by Vossen, Doug
“Proceed, Major.” Ronak was intrigued, though he did not show it. Conversations were more interesting when they were unlinked by technological augmentation.
“When human beings dream, and also when they die, their pineal gland floods their entire body with a chemical compound known as Dimethyltriptamine. We refer to this naturally occurring compound colloquially as DMT. When the human body is flooded with more DMT than it knows what to do with, the person experiences hallucinations. Different people see different things. Sometimes, people communicate with what they perceive to be otherworldly beings. Theories differ as to exactly what these various interactions are, but I am certain I have seen that thing over the city during a DMT experience many years ago. I cannot explain anything concrete about it, but I can intuit that its intentions are the worst kind. My question is this: did I go someplace real? And did I see what I think I saw?”
The colonel was dumbfounded. “Jack, what the hell are you asking?”
Karl’s eyes lit up. He loved a good pot of stirred shit.
“Colonel, your subordinate is partially correct. He is on the fringe of a much greater concept that will be necessary to begin exploring options for your species.”
“Please,” said McColgan, “explain how what sounds like a fucking acid trip is the key to the aid station full of incapacitated soldiers and civilians, and how it has ANYTHING to do with the giant object hovering over lower Manhattan.”
Ronak took a breath. “How your species currently perceives reality, the laws of physics, and the concept of creation is greatly flawed.”
I knew it. I knew shit didn’t add up after that night in Afghanistan.
“How so?” asked McColgan.
“Let’s begin with the science your species has developed to explain that which is, was, and ever will be. Currently, your views are based on quantum mechanics. This concept is a probability calculus that enables you to compute the probability of each possibility allowed in every dynamic situation. However, what is often overlooked is the fact that the movement of all quantum objects is always shrouded in uncertainty.”
“Please, go on,” said McColgan. “I follow up to this point. I apologize in advance if I have rudimentary questions. I got a C+ in Physics back in college, and that was over twenty years ago.”
Ronak seemed conditioned to expect idiocy from a first contact scenario. He remained unfazed. “Building upon this uncertainty, we need to examine the related concept of quantum causation. Tell me, colonel, what is matter made of?”
“Atoms?”
“Indeed. Elementary particles make atoms, atoms make molecules, molecules make cells, and cells make us.”
“Nothing groundbreaking there, Ronak.”
“Tell me, any of you, how do you know you exist?” asked Ronak.
“I just know,” said the colonel.
“One of our philosophers who lived a little less than four hundred years ago, a man named René Descartes, said ‘I think therefore I am.’ I’m personally inclined to agree with him,” said Jack.
“I am aware of Mr. Descartes, Jack. He was a valued thinker. However, this overarching viewpoint of looking at everything from the bottom up is called upward causation. It is gravely flawed.”
Where’s he going with this?
“When asked to describe your existence, the vast majority of your scientists say cells make neurons, neurons make your brain, and your brain, in turn, produces consciousness.”
“Well, yeah,” said McColgan. “How else would it work?”
“It works in reverse. The correct, paradox-free interpretation of quantum physics is only capable of producing material waves of possibility for consciousness. Consciousness has the ultimate power, called downward causation.”
Holy fucking shit. My mind is blown. Everything I ever thought I knew is wrong. Everything taught to me in school is wrong. My god…
“Ronak, this is making my brain hurt,” said the colonel.
“Do you require medical attention?”
“Negative, it’s an expression. I’m just trying to wrap my stupid head around what you just said.”
“May I continue?” asked Ronak.
“Please,” said McColgan, hoping the next piece of conversation would shed light on what was quickly becoming an extremely murky subject.
“Consciousness possesses the power to create manifest reality by freely choosing from the realm of infinite possibility. It is not the brain epiphenomenon most of you think it is, but much, much more. It is the ground of all being in which all material possibilities, including the brain, are embedded,” explained Ronak.
The colonel looks confused as shit, thought Jack. I kind of am too.
“Fuckin’ awesome man!” thundered Karl, in his usual brusque tone. “So it’s not like, ‘I think therefore I am,’ it’s like, ‘I’m looking at that shit so it’s real!’ Right?”
Ronak glared at Karl. “This one is gruff, but grasps the concept at its most basic level. Our brains utilize quantum processing in every observation, which is ultimately nothing more than a quantum measurement in itself. All quantum waves of possibility reside in a domain that transcends space and time. You refer to this as consciousness. My race refers to it simply as, ‘The Veil.’”
This isn’t real. Wake up, Rugerman.
“That being said,” Ronak continued, “all of this is in its infancy in your most advanced academic institutions, laboratories, museums, and other facilities.”
“So we’re on pace to figure this out for ourselves then?” asked Jack.
