danik who was kneeling by the already erected tripod, to which he had just attached the camera mount.

Without any words exchanged between them, Ian lowered the camera onto the tripod.  It smoothly fit over the grooves in the mount, then Danik reached underneath the camera and tightened the bolts which were to hold the camera securely in place.  The other team of men with the other case had also reached the final stages of assembly on their own piece of equipment.

Ensign MacAnder, and Petty Officer Laughton had just finished setting up a custom-built burst transmitter VSAT antenna about ten feet away, and MacAnder was now approaching Ian and Danik with the end of a thick looking cable in his right hand.

The ensign reached the back of the camera and the three men there exchanged cursory glances.  Then without delay, MacAnder inserted the cable into jack in the back of the camera "it's secure" he said curtly just before heading back to rejoin Laughton by the VSAT.

Confident that everything was ready, Ian positioned himself right next to the camera, then reached for its backside and flipped a switch.  Several of the LEDs on the device lit up and a high pitched beep emanated from it, indicating that the device was now powering on and readying itself.

"The device has been activated and I am now aligning it with the target."

The announcement was more a formality than anything else.  Everyone else knew what was going on and that Ian would work as fast as he could to get the job done, he had little choice in that last matter.  In spite of the massive size of the camera's power source, there was only enough battery power to run it for a total of twenty minutes idle, while taking pictures and transmitting data, there was considerably less time than that, maybe five or ten.

While the camera warmed up, Ian leaned over and looked through the viewfinder, in an effort to focus and align it.  The massive telephoto lens on the front of the contraption did an excellent job, and the 'mountain' came into view clearly, revealing numerous details and features that the naked eye failed to reveal.

At that magnification, it was made even more clear that the structure was artificial; the surface of it was metallic and covered in seams and various other mechanical looking structures.  After a second he realized that the surface of the massive thing was actually moving, with huge metallic looking plates sliding across its surface and additional structures slowly rising into the air while others descended toward the ground.

In the air a swarm of scores or maybe even hundreds of smaller aircraft rose and fell as they moved between the gargantuan structure and huge floating ships that hovered above it.

What's it doing?

Ian pushed the thought to the side as he heard the camera make another beep indicating that it was ready to take its first picture.  With an automatic motion, he reached over to the side of the device and found a small round button, he pressed it.  A plastic sounding click accompanied by a faint buzzing signified that a picture had been taken.

Taking advantage of the time it took for the camera to warm up a second time, he adjusted its aim and focus, looking down toward the base of the massive thing where a large series of what looked like cables or wires; probably yards across, snaked out from the sides of the 'mountain' down toward the ground.

Another click and another buzz came and another picture was taken.  Ian spotted a series of enigma craft which hung motionless in the sky above, he noticed that they seemed to have been arranged in a circular pattern around the... whatever it was that they had erected on the ground up there in Cancun.  He snapped another photo.

Before he even realized it he had managed to take upwards of two dozen photographs and a particularly large looking red LED had illuminated on the side of the camera, indicating that its battery charge was almost out.  Quickly Ian retargeted the camera in hopes of getting off one last shot of the alien structure, focusing in on one of the larger protrusions near the 'summit' and pressed the button one last time.

As he switched the power off, he began the process of disassembling the camera.  He looked over at the other team "okay, that's it for the camera, send the photos" he said plainly.

As he went about the process packing his equipment away, his mind went back to pondering that massive thing over there. Even though it was above his pay-grade, he still wondered just what it was and what it was meant to do.

Perhaps he didn't want to know.






-6:23 PM December 23, 1987, Ogden City Mall, Ogden, Utah, United States





An icy breeze chilled Gary Sellers to the bone as he ponderously made his way toward the mall entrance.  The sound of a car door shutting drew his attention back toward the virtually empty parking lot.  He managed to turn his stare back in front of him just in time to avoid tripping over the pedal of a bicycle that was locked to the end of an overcrowded bike rack.  Off to the right, a man dressed in a Santa suit stood next to one of those Salvation Army buckets and rang a bell incessantly.  He hadn't seen anyone so much as wave hello to the man in all the days that he had come to the mall, much less put money in the bucket, and yet he was out there every day ringing that damned bell.  At an earlier time, in a previous life, before this fucking war, Gary might have respected the man's persistence, but not now.

