Panettiere picked it back up. “This,” she reiterated, “is potentially beyond exciting news! But ... as I’m sure many of you here are thinking, those in authority — and this includes the President himself — are concerned that the ‘Arthians’ have chosen stealth over open contact with us. To be fair, reconnaissance is an understandable desire on their part, but we want as much of the same as we can get. SETI is working alongside the military and operating on high alert for any more Taalu real-time transmissions. In the meantime, meetings like this synod are taking place at the NSA, FBI, and the CIA. The PCA has been included in this critical loop, since our paranormal agents may prove vital in the unfortunate event of conflict with the Taalu. SETI’s translator also believes that ‘convert’ might be their word for ‘paranormal,’ which makes this doubly crucial.”
“Now,” Brunn said, taking back the lectern, “all of this was in motion before our rash of rogue breakouts occurred. In the history of the PCA, we’ve never had two breakout attempts within the same week, let alone three in a single eight-hour period. So the natural question becomes: Are the aliens and breakouts related? Because if they’re not, that’s an awfully big coincidence in my book. Remember the issue of stealth assistance from the outside.”
Lots of heads nodded all around the room.
“As you can see,” Brunn went on while clicking up a specific set of text on the screen above, “the aliens twice mention the name ‘Steve.’ This is not a Taalu word that just happens to sound like English. According to SETI’s translator, this is the name ‘Steve’ ...”
Powerhouse and Shockwave again peeked over at Michael; he gestured for them to stay eyes-front.
“It’s been suggested that this ‘Steve’ must be a contact here on Earth, and I agree with this assessment. It’s just too damned bad this alleged contact has such a common first name.” Brunn leaned forward over the lectern, like a politician driving a point home. “And this still isn’t the final twist.”
“Jesus,” Mark muttered under his breath, “what more could there be?”
Michael shushed him.
“Not half an hour ago,” Brunn stated as he gestured to the male officer Michael had not recognized earlier, “Lieutenant Haryana was informed of the following: In spite of SETI’s repeated assurances that the aliens are not speaking Russian, right after the FBI had their own meeting about this, some Fed decided to cross-reference our computers for any new rogues of Russian heritage going active recently.” Brunn gave an exaggerated shrug. “I have no idea what they thought alien transmissions would have to do with our rogues, but this has everyone in an uproar, so I don’t really blame their left hand for not knowing what our right hand is doing. But what makes it really interesting is the result of that cross-check ...”
Brunn cleared the lines of text with “Steve” from the screen, and replaced them with a headshot of an odd-looking young man. The photo was a little out of focus, but that did not hide the subject’s strange features.
“Our FBI friend found this photo in our system. It was evidently part of its own search parameter, which included tags for both ‘rogue’ and ‘Russian.’ It seemed to fit exactly what the FBI agent was looking for, so he inquired about the strange absence of information linked to it ... and that’s when we learned that we have no idea where this photo came from. We have no profile associated with it, no date of entry into our computers, no user-ID connected to its search parameter. Nothing useful at all. So where the hell did it come from?”
Although it sounded like a rhetorical question, Brunn paused long enough for anyone to shout out their theories. When none were offered, he continued.
“Now, the PCA knows better than most how the Paranormal Effect can and has physically altered its recipients. Under ordinary circumstances, we would assume this is just another individual who has gone paranormal, and was unlucky enough to get his face scrambled in the process. But just like the timing of the breakouts, that face showing up in our system now, and under such bizarre circumstances, cannot be a coincidence.
“So, people, here’s my personal theory at this point: The aliens arrive under stealth and decide to make limited contact with us. They select someone, for reasons unknown at this time, who happens to be named ‘Steve.’ Then our mysterious ‘Steve’ decides to do some background checking on this alien,” Brunn jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward the photo, “and whoever ‘Steve’ is, he has access to the PCA mainframe. Skillful access, I should add, as we’ve been unable to trace or backtrack this photo’s origin.
“And let’s not forget the breakouts! How all of this is tied together — the aliens; their alleged contact; this photo; and rogues getting sprung left and right — we have no idea. But we do know that at least one of the aliens has been down here, probably this guy, and that’s a place to start. So at the risk of sounding like a typical government lackey from some science-fiction movie ... boys and girls, we need to find this alien.
“All paranormal agents with extrasensory abilities are being called in. Canine and Avian, that’s why you’re here today — maybe your dog or bird friends can help us out. All other agents, you are to keep this as electronically quiet as possible, but do whatever you have to, anything you can think of. We want the aliens ...” He punched up the previous section of text so that it appeared right over the alleged alien’s face. “... and we would love to talk to this ‘Steve’ fellow. Any questions on this matter can be directed to myself or Panettiere. Any interdepartmental inquires, go through Lieutenant Haryana. Dismissed.”
The room rumbled as people immediately stood and started chattering in earnest.
Mark turned to Michael, and even included Powerhouse, as he commented, “Well, with all this craziness, maybe Brunn’s too distracted to chew our asses off right now.”
Michael offered him a courtesy grin, but his attention was focused on the screen, on the image of the mystery man and the text superimposed over his strange face.
