Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone

by Andrews, Christopher

  Then Steve reentered the training center, and Alan clicked the image away.

  THE SHINING STAR

  Willing his energy sheath to dim as much as possible, Callin landed atop a large, rounded metal structure just out of sight from the compound where he met with Steve and his friends. He could not yet read the words written on the structure, but a tap with his boot suggested that it was hollow and contained water. A pressurized water supply system? They’d used something like this on Taal-ceky.

  He surveyed the area, wanting to verify that he had not been spotted by one of the locals. Of course, if he were seen, they would most likely assume he was a convert, just as Steve had. Regardless, no cries of alarm went up, so he relaxed a little.

  Sitting down cross-legged, Callin twisted a facet on his belt, then did the same to the translator hanging from his collar. A very brief squawk sounded, and Callin waited.

  A moment later, Naltin’s voice emitted from the translator. “Grand Lord?”

  “Hello, Naltin. Is Larr on the bridge?”

  “No, he’s working on one of the stasis fields.”

  Tensing, Callin asked, “Is it losing stability?”

  “It won’t now. I’ll get Larr for you.”

  A few minutes passed, during which Callin witnessed a minor transport accident and passed the time watching the two pilots exchange agitated but controlled words. Neither was a convert, or if they were, they chose not to use their abilities. He then attempted to imitate that hilarious trick Steve did with his fingers, but he couldn’t figure out how to do it.

  Then Larr’s gruff voice demanded, “With due respect, Grand Lord ... Callin, what the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

  “I’m checking in,” Callin replied with a calm smile.

  “Callin, it’s already enough of a risk that you’re flying your glowing ass up and down once a day. Do you really think you should be contacting us from the surface? Our veil isn’t perfect, you know.”

  “Larr, calm down. These people don’t have prolight technology yet. They can’t hear us.”

  “We think, Callin. We think they can’t hear us.” Larr sighed. “Okay, why did you call?”

  “I wanted to brief you on how things went, and that I’m going to survey the surrounding area, watch some of the other locals for a bit. Has there been any convert activity in my immediate area?”

  “Nothing significant, but that’s something we were going to talk to you about. Remember when we arrived and witnessed the convert altercation, and Naltin only detected three converts whereas we counted four?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “We monitored your visit with your new friends, and noticed something very interesting: We only detected one convert. One, meaning you.”

  Callin stiffened in surprise. “But ... we saw him use his convert ability to stop—”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe ... he didn’t use his enhanced abilities tonight, so maybe—”

  “Even without a spike, he should always give off residual traces, especially if he’s Grand level. But he didn’t. I don’t know what your caped friend is exactly, Callin, but he’s not a convert.”

  Callin mulled that over. “Strange ...”

  “Very.”

  “Well ... whatever he is, he has abilities beyond simple Taalu-tek. And he’s certainly open, friendly, and a very encouraging example of how these people can be. His two friends are hospitable, though I don’t think the older male trusts me very much. They gave me food and—”

  “You ate their food? Callin—!”

  “Easy, Larr. Just some vegetables — kind of like orange mokko roots — and water. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “What if they tried to drug you?”

  “Like I said, nothing I can’t handle.” Then Callin found himself struggling not to laugh aloud as he said, “And Larr, they can do the funniest thing with their fingers! I ... I don’t know how to describe it. I’ve tried to imitate it, but I can’t figure it out. Just wait, you’ll have to see it for yourself!”

  “I get the feeling you’ll be introducing me soon enough.”

  “... I think so, yes.”

  “This Steve ... he’s that inspiring?”

  “I don’t know if ‘inspiring’ is the right word, but ...” He looked down at the two pilots, who were now exchanging papers of some kind. “These people are troubled, no doubt about that, but of the stops we’ve made on the way here ... well, Steve is giving me the best hope I’ve felt yet. I’m glad we happened to see him acting as Vortex.”

  “That was not happenstance, if you recall — we were drawn by the strong convert signals, which he now appears not to have.”

  “Larr—”

  “And remember, Callin: He doesn’t know what you really are. If you told him that you’re not from his world, his reaction might be quite different.”

  “You may be right, Larr. But if we choose to make formal first contact with one person from Earth ... like I said, he gives me hope.”

  Callin saw the two pilots were now parting ways; in spite of their initial hostility, their farewell was amicable.

  “And hope is something we’ve been lacking for far too long.”

  SETI

  Sam the Universal Translator was working late in the SETI transcription pool, trying to cram in some extra hours before taking a vacation the following week. His wife had been nagging him for a while, but it was mostly for show — Sam was more than ready for the break.

  One of the three remaining interns was heading out for the night, but she stopped briefly to chat with Sam about an upcoming party at Ken’s house. As Sam watched her walk out (mentally slapping his wrist because she was so damn young), his attention was drawn back by a chiming notice on his computer.

  Since forming his theories about the Taalu last year (and Doctor Foster had been correct; there had been a lot of resistance to his hypotheses), Sam programmed his computer to flag any and all transmissions coming in with Taalu attributes for immediate attention. So far they had not picked up any further messages from the nearer proximities, just more older ones from the Arthians’ presumed systems of origin, but Sam remained hopeful.

