PARANORMALS
We Are Not Alone
Other Works by
Christopher Andrews
NOVELS
Pandora’s Game
Dream Parlor
Paranormals
Hamlet: Prince of Denmark
Of Wolf and Man
(Bronze IPPY winner for Horror)
Night of the Living Dead
COLLECTIONS
The Darkness Within
SCREENPLAYS
Thirst
Dream Parlor
(written with Jonathan Lawrence)
Mistake
Vale Todo/Anything Goes
(written with Roberto Estrella)
WEB SERIES
Duet
VIDEO GAMES
Bankjob
PARANORMALS
We Are Not Alone
a Novel by
CHRISTOPHER ANDREWS
BOOK TWO IN THE PARANORMALS SERIES
Copyright © 1980, 2012 by Christopher Andrews
Paranormals: We Are Not Alone
ISBN Number: Hardcover #978-0-9824882-4-9
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the creator’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed in the United States of America.
Rising Star Visionary Press hardcover edition: November, 2012
A Rising Star Visionary Press book
for extra copies please contact by e-mail at
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication
ONE YEAR AGO
TAKAYASU AND VORTEX
SETI
YESTERDAY
THE PARANORMALS TODAY
TODAY
VORTEX
SHOCKWAVE AND TAKAYASU
POWERHOUSE
COOPER
PARANORMALS
THE SHINING STAR
VORTEX AND SHINING STAR
THE SHINING STAR
TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE
POWERHOUSE
VORTEX AND SHINING STAR
THE SHINING STAR
SETI
TAKAYASU, SHOCKWAVE, AND COOPER
POWERHOUSE AND SHOCKWAVE
TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE
SHINING STAR AND THE PARANORMALS
COOPER
THE WHITE HOUSE
COOPER
PARANORMALS AND THE TAALU
TAKAYASU, SHOCKWAVE, AND COOPER
VORTEX, POWERHOUSE, AND THE TAALU
COOPER, TAKAYASU, SHOCKWAVE, AND VORTEX
VORTEX, SHINING STAR, TAKAYASU, AND SHOCKWAVE
POWERHOUSE
POWERHOUSE AND SHOCKWAVE
PARANORMALS AND THE SHINING STAR
TAKAYASU AND VORTEX
PARANORMALS AND THE TAALU
PARANORMALS AND THE TAALU
INVINCIBLE TEAM
About the Author
For my friend, David Vance,
who created the original version of the Shining Star
(back when he was “Silver Star,” before Jack Kirby
snagged the name).
For my daughter, Arianna,
may she come to love the genre as much as I do.
And, as always, for my wife, editor, and Imzadi,
Yvonne Kristina Isaak-Andrews,
without whom this novel would still be stuck
in the limbo between naps and diaper-changes.
ONE YEAR AGO
TAKAYASU AND VORTEX
Construction had begun on the new PCA headquarters. Normally, such destruction would have taken much longer to clear away, but with the paranormal help that Shockwave, Powerhouse, and others provided, things were moving along quicker. Powerhouse was a full-fledged agent of the PCA now, and he’d embraced his new job with gusto — they even let him keep wearing his ski mask. He was also Tommy and Sarah’s new legal guardian.
In a temporary office set up nearby, Michael sat and considered the costumed man before him.
“Congratulations on your promotion,” Steve told him. “I understand it’s ‘Lieutenant Takayasu’ now. Full Lieutenant, right?”
“Yep,” Michael confirmed. “Normally, I’d be required to hold the rank of Ensign for a minimum of a year before even making Lieutenant Junior Grade. Circumstances have changed. And don’t try to change the subject.”
Steve sighed, wishing he could take off his mask. But the Lieutenant still had not voiced his knowledge of Vortex’s true identity, and Steve was reluctant to cross that line first. “I’m not trying to change the subject. I told you, I ... I’m just not prepared to join the PCA at this time.”
“Which leaves me in a bit of a dilemma, doesn’t it?” Reaching into his desk drawer, he produced a copy of the local newspaper. He didn’t bother reading the article or headlines aloud — the grainy-but-recognizable photograph of Vortex (obviously posing) up on a rooftop spoke volumes for itself. “I can’t afford to lose your help, but I can’t have you running around outside of the law.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Vigilantism is still illegal, Vortex. Technically, that makes you a rogue.”
“I know that, but think about it. Think about the reaction Lincoln had to the idea of Vortex. If I can inspire more people that way—”
“That’s something you could do from within the PCA.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I have something I want you to read ...”
Fishing into a recently-added pocket on the inside of his cape, Steve produced Jeffrey Lawrence’s now-crumpled essay.
Michael read it. Read it again. Thought about it, for several long minutes.
Steve waited.
