by J. K. Scott
Allan added, “The Causeway Supercomputer has been analyzing the forms at over one hundred fifty petaflops. It’s one of three undisclosed massive supercomputers in the world. Three decades ago, China had the globe’s fastest top supercomputer, the Sunwave TaihuLight, with ninety-three petaflops. The United States currently has four of the top ten supercomputers. The Causeway is one of them. We are currently beta-testing another IBM supercomputer.”
Captivated by Allan’s information, I could only imagine the speed of the Causeway’s processing as it performed comparative analysis on the forms.
Allan’s horn-rimmed glasses seemingly added more respectability, but he couldn’t have been over twenty. He said, “Dak, we admire your work, especially after we compared the raw fragments to the final forms.”
“Thanks to the Sarasota lab,” I said, and Turbero nudged my shoulder, instantly indicating this information was still sensitive.
Turbero changed the discussion to my discovery that the hiker had compromised the frames, shorting the ones Cascade had. Turbero added his humorous story of how he’d found me only days ago.
Mental exhaustion had triumphed with a renewal to solve the images.
Turbero said, “It’s late. We will tackle our task in the morning. Allan, give me all a call if there’s a match.”
We said our goodbyes and left for the scanning glass cage. More confident riding the trains, I left Hydra’s Beta train and took the Alta train. We passed the Park Station for the Mercury residence. We took the escalator to the Mercury’s hotel-style lobby.
Turbero said, “You will be taking elevator four. Each elevator is dedicated to a specific floor for security and safety.”
This meant only meeting the fourth-floor residents in the elevator. Turbero led me to room M483 and told me to only voice my name. He informed me the rooms were locked, but in an emergency, they automatically unlocked.
“Sorry it’s not an ocean view, but you’ll love the view of the sun from Mercury.” He chuckled.
I entered the luxury apartment, which was beyond my needs. The forest-green couch faced a shiny black coffee table with my personal books. The cream walls accented three framed windows displaying the late evening. Western paintings were on the walls with two video screens. Turbero shadowed me as I inspected the stocked kitchen, computer room, and bedroom. My laundered clothes hung in the closet. Western boots, leather sandals, and tennis shoes were in the closet. I glanced at Turbero.
“Your Cascade profile listed your preferences. You prefer Western boots for hiking in the desert terrain.”
I laughed. “Sure do. At Cascade, I wore tennis shoes for biking to work. Thanks for moving my stuff and for the new boots.”
“By the way, Dak, a DWJ crew inspected your cabin. You had a tampered front door lock. Everything appeared intact, but your computer was wiped clean.”
Surprised, I said, “Thanks for the update.” I didn’t ask how he knew the location. I hoped the crew hadn’t found the tunnel. Turbero didn’t mention it, but I couldn’t be sure. I needed to talk to Anthony or Lee and ask if they had wiped the computer clean for me. Ronzo had a video in the cabin, so they would know what had been touched.
“Turbero, I need to contact a friend.”
“Do you mean Ronzo?” Turbero asked.
“Yes. You know them too?”
“Not directly. DWJ lifted your contacts from the burner phone, and security located your cabin.”
I was concerned by the intrusion but only said, “I need to talk to Ronzo. They are friends and business partners.”
In an agreeable voice, Turbero said, “There are others at Drab Wash Junction who are members too. However, DWJ clearly states that any classified information divulged is a breach of DWJ protocol, so we discourage membership. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the call center. All calls have a six-second gap for monitoring. You are not allowed to speak of your location or what you are working on.”
“I understand,” I replied.
“Good. I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Our first stop will be Park’s call center before the Hydra meeting. We are under heavy pressure from above to resolve these images.”
Before leaving, Turbero said, “By the way, Dak, you have visual privacy in your bedroom and bathroom. However, your voice is heard in all the rooms. And the trains are silent because of DWJ discouraging idle chatter about work. And thanks for not talking about the Sarasota lab. We are still waiting for confirmation on the identities of those who died. Three of them didn’t have dental records, and it’s taking longer.”