Vortex.
“So ...” Mark asked, “... what do we do, Mike?” Powerhouse and Pendler were also looking to him for their next move.
Michael turned his phone back on, checked to make sure that Brunn and the others weren’t looking, snapped a photo of the suspect’s image above, and started typing an email.
SHINING STAR AND THE PARANORMALS
Callin launched himself from the lead Taalu ship as he had done the past two evenings. He was pleased that they had finally compiled a comprehensive enough database on this planet’s English language (how strange, it seemed to him, that a world that had accomplished limited space travel and could split the atom still spoke so many different languages!). He had spent the better part of this day receiving a phrenic impression of English — he might never speak like a true native, but it would function far better than the translator.
Indulging Larr, who was still perturbed at him for contacting the ship from the surface, Callin dampened his energy sheath to minimal levels, just enough to keep himself steered true through the buffeting atmosphere and to control his velocity. He may be smaller than any aircraft, Larr had lectured, and his aura may confuse the simpler detection technologies, but why draw such vibrant attention if he could avoid it?
As he descended toward Steve’s headquarters, he considered his expectations for tonight. He should probably offer to demonstrate more of his abilities before asking for some “field work” as a new superhero. He would observe the native people in general, and Steve in particular, a few days more. Then he would decide if it was time to reveal his true nature ... or risk moving on to another world.
As Callin braked hard for his touchdown, he could barely make out Steve, waiting for him below — he was in full Vortex attire once more, his black cape pulled forward over his shoulders, rendering him well camouflaged in the shadow of the building; it was only Callin’s own glow reflecting off the metallic shimmer of his Vortex uniform that gave him away. Perhaps this was an indication that he was not “Steve” tonight?
Vortex nodded in return, but it was far more subdued than the usual exaggerated head movement these people had adopted. Was Steve trying to mimic Callin’s own style? When Vortex spoke, however, he said, “You aren’t using your translator tonight, huh?”
“No,” Callin answered, a touch surprised by what seemed like a blunt tone of voice. Had the language imprint not gelled properly? Perhaps such mood shifts were normal for these people (that would be disconcerting). Or maybe this was simply Vortex’s “professional” demeanor? Regardless, when Vortex continued staring at him without speaking, Callin realized that his own clipped, curt reply could be considered uncivil. So he added, “I was using my translator as a guide, to make certain my English was acceptable. I have decided that it was inhibiting our conversations more than helping. If you will forgive some mistakes on my part, I wanted to try not using it tonight.” All of which strained the truth, but would have to do for now — so long as Vortex accepted it, of course.
But Vortex only made the noncommital observation, “Your voice sounds the same. And you still have your accent.”
Not knowing what else to say, Callin replied, “Yes. The translator was designed to mimic how I would naturally speak a foreign language.”
Something was not right here. Something felt ... off. But Callin was too unfamiliar with their customs and behavior to be certain — especially with Steve’s face completely hidden by his mask.
Vortex stepped back, suggesting, “How about we go inside for a minute. You can say hello to Alan and Ardette.” He turned and strode toward the door without waiting for a response.
Warning bells went off in Callin’s head, but he willed them away. He did not want to undo the past days’ progress with unfounded paranoia.
Vortex opened the door and stepped through, then held it open while gesturing for Callin to join him. Keeping his energy sheath close to the surface, Callin entered the structure.
Across the room, Callin spotted Alan and Ardette in their familiar places by this room’s control niche. But their faces were not masked, and they refused to return his greeting smile.
Something was indeed wrong.
The door closed behind him, slamming louder than necessary, and he turned to face Vortex, a demand for an explanation already forming on his lips.
Except Vortex was not alone.
By opening the door and adding his body as further coverage, Vortex had prevented Callin from spotting their additional company. With him were three more native males — all of whom Callin recognized from the same altercation where he first spotted Vortex. One wore his own full-face mask, another was clothed in a shimmering crimson body suit, similar to Vortex’s own. The last man wore a simple long coat.
Callin heard scuffling behind him, and he knew without looking that Alan and Ardette had cleared out of possible harm’s way.
Vortex centered himself in front of the others. “Shining Star,” he stated, his voice near hostility now, “you have some explaining to do.”
Callin experienced a rush of indignation. He was raised to be the Grand Lord of his people; as such, he did not take kindly to Vortex’s disrespectful tone! For a brief moment, he steeled himself for combat, his energy sheath nearing eruption and his cape fluttering in response to his emotions. Outnumbered though he may have been, they would soon learn that the Shining Star of the Taalu would not easily—
No.
He reined these feelings in. He was the beggar here. If Callin Lan must humble himself to save his people, then he would do so.
He forced himself to relax in hopes that they would do the same. Choosing to remain vague — after all, what exactly did they know? — Callin gestured across the group and said, “By this unexpected reception, I gather you wish to know more about my foreign roots—”
“ ‘Foreign’?” scoffed the one in crimson. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”
“Shockwave,” said the one in the coat, turning the name into a rebuke.
“I see,” Callin said, realizing he might as well discard evasion along with his temper.