“All right. You’re on your own, for now, and I’ll look the other way as best I can. If some other agency goes after you, I can’t help you, but I’ll keep the PCA off your back.”
“Thank you.”
“Just don’t go too far, Vortex,” Michael warned. “Always remember: We’re supposed to be the good guys.”
Steve chuckled and made a show of slipping the essay back into his cape. “I think that was the point I was trying to make.”
Michael smiled in return. “Yes, I suppose it was. Just don’t expect me to shine some ridiculous ‘Vortex-signal’ into the clouds when I need your help.”
Steve laughed openly. “No, we don’t have to take it that far. But ... if you do need to reach me ... I think you’ll know how.”
Michael said nothing, merely nodded very slightly.
Vortex stood. Lieutenant Takayasu joined him.
And they shook hands.
SETI
“Doctor Foster?”
Charles Foster, Ph.D., looked up from his computer screen. One of his interns, Ken Starkey, that kid who looked like a long-haired Seth Rogan, stood in the doorway to his office, his hand hovering near the doorjamb as though he hadn’t decided whether or not to knock before his vocal cords settled the matter. “Yes, Ken, what is it?”
“I got some stuff here you’ll want to take a look at.”
“Sure, come on in.” Charles dropped
his pen and picked up his I Grok Spock coffee mug, a holdover from his own days as an intern — his wife kept buying him replacements for it, and he kept quietly leaving them at home. He started to take a sip, but the lack of heat against his lips warned him in time; he needed a refresher. He kicked away from his desk, his wheeled chair coasting backward to the pot on the lower shelf behind him. “Have a seat. Coffee?”
“Nah, thanks.” Ken sat across from him. “Just downed a Red Bull.”
Charles made a face. “My son loves that stuff. I don’t see how you can drink that caffeinated cough syrup.” His beverage topped off and warm once more, Charles scooted his chair back into place. “What can I do for you, Ken? Did UT identify another new signal?”
“Uh, that’s not why I’m here, but since you bring it up, yeah, he identified two more right before lunch.”
UT, as in “Universal Translator,” was their nickname for Sam Bassett, the paranormal linguist who worked for Charles’ branch of SETI. An absolute Godsend to their work, UT could break down and translate the fundamentals of any language, no matter how complex, in record time; some elements — such as idioms, metaphors, personal nouns — were beyond him, but he could still manage in mere hours what might take normal linguists weeks, months, or longer.
Talk about job security, Charles mused from time to time.
“Code or spoken language?” he asked.
Ken consulted his ever-present tablet, dragging his finger over the screen. “Uhhh ... one of each, actually. The spoken one’s going to be a real bitch, too. He thinks the speakers might be insectoid, or something. The other’s just another outer space version of Morse Code. He says he’ll have that one handed over to the ancillary team before he goes home tonight.”
Charles nodded, and as always these days, a part of him bemoaned the fact that something as wondrous as detecting signals of extraterrestrial origin — not just one, but two! and both of them from just this morning — had become so pedestrian in five short years.
It wasn’t always like this, of course. Not at all, God knew. Charles had been on duty when that first signal had come in, and it had been as explosive as that scene in the movie Contact — if anything, Charles and his team had been more frantic and ecstatic than the actors in the film.
Charles, then still a year away from his Ph.D., had been on duty with his two partners, Justin and Zeek, here at the Very Large Array in New Mexico, but their attention hadn’t been on their job at first. This was less than twenty-four hours after the White Flash, and every news station was still trying to discern the proper focus of their attention — tangible fallout from the White Flash, like the million or so car accidents that followed ... or these perplexing, outlandish reports of some people developing superhuman powers?
That particular broadcast was, in fact, the moment when the term “paranormals” was coined: The President was finally going to issue a formal statement to the press, and the White House Press Secretary had come out to settle some preliminary matters. A few reporters posed straightforward questions about the many accidents and the new stars in the sky, and then one bold fellow asked if the President would be commenting on the rumors of a doctor allegedly going on a rampage in some hospital, reportedly killing people with a mere touch, and a runway model turning invisible in the middle of an exclusive fashion show.
The White House Press Secretary rolled her eyes theatrically (a little too theatrically, many later said, suggesting that the gesture had been preplanned and over-rehearsed) and said, “Sir, we are here to discuss serious, real-world problems, not ludicrous rumors about a bunch of paranormals.”
But the reporters wouldn’t let it drop, not for the Press Secretary nor the President, and from that point onward, the official term for those who changed was not “mutants” or “metahumans” or even “superhumans,” but paranormals.
Paranormals and rogues, unfortunately.
So Charles, Justin, and Zeek were, like everyone else, glued to the television set, watching history unfold ... and as luck would have it, Charles was the first to notice another history in the making not twelve feet from where they sat.