“Kim and Shelly lived on a farm,” I said.
“You’re the second person who mentioned that fact. Living on a farm is the new security for independence. See you in the morning, Dak,” Turbero said.
I thought about Turbero’s shoe-dropping remarks that he prefaced with “by the way.” At least he was being up front and honest. His assurance that there was pressure from above to solve the forms must give him liberal authority. Who was his boss?
I collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling with high expectations the Causeway would find a match. Then I planned to move on.
29
TURBERO TOOK ME to the call center, which housed numerous cubicles with strange bright red superphones perched on counters. A red poster with black print warned me not to speak about my location or program. Connected to an operator, I voiced Ronzo’s number and waited for Ashley to answer.
Instead, someone named Ron answered. Postured like an anxious jailer with only one call, I carefully said, “I need to speak to Anthony or Lee.”
Ron’s hoarse voice replied, “I’m sorry; they are not available. Could I take a message?”
Disappointed, I said, “Yes, tell them Dak called. I had a safe return, and I’m encouraged.” I had Ron repeat my message.
Turbero noted my disappointment. “You can call again.”
Being unable to talk to Lee and Anthony dampened my spirit. Who in the hell was Ron, and where was Ashley?
We took the Alta train to the security building and switched to a Beta train, heading for Hydra. The longer train allowed me to occupy myself with studying the unknown faces. I wondered if I had been abducted to another planet.
At Hydra, I was introduced to Maya and Cajun. Maya had an athlete’s build, brown eyes, and dark blonde hair pulled back in a short ponytail. She wore a blue sleeveless top that didn’t match her long green shorts. I wondered if she’d rebelled against the uniform. Cajun, who was bald, had a heavy, muscular build; he was a rosy-cheeked man and had penetrating dark eyes. He was wearing a blue jogging uniform.
Without any pleasantries, Cajun bluntly said, “Let’s get started, Dak. I have a few questions.”
The four of us sat around a tiled table. In the background, I saw Rio and Allan hovering over their desks, working on their computers.
Cajun commanded attention and said, “Dak, I’ve read the project report and your work at Cascade. Why are these images so critical to solve?”
Taken aback by his directness, I said, “I couldn’t identify them. As a teenager, I had a serious fall from a roof. In college, my skills were identified as intuitive pattern recognition.”
“And what does your intuition say?” Cajun asked.
I felt a dark cloud over me as Cajun kept his eyes on me. I wondered if he held me responsible for the gurus’ deaths. Surely he knew about them. Burdened with guilt, I could not defend myself. Cautiously, I said, “I received a message that I had to solve them for survival.”
Cajun released a growl. “Without the courier’s identification and the purpose of the mission, the objects are highly speculative. The forms don’t seem to have a correlation with any ancient cosmology, especially for Planet X. For the past thirty-six hours, Causeway has searched our space science satellites for any match. This has entailed an astro
nomical amount of time and data without even a similar match. Now, if we evaluated man-made objects, we would have millions of matches in seconds.”
Cajun’s stark conclusion appeared to be the messenger’s void.
I asked, “Is it possible these forms could be in the Kuiper Belt, especially with the theory there could be a large planetary object that has a gravitational pull on the outer planets?”
“Dak, our mission is to analyze rogue or mysterious planets in our solar system as well asteroids that could impact Earth. An incoming planet or object won’t go undetected. The question is what are these images about? The strange mesh torus appears to be a bladder or lung, and the other object appears to be circular with penlights but could be from Earth. These two objects could be drones that never materialized. These antiquated photos could be from suspended models without background comparison. They are definitely intelligently designed. We are short on facts. Do you think they are about a worldly conspiracy message? They could be earthly or unidentified objects.”
Turbero said, “Cajun, what do you consider otherworldly?”