  Pulling his headphones into place, Sam clicked for live streaming of the incoming signal as his eyes shifted into UT mode ...

  The first thing that struck him was how clear this signal was. Most of the transmissions SETI had recorded over the past six years had been surprisingly clean — this was part of the basis for his FTL communication theory — but this one was like crystal, as crisp as any terrestrial broadcast might sound.

  Wow ... how much closer are they?

  Sam started typing and clicking his personal commands for the computer to extrapolate the distance of origin. He was still listening to the transmission, but most of his focus was on searching for that precious date-stamp ...

  “Is it losing stability?” one voice asked.

  Another replied, “It won’t now. I’ll get Larr for you.”

  This was followed by silence, but the computer insisted that the transmission was still coming in; the participants were just quiet. When they finally started speaking again (one of the first voices and a new one), Sam was barely paying any attention at all.

  This date-stamp wasn’t behaving like they normally did.

  It was again abbreviated, like the closest signal from the year before, but according to the computer, it kept blinking and fluctuating, something Sam had never seen before. Maybe it was some sort of signal overlap? Except that he was only hearing one set of voices, one conversation, so that didn’t explain it. Maybe ...

  A possibility occurred to Sam that left him both thrilled and chilled. His heart started pounding as he stared at the vacillating date-stamp.

  Oh my God ...

  And the kicker came when the aliens’ words finally sunk in:

  “Callin,” the newest voice grumbled, “it’s already enough of a risk that you’re flying your glowing ass up and down once a day. Do
you really think you should be contacting us from the surface? ...”

  Sam whispered, “Holy shit ...” Then he blurted out another “Holy shit!” so loud the two remaining interns turned to stare at him.

  The date-stamp was fluctuating because it wasn’t finalized yet.

  This was a live transmission.

  And as if to provide a sweet, final dollop of validation, the other voice was replying, “... calm down. These people don’t have prolight technology yet. They can’t hear us.”

  “UT?” Matthew asked from across the room. “Are you okay?”

  “Matthew, call Doctor Foster.”

  Matthew glanced at his watch. “I don’t think—”

  “Call him right now!”

  TAKAYASU, SHOCKWAVE, AND COOPER

  Michael and Mark rode in the back of the armored truck with Perry Cooper, who was trussed up like a medieval witch suspect and dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit, with a wad of gauze covering the remains of his right ear. It was unclear whether or not his force field was capable of ripping the irons straight from his body — it had not, after all, done any such thing to his clothing at the apartment complex — so in addition to wearing a hair-trigger psi-jammer, Cooper was also drugged. Per tradition, Mark had done his standard “Try anything and I’ll crush you like a bug” routine, but it had evoked not the slightest reaction from Cooper as the older man stared off into space. So the PCA duo left him chained in the center of the truck while they took seats across from one another next to the back doors.

  Speaking in low voices so that Cooper couldn’t hear them even if he wanted to eavesdrop, Michael and Mark speculated about the afternoon’s upcoming surprise synod, particularly about the odd communications restrictions. Mark suggested that maybe there was a new rogue on the loose who could intercept and interpret telecommunications, and Michael had no better suggestion.

  But Michael wasn’t really paying all that much attention, and he suspected that Mark, who rarely took interest in these things, was just trying to keep him distracted. He appreciated the effort, but it wasn’t really working. He just kept thinking about Christine, about how close he would soon be to her — on her damn birthday, no less. That was the kicker: Why did today have to be her birthday? Why did her damn sister have to call him?

  Once Mark absorbed that his well-intentioned efforts were for naught, the two fell silent, and in the quiet, Michael’s thoughts drifted from Christine long enough to reflect on the morning’s events that brought them here and now ...

  Michael had returned to work that morning with two things foremost on his mind: Embarrassment over his flip-out the previous afternoon, and determination not to visit Christine for her birthday, not to even think about it. Hadn’t he already made a big enough fool of himself? He trusted Mark not to give him too much shit over all this, but still, he had wasted enough time stewing over that backstabbing bitch. He was done, finished, closing that chapter on his life and finally, at last, moving forward.

  And so, of course, one of the first items of the day was a voice-mail from Captain Brunn, ordering Mark and him to escort the rogue Perry Cooper to the Paranormal Correctional Facility on the northern outskirts of town.

  The same facility where Christine White just happened to be serving out her sentence.

  Michael listened to the rest of the voice-mail, calmly placed the phone back in its cradle, then cut loose with a boisterous, balking “Come on!” that would’ve made Gob Bluth proud, and which startled Mark into spewing a mouthful of his morning coffee.

  The Department of Corrections’ regional paranormal facility — a.k.a. “the rogue pit” — served as both jail for rogues awaiting trial and prison for those who had already been sentenced, and it was a hot political topic along the lines of Guantanamo Bay. While no one (except maybe the delusional Church of the Seven Stars) could argue against the Class Ones enduring specialized methods of confinement, the Class Twos sometimes possessed barely enough superhuman ability to warrant such handling. In some cases, the Class Twos were already losers with minor criminal records, but now that they could, say, digest anything they ate whether or not it was organic, or maybe predict when caterpillars would emerge from their cocoons as butterflies ... now they were suddenly handled much the same as a rogue who could punch through concrete or dissolve steel.