“Guys ...” he said in a low voice, his eyes now locked onto the computer monitor. His partners didn’t react, so he repeated, louder, “Guys.”
This time he earned a “Hmm?” from Justin; Zeek did not respond at all. Neither of them looked away from the television.
“Guys,” Charles said once again in a quivering voice, rising from his chair and crossing to their work equipment. His heart was pounding in his ears, so intense that he no longer heard the television.
Zeek remained oblivious, but Justin finally registered his tone. “Charles, what—?”
“Guys! Get over here!”
Charles stood before the monitor, hunched over it, his trembling arms the only thing keeping him from collapsing to his knees. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. After all these years ... could this really be it?
“Oh, my God,” Zeek whispered near his right ear, as both men now stood on either side of him.
“Charles,” Justin said, “please tell me I’m not dreaming.”
“You’re not dreaming ...”
A signal. A transmission. Coming down from the heavens.
From outer space.
Then the stupor lifted, and all three men launched into action. Measuring, triangulating, calculating. And recording — oh, God, yes, recording everything! On the television, the President’s oft-interrupted speech went unheard by these three men as their life’s work and lifelong wishes came true beyond their wildest hopes. For unlike that scene in the Robert Zemeckis movie, this wasn’t just some random pulse, some loud tone that thrummed into prime numbers (although that, too, would’ve been cause for excitement). No, this was no code ... this was a verbal transmission, an all-out conversation involving two distinct voices in a language that had never been spoken anywhere on Earth.
Once they had determined, to the best of their ability, that this was neither a glitch nor a hoax, they knew it was time to start making some earth-shattering phone calls. Being nominally in charge, Charles stood and placed his hand on the phone, but before picking it up, he turned to his partners and proclaimed in a melodramatic tone that was both giddy and somber, “Gentlemen ... we are not alone.”
Now, five years later, Charles Foster smiled with fondness and nostalgia (and a touch of embarrassment over his own grandiosity) at the memory — the crowning moment of his career, and his life. It was later determined, thanks to the acquisition of UT’s blessed paranormal ability, that those first two voices from beyond the sky had not been saying anything to them at all. Charles and his team had merely tapped into the conversation as a third-party, overhearing, funny enough, their discussing the results of some kind of outer-space sporting event. A little bit of a letdown in the immediacy of things, but not so much in the big picture — proof that we are not alone, as Charles had put it, could hardly be considered “disappointing” by any stretch of the imagination.
And it hadn’t stopped there. Within a week they had picked up another signal; this one was in code, and they spent the rest of the day verifying that it was nothing known to humanity. Two days after that, they picked up yet another signal, and although this one smacked of being another verbal transmission, the language — hell, the vocalization itself — was so exotic they didn’t know whether to assign it to the original transmission’s category or create something altogether new. By the end of that first month, they had received and recorded almost a dozen different signals of extraterrestrial origin.
At any other point in history, this would have been the news. Every journalist in the world would have been clambering to interview them, every scientific institution begging to get in on the action.
But ... during all of these events, the Paranormal Effect had grown undeniable, and whether Charles agreed with it or not, superhumans among us trumped voices from light-years away. The scientific community was abuzz, of course, and astr
onomers were doing cartwheels over the seven new stars that shown brightly in the night sky (astrologists were still arguing amongst themselves over what the stars meant, if anything). But the general public was far more interested in the fact that their neighbors might be able to read their minds or see through their walls or who knew what else.
The only direct, undeniable connection SETI could draw between the Night of the White Flash and all of these new signals was the timing. The appearance of the Seven Stars and the sudden commencement of our finally receiving extraterrestrial signals was too fantastic to dismiss as coincidence. It was as though a veil had been lifted, a barrier of some kind removed to allow Earth in on some galactic secret.
Not that we’re any closer to figuring out what that secret might be, Charles mused. Then he mentally shook himself and said to Ken, “Okay. So if you’re not here to fill me in on the latest pair of signals, why did you want to talk to me?”
“Well, ” Ken said, scratching the side of his neck, “we’re not entirely sure what to make of this. I mean we can’t agree. You see, we picked up a new set of transmissions from our cousins last night—”
Charles nodded. “Yes, I got the email on that this morning.” The “cousins” to which Ken was referring were the Arthians — so dubbed because their spoken language, of all the transmissions SETI had recorded, was the closest match to an Earth equivalent; it sounded a hell of a lot like Russian, and they had spent a fair amount of effort at the beginning verifying that it was not just that. As near as Sam the Universal Translator could tell, this race actually called themselves the Taalu, but the idea that a similar language meant other similarities was an appealing one. And so it was jokingly decided that these strangers were from the planet Arth (as in one-letter-off), and their nicknames shifted from “Arthlings” to “Arthians,” and the latter stuck. Charles asked Ken, “What about them?”
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