Now he just hated the man in the Santa suit, despised him in fact.

Gary had seen things that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life, nightmares that would never let him sleep well anymore.  The world was a horrid terrible place now, filled with nothing but suffering and pain and sorrow.  That's what he had learned in Minnesota, that's what the bozorgs had taught him.  Gary knew it, knew it all too well, and the fact that this fucking moron couldn't see such a plain fact just infuriated him.

He pushed the thought aside as he reached for the handle on one of the front doors.  The icy metal stung his hand as it clasped the handle and pulled.  As the door swung open, a rush of warm air embraced Gary, it sent a warm, welcome tingle up his spine.  This was one of the few pleasant experiences that he ever had anymore, which was one of the few reasons why he came to the mall almost every day.

He headed down the broad corridor that ran the length of the structure.  Garland, twinkle lights, wreathes, fake Christmas trees and gargantuan sized candy canes and wrapped presents lined the the sides of the walkway. Meanwhile, faint Christmas music echoed throughout the cavernous interior of the mall, serenading the scant few shoppers who scurried about from store to store.  Despite the holiday shopping season, the mall was practically deserted.

Rationing had taken its toll on the economy, just about everything that was made with resources needed for the war effort was either incredibly hard to come by or ridiculously overpriced.  Even basic food items were at least several times their prewar price.  Even if it didn't take something away from the war effort to make, it still consumed fuel when it was shipped to a store, and so that was reflected in the price, and that was just for the things that people could even still buy.

Consumer electronics were especially hard to come by, and nobody even bothered buying things that used gasoline, of course you couldn't even buy a new car anymore.  He hadn't heard of or seen a new model of car from any manufacturer in about a year and a half.  The auto industry didn't make cars anymore, they made tanks, and trucks and HUMVEEs, not that anyone could even buy much gas anyway.

The economic situation was quite clear here at the mall.  Half the stores were closed down, and more than half the ones that were left had signs advertising "GOING OUT OF BUSINESS" sales.  The mall was all but dead, it looked perfectly normal on the outside, but on the inside it was hollow and empty, just like Gary.

Sure, he was still physically damaged, a piece of shrapnel had torn up the inside of his right leg pretty badly.  He could walk alright, but he'd never be able to run or jump again for the rest of his life.  That however was a minor problem compared to the invisible scars which covered his mind and soul.

Gary was oblivious to the other people in the mall, they were of little consequence to him, walking corpses that just didn't know they were dead yet, they certainly didn't seem all that interest in him. 

As he came to one corner, a faint odor of something pleasant reached his nostrils.  He couldn't quite place just what the odor was, but it was warm and soothing and it smelled good.  He looked around, searching for its source, he had to know where it came from.

His interest was piqued even further when he looked to his right about one hundred feet down a side corridor where there was a store, one that he hadn't seen before a new store?  who would spend money on opening one up in this economy?

Instinctively he turned and headed toward the object of his curiosity.  There were two people standing out in front, they were young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, a boy and a girl.

As he got closer he saw that the two of the kids were both well dressed and manicured, the girl in particular was quite pretty, they also both had an air of innocence, they obviously hadn't experienced the ravages of war like he did.  He felt that he should have hated them for that, just like he did the Salvation Army man, but he couldn't do it for some reason.

The girl noticed him pretty quickly and her eyes met his with an enticing, welcoming look that made him feel a warmth inside in a way that the heaters in the mall never could "hi!  Welcome to the Church of Serenology!" she said enthusiastically.

He wasn't sure what to say at first, but felt himself being drawn closer somehow, she didn't seem to notice his lack of answer "I'm Candi, what's your name?" she asked with that same warm inviting tone.

"It- it's Gary, Gary Sellers" he found himself saying in response.

She smiled when he replied to her query "it's very nice to meet you Gary, would you like to take a free personality test?" she said, extending a hand. 

He accepted the proffered hand and shook it firmly "uh... personality test?" he asked uncertain.

She merely smiled back at him as he released her hand "you look like a troubled spirit, our test is designed to help find the sources of internal tension so that one can work toward inner peace" she explained.