“Well, we ran an obscure program that matches objects from public drawings, photos, and even dreams and claims of unidentified aerial vehicle, or UAV, sightings without a match. Maybe the dream hasn’t occurred, or it was never posted. There are many variables to consider. Dak, what’s your opinion?” Cajun asked.
Turbero gave me a nudge. I softly said, “I understand what you’re suggesting. The first time I saw the images, I thought it could be a rescue mission. Years ago, I worked on a swarm of energy patterns and concluded the directional force of the patterns could be devastating. Then I was shown time clips of increased energy patterns around the north poles axis, edging toward England.”
Cajun spoke strongly. “I don’t see any link with these images and a pole shift. However, it’s interesting that you can intuit energy patterns.”
Turbero glanced at me and raised his eyebrows as if warning me to be cautious.
I reactively said, “I agree with you. My gut reaction was that these images are unidentified flying vehicles, or UFVs, on a rescue mission. From what event, I do not know.”
Sharply, Cajun barked, “The Causeway was unable to identify any rescue vehicles in our horizons today or in the past. And the scientific community hasn’t agreed there will be a pole shift in this century or what the outcome could be.”
“You asked for my gut reaction,” I said defensively.
Maya said, “Without any background data or the scope and distance between the two forms on the frames, we are unable to make a valid comparison.”
Cajun responded, “First, the images came from an antiquated camera card. If they were objects in the horizons, we would have observed them. And I repeat: we don’t have any known matches.”
Turbero said, “Cajun, I agree with your analysis. We need concrete information.”
Cajun responded sarcastically, “For all we know, these forms were the Pentagon’s classified drawings not released or discarded.”
Cajun’s pressure for facts dampened the flow of possibilities. I glanced at Turbero while asking, “Any suggestions? Or are we at an impasse?”
Maya responded, “What if the forms are from another dimension?”
I replied, “I’ve considered that option.”
Maya’s big brown eyes widened. Her forehead wrinkled, and she twisted her short ponytail. “That would complicate their discovery, especially since videos of UAVs appear to fluctuate in and out of space appearing dimensionally.”
Cajun scoffed at the suggestion. “You can mull those options at Andromeda. I’m closing Causeway’s search. We have other more pertinent work.”
Cajun left the table abruptly. I watched him amble over to Allan and Rio at their computers.
Turbero said, “Maya, thank you for the meeting. We will consider Cajun’s analysis and your thoughts.”
Relieved that Turbero seemed to take Cajun’s abruptness in stride, I had to admire that Turbero was not easily ruffled. I wondered about the pecking order between Turbero and Cajun. However, without a Causeway match, we had to consider more options.
We boarded the Beta train to the security building. Turbero and I met with Ellie in a private office to approve my clearance level for Andromeda. This would include my DNA and a videoed confirmation committing my soul to DWJ. Then Turbero asked me to wait outside while he talked to Ellie. He also had to make a call. I wondered if he had to call his boss for final approval.
Turbero notified me we’d have lunch at the security building’s cafeteria. As we stood in a short line to select our meals, I wondered if room and board was a benefit of employment. I was curious about others’ stay, pay, and particular work. Residents at DWJ either paid for or relished the provided services. The hidden staff workers kept refrigerators and warmers available for food selections. I took a spinach salad and chicken sandwich from the revolving glass cooler racks. Turbero took a sandwich from one of the hot service lines. I followed Turbero to the hot-and-cold drink offerings, and we added water to our trays. In the corner, we sat at a discreet table.
Turbero leaned closer to me, saying, “Dak, Andromeda has the highest security status at DWJ. Your presence will be permanently recorded in the vault’s classified files. Very few have access to Andromeda.”
Overwhelmed by his statement, I asked, “Why did Cajun suggest Andromeda?”
“You’ll understand later,” Turbero said.
His comment raised my curiosity and only added to my anticipation.