Vortex stepped forward. His hands balled into fists, his knees bent slightly in preparation for action, and the others took their cue from him — the air rippled around the hands of the one in crimson; the mundane one slipped his hand inside his coat, presumably for a weapon; and the masked one, already the largest of them, flexed his considerable muscles.
Callin held his ground.
“Is it true?” Vortex demanded.
“Yes.”
“I want to hear you say it,” Vortex insisted. “Are you really an alien being from another world?”
Already committed, for better or worse, to this course of action, Callin again admitted, “Yes. I am an alien being from another world. My people are called—”
“The Taalu,” interjected the large masked one.
Callin covered his surprise as best he could, grateful that he wore his dark goggles. They did know a lot ... but how? “The Taalu ... yes,” he acknowledged to the big one. In an attempt to assuage the situation, he refocused on Vortex and said, “I sincerely apologize for deceiving you by omission, but knowing your people have had no relations with other galactic species, I had to be extremely cautious in regards to our first contact.” Callin paused before adding a humble and very heartfelt, “I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
Vortex’s mask could not hide his gape. After a few seconds, his whole body unwound as he whispered the words, “Ho ... ly ... shit ...”
PCA
“First, I must ask:” said the extra-freakin’-terrestrial sitting at the work table in their control niche. “How did you realize we were in orbit? Was it from a ground transmission last night?”
Steve glanced at Takayasu, who answered, “Yes.”
Shining Star covered his face with one gloved hand in very human-looking (human-looking!) chagrin and added, “Larr is never going to let me forget this.”
The atmosphere had changed dramatically since the group relocated to the niche. As a group, they had mostly gone from hostility to guarded reverence, particularly Steve, who could barely sit still — his brief feelings of betrayal over Callin’s withholding such a huge secret from him had been overwhelmed by his amazement at talking to a real live alien! The general exceptions to this, Steve noticed, were Lieutenant Takayasu, who was remaining conservative until he could ask what he probably felt was the most important question, and Alan, who was just being protective of Steve, as always (that, plus he was still brooding over the thorough ass-chewing Steve gave him for taking the photo of Callin behind his back).
Ardette passed around water bottles for all and handed Shining Star another tub of carrot sticks, which he accepted with grace.
“Who’s Larr?” Steve asked, raising his mask just enough to take a sip of water.
Steve saw that Callin noticed this sly maneuver, and also seemed to have picked up on the fact that the others had only addressed him as “Vortex,” not “Steve” — which was good, so that the open-secret of his identity didn’t get further blown by the Naïve Man from Mars.
“Lord Larr Maoc is an advisor of mine,” Shining Star told him, “and a longtime friend of my family. Larr chastised me for sending that transmission from the surface. I was overconfident, thinking that, because your people do not have prolight technology, you would be unable to detect our communications.” He paused, then asked the group, “How did you hear us?”
Shockwave and Powerhouse looked to Takayasu, who answered, “We don’t know the technical specifics. Those of us here, I mean. We have a scientific organization that has been listening for alien signals for decades, and they started coming through right after an event we call The White Flash. We’ve been listening to your people’s older messages since then — we even have a nickname for you, the ‘Arthians.’ And these same sci
entists now have a paranormal linguist who works for them.” He shrugged. “Maybe their paranormal managed it somehow, I honestly don’t know. But now we need to ask you a question.”
Some tension returned to the room. Steve strove to remain calm, but the Lieutenant and his associates were clearly seeking, and expecting, Shining Star’s cooperation.
Luckily, Callin gave it to them. “Of course.”
“Over the past ten hours,” Takayasu explained, “there have been three separate paranormal prisonbreaks or breakout attempts.”
Steve started in surprise; this was news to him. He’d been so caught up in Shining Star, so wrapped up in the excitement of the alleged new superhero under his wing, that he hadn’t checked his PCA server all day.
Takayasu continued, “Do you understand what the term ‘prisonbreak’ means?”
“I believe so,” Callin answered. “Those you have incarcerated have escaped?”
“Or attempted to escape, yes. Paranormals who turn against our society are labeled ‘rogues,’ and we imprison them. And over the past six years, we’ve gotten pretty decent at keeping most of them locked up.” Takayasu leaned forward, his fingers lacing as he rested his forearms on the table. “But starting this morning, it appears that someone has been helping rogues break loose. We believe an outsider has been deactivating their restraining technology, and a lot of our people think the timing of this and your arrival occurred too close together to be coincidence.”
Steve looked over at Callin. Surely not ... and yet, Callin had been lying to him — by omission, sure, but still ...
Oh, please, let this be a coincidence. Or at least a misunderstanding!
Takayasu pressed on. “I’m not sure how to ask you, except to just ask you: Shining Star, are your people behind these prisonbreaks?”
Shining Star’s whole bearing tightened, taking on a regal air. “No. We are not.”
“You have stealth technology,” Takayasu pointed out, neither accepting nor rejecting Shining Star’s proclamation just yet, “and whoever is doing this clearly has such capabilities. They’re slipping in and out of our facilities without being detected.”
Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone Page 18