Although he still felt compelled to go along with whatever this beautiful girl was asking of him, he was still a bit unsure "I, I dunno, it's-" he started to stammer.

"It's alright if you don't want to, our ministry is simply here to help people wherever it it needed and wanted, we don't want to shove our beliefs down your throat."

Her gaze was almost intoxicating, but he managed to draw his attention away to look at the actual storefront that they were standing in front of.  The outside was rather ornate, done up with stone looking columns that appeared as though they were engraved with some kind of symbols.  Just over the top of the center of the entrance was some kind of logo; it was simple enough, resembling a circle with three swirly looking lines which connected with each other at the center.  Just over the top of that was the word "SERENITY" written in large bold typeface.

Inside it was somewhat dimly lit, but not too dim that he couldn't make out some details.  There was a desk that consisted of what looked like a stone slab supported by a pair of statues which looked like elongated human figures, the eyes were the most striking feature of all: he could have sworn that they were looking back at him.  The store's overall appearance seemed reminiscent of some pictures he had seen of some South American ruins in National Geographic once.

In the windows were numerous stacks of books, neatly and evenly aligned so that their spines were facing outward, a single volume sat atop the stacks, its cover facing toward him.

The cover was rather plain but elegant looking.  Each book appeared to be leather bound with some kind of symbols like the ones on the column's at the front of the store impressed into the leather.  On the center of the cover and along the spine of each book was the word "SCITENAID" indented and coated in gold leaf "site- uh, what is that?" he asked, curiously.

She smiled at him again with that same intoxicating expression "that's The Scitenaid, it's the main text upon which the Church of Serenology is based.  If you take our personality test, we'll be glad to give you an abridged copy of it for free!" she said.

Finally Gary relented "okay, tell me about this personality test of yours" he said, his curiosity finally getting the better of his caution.

[Tandrax218]

any chance of a hattrick????

[guest]

any chance of a hattrick????

sorry, I'm fresh out of updates at the moment.

[Zaune]

Oh, just what the world needed. Scientology with the serial numbers filed off.

[The Vortex Empire]

So the enigmas are building some kind of metal pyramid, and this cult has architecture like Mesoamerican ruins. Just like the Antarctic ruins. What the hell is the connection?

[That NOS Guy]

To be terribly honest, the Scientology thing doesn't look like it'll contribute much if anything at all.

[Zim]

Unless of course, in this universe it's the enigmas or the mysterious party excavating Antarctica that's behind Scientology.

[Scorpion]

Fuckin' awesome, guest! Haven't read something like this in a long time! Six out of five, my friend!

Just one thing: the name "Che Bruno" is very odd. First, Che is more of a nickname than a true name, and it's spanish, not portuguese. "Che" is an idiomatic expression that Argentinians use, Che Guevara got that nickname because he used it allot, so his friends started calling him Che. Having a Brasilian man called "Che" is like having an Indonesian man called "Crickey"...
Second, Bruno is a first name, it's not used as a family name...

I love your story, can't wait to read the next chapter (and the next. And the next. And the next...), if I make these remarks it's only because I want it to get better! If you need any sugestions or clarifications regarding anything in portuguese, as a native speaker, I'd be glad to help!

[Andehtron]

Anyone think Humanity is going to try and lure the Enigmas into conflict with the Bozorgs somehow?

[Tandrax218]

why would we do that ??????

[The Vortex Empire]

Because if we're lucky the Enigmas might kill the shit out of bozorgs. They certainly seem like they're built to.

[Borgholio]

I think that the enigmas' goal on earth is to stop us from teleporting, which has already been described as irritating to them. Those large structures are either jammers or are designed to destroy the earth and stop our intrusions.

If they do care about the bozorgs...then it is possible that the structures are designed to destroy the planet or make it otherwise unusable for the bozorgs. In either case, the enigmas are not our friends. I predict that we will drive them off somehow, possibly by planting a nuke covertly under their fleets...unless they leave of their own free will for some reason.

The bozorgs are probably not as big of a threat now that they are running out of power. We may have the upper hand now.

[Zaune]

Anyone think Humanity is going to try and lure the Enigmas into conflict with the Bozorgs somehow?

This has the potential to backfire spectacularly given that neither side appears to have a vested interest in avoiding collateral damage.