Turbero took a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich and wiped his mouth before speaking. “We will be taking Beta to the Hydra Station. Then we’ll enter a classified elevator to a lower level. At that time, you will be scanned to board the purple CETA train to Andromeda. CETA stands for ‘classified extraterrestrial access to Andromeda.’ The CETA acronym is a classified code word, but the CETA train is a general designator.”
I told him I understood and asked, “Why are there numerous layers of security when DWJ is a secured location?”
Turbero glanced around before answering, “Compartmentalization requires securing intelligence. When we control the parts to a whole, it limits access to information to protect the mission or program from any possible compromise. Human behavior is problematic, and we need to protect against unauthorized disclosure of information. The security layering protects DWJ and those who are assigned to work on particular communications.”
Turbero’s remarks weighed heavily on me as I anticipated entering the most covert building at DWJ. Andromeda had to be part of the secret space program with information on cosmic aliens and their participation on our planet. I couldn’t understand the gurus’ remarks that they would publicize their findings, so I asked, “Why would the Sarasota lab want to publicize their findings, knowing the strict rules of DWJ?”
Turbero said, “I’ll explain later but not here.”
We cleared our lunch plates, placed them on a conveyor belt, and headed for the security checkpoints to board the private CETA train. We were alone in a single railcar with twelve captain’s seats that glowed in blue light. Inside, the car appeared ghostly and eerie. I leaned back in my seat and glanced at Turbero across from me with closed eyes. I assumed it might be a long trip. I, too, closed my eyes and felt a subtle vibration. I expected the train to accelerate, but the soft vibration became hypnotic as Harmony came to mind. A flood of thoughts from the past days, weeks, and even years flooded my mind, surrounded by blue light.
Past childhood experiences came to the forefront with visions of stumbling as I learned to walk as a toddler. I wobbled and fell face forward onto the corner edge of a low table. Smeared with blood, I sobbed while my mom’s soft hands held me tightly as she wiped my eyes. I felt a deep sense of grief and missed her. I had few precious memories of her before she died. I was parented by a great father, who c
ontributed many benefits; his only shortcoming was my minimal exposure to females.
Then the fist of Johnny Sass pounded my chest and sent me reeling backward. His skull-shaped ring tore the skin on my chin. Turbulent adolescent events rolled in my mind as I was confronted with bullies who called me Curly Whirly.
My mind switched to the fall from the high roof. The hard ground tore a deep gash in my scalp. The ambulance siren, invasive tubes, beeping monitors, banging doors, squeaky wheels, and loud voices echoed in my mind. Sinking into a comatose paralysis, I listened to untouchable activity around me in sadness.
Memories changed to the shadow messenger as I squirmed. Then the train slowed, and my memories faded and disappeared. I wanted to shout, “What in the hell was this about?” Then I heard strange harmonic sounds that calmed me, and I breathed more easily.
I couldn’t believe my past experiences. Turbero rose from his seat. I quickly followed him as if prison gates had been opened. The CETA train felt like a heavy drug, or I was losing my mind. This ordeal must have been what Turbero was referring to when he said that I’d “know later.”
As if Turbero had read my mind, he whispered, “The first time is always the toughest.”
I whispered back, “How come you didn’t warn me?”
“You would have never boarded the train!” Turbero exclaimed.
“You’ve got that right!” I said, believing the blue light induced a hypnotic state that dredged up painful past memories. At least they couldn’t record my mind, I hoped.
The CETA platform led to double steel doors that opened to a rectangular glass cage much larger than Hydra’s glass cage. Yellow light bathed me, and I felt intruded upon once again.
Turbero said, “We’re okay. The yellow light scans our thought patterns.”
Flynn and Turbero’s guidance seemed to be the routine. Today wasn’t an exception. I had become a follower. Finally, the glass doors opened, and we left the yellow cage.
Turbero led me through a wide marble corridor with eerie mauve light. The strange light distorted the distance. With no doors in the corridor, it appeared to be a passageway.