  In other words, they all got lumped into one big, unfortunate mess.

  As all paranormal-related cases were given rush priority through the court system, Christine White had already been tried, found guilty of conspiracy and accessory to an act of terrorism, and sentenced (Michael had made a special point of not researching the duration of her sentence). The real dilemma was that, while she had been “in league” with McLane and his rogue cronies, Christine claimed to have no paranormal power — it had, in fact, been a false promise for said power that allegedly lured her into their fold — and McLane’s closest associates backed her up on this.

  The crux of the matter was that medical science still had no definitive test for the Paranormal Effect. The biggest leaps in the field, sadly, had been toward stopping the rogues, interfering with their physical powers and/or scrambling their less tangible, more insidious abilities (rogue telepaths being the poster children in that regard). But unless a person was physiologically altered, it wasn’t always possible to spot them until if/when they used their new gifts. This was the real reason why no “registration act” laws had succeeded over the past six years; there would simply be no reliable way to enforce it.

  So Christine White was just one of a number of cases where she had to be treated as a potential paranormal, surrounded by stun guns and wearing the required psi-jammer, until such a time as medical science could prove otherwise.

  And today was her birthday, and Michael was apparently going to be at the rogue pit whether he liked it or not.

  Great, just great.

  Michael relayed the escort order to Mark, who just nodded as he cleaned up his spat-out coffee — Mark’s newfound subtlety on the topic of Christine was almost as unnerving as the idea of bumping into her family.

  Michael sighed, stood, and pulled on his trench coat — might as well get this over with, right?

  The email notification binged just as he reached to turn off his computer. He was tempted to ignore it, but as Mark was still dabbing a tissue into his keyboard, he went ahead and opened it.

  Progress with the new recruit coming along nicely. Hope to introduce you soon. Keep this evening free, just in case. —V

  Michael deleted the email just as a knock sounded from their open office door. Michael looked up to find Lieutenant Hart, Captain Brunn’s personal assistant, standing at the threshold, breathing hard and with a light sheen of sweat on his face.

  Hart drew a steadying breath and announced, “Lieutenant. Shockwave. I have a message from Captain Brunn.”

  “This about the Cooper transfer?” Mark asked as he and Michael approached the doorway. “ ‘Cause we’re on our way now, Hart—”

  Hart shook his head. “No, no, this is not about the transfer. You and the Lieutenant are still expected to escort Cooper, but I’m here to inform you of an emergency synod at four o’clock this afternoon. Both of you are required to attend, no matter what. This meeting is absolutely mandatory.”

  “Okay ...” Mark drawled.

  Michael asked, “Why didn’t you just email or call?”

  “That’s another stipulation, Lieutenant: No one is to discuss the synod with any other PCA staff except face-to-face — no emails, no texts, no phone calls.”

  “Ohhh ... kaaaay ...” Mark drawled even longer this time.

  “We’ll be there, Lieutenant Hart.”

  Hart nodded, then hustled off to the next office down the hall, which explained why he was out of breath and sweating — was he doing this for the whole building? Michael and Mark exchanged a befuddled look before heading out ...

  The armored truck slowed, and the partners straightened up, knowing they must be appr
oaching the pit’s main gate. If Cooper were planning a last-ditch escape, this would be one of his final chances to try it outside the prison walls. But he just sat there, still staring off into space.

  The truck rolled inside, the back doors were opened, and Michael aimed his V9 and Mark aimed his fists at the half-dozen guards who were, in turn, aiming their V10s (rifle-sized models of the V9s) right back at them.

  “The prisoner is secure,” Michael stated.

  The closest guard on the right asked, “Nervous?”

  “Yes,” Michael answered.

  The closest guard on the left asked, “First time?”

  “Nah,” Mark answered, “we’ve been nervous lots of times.”

  All sides lowered their weapons. The exchange of pass phrases — which rotated every day and were taken from movies, books, or sometimes made up from scratch, and never repeated — was one more layer of defense, on top of the other various sensors that were pointed at the truck as soon as it came within five hundred yards of the gate. Of course, if Michael and Mark had been bushwhacked on the way here by rogues who were both Class One shape-shifters and Class One telepaths ... well, it wasn’t a perfect system, but they were coming up with new ideas all the time.

  Michael and Mark stepped down from the truck, allowing the guards to take their place. Michael signed off on Cooper’s delivery, then asked one of the guards about transportation back to PCA headquarters.

  “We’ve got a car heading that way in about half-an-hour,” the guard told him.

  “What’s going on over there?”

  Michael turned to see what Mark was asking about. All the way at the other end of the grounds, a small crowd milled around in a line leading up to the three-story prison; all sorts of civilians, waiting under the watchful eyes of multiple guards.

  The guard glanced over as well. “Oh,” he shrugged. “Visiting hours just started.”

  Michael checked his watch, something he had steadfastly avoided doing on the way here. Sure enough, it was ten o’clock.