“Indeed. It is the natural course of evolution to develop an understanding of The Veil, and eventually how to manipulate it. Or, more accurately, exist through it, for your specific purposes. It is inevitable if your race does not self-destruct beforehand. You are at a crucial point in your existence.”
“So that’s how you got here?”
“Indeed. I am a Legate, an envoy of my people. It is a threefold role of Ætherean political representation, altruistic assistance, and combat, when required. My vessel is called Resolute Colony Vessel IV. It is currently in orbit between Jupiter and one of its moons, which you refer to as Europa. Our technology ensures it is hidden from view of your Hubble Space Telescope. If you’ve not determined this already, we clearly mean you no harm. We wish to assist you,” said Ronak.
I kind of know the answer to this already, but I’ll bite. “Assist us with what?” asked Jack.
Ronak gestured toward the window facing Manhattan and the phenomenon hovering above the city.
“Fair enough, Ronak,” said McColgan. “Thank you for taking the time to indulge us. This is quite a lot to process. I have a feeling we haven’t even scratched the surface.”
“It’s good to see you recognize how little you know,” said Ronak. “That is the first step in your evolution as a species.”
“Sir, would you mind if I asked one quick question?” said Jack.
“Go for it.”
“Ronak, you said our greatest minds are on track to figuring this out for ourselves. How far are we?”
“Your best physicists have figured out the concept of a discontinuous jump at the sub-atomic level.”
“Can you elaborate?” asked Jack.
“Quantum objects can take a discontinuous leap. This is best visualized by thinking about electrons orbiting the nucleus of an atom.”
“I follow so far,” said Jack.
“Imagine when an electron moves from a higher energy state to a lower one. It moves from a higher orbit around the nucleus of an atom to a lower one, without traveling through the space between the two orbits. This fundamental principle has been demonstrated, measured, and recorded by your species.”
“Wow,” whispered Jack in amazement.
“Fuckin’ SCIENCE!” blurted Karl, enthusiastic as a child.
Colonel McColgan ignored this. He’d given up trying to control Karl. “OK then, Ronak. We’ve established how things work, how you got here, why you’re her
e. Now for the hard questions: what is that thing above the city, why is it here, and what the HELL is it doing to our people?”
Ronak looked concerned for the first time. “Colonel McColgan, gentlemen. I don’t know yet. That’s also why I’m here.”
Paralyzing fear gripped Jack. Oh shit. “Then what’s the next step?”
“We need to accelerate your evolution and begin learning as much as possible about why this particular location in space and time is unique and of interest to the phenomenon.”
“How do we do that?” asked Jack.
“To start, we need to find your species’ premier physicist in this region and work hand-in-hand with him to begin analysis. It is vital that our species work cooperatively in this endeavor. We cannot simply do this for you. Secondary priorities once this is complete would be to recruit as many competent medical professionals and engineers as possible to begin applying the analysis.”
“Sounds like kind of a long-term plan,” said McColgan.
“It is the only viable option at this time. More of the plan will unfold once additional data is collected.”
“What has your preliminary data told you?” said Karl.
“I am not from my people’s Collective of Scientists, but it is my firm belief that what you see hovering above your world’s crowning achievement is a representation of beings who do not exist through The Veil, as we and a great many others do, but within it.”
“So like, is this thing some sort of god?” Karl asked.
“Major McMullin: gods, devils, angels, demons, and any other deities, supernatural beings, or myths you wish to invoke are not only irrelevant, but a further sign of your species’ underdeveloped comprehension of reality.”
Where does science end and religion begin? wondered Jack.
“These primitive concepts of mythological personification are what you have historically utilized to explain that which science has not – at least not yet,” said Ronak.
“Sir, I think he’s right – about everything,” said Jack. “We don’t have any choice but to figure out exactly what we’re dealing with before we can do anything about it.”
The colonel pondered this for a few moments. “Where is this physicist?” he asked.
“Resolute Colony Vessel IV last detected Dr. Mahesh Kapur’s life signs inside your city, in what is colloquially referred to as the ‘Upper West Side.’ I will convert the exact location to your military grid reference system (MGRS).”
The colonel studied the small map he carried in his document folder for a quick approximation of the grid Ronak provided. He checked it and then checked it again. “Jack, find me Fry and the Sergeant Major. We’re air assaulting into Central Park and snatching this fuckin’ guy from the American Museum of Natural History. I need something on my desk within two hours.”
Jesus Christ. This keeps getting better. “Karl, come on. Let’s get you plugged into this shit too.”
“Fuck yeah!” said Karl. Jack wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or genuinely excited.
HUGHES
He couldn’t believe it. After all he’d been through over the last day, he was now being babysat by a junior sergeant at least ten years his junior in a tactical questioning trailer. This is complete bullshit. Fuck this guy. Trent placed a Marlboro Red between his lips and pulled out his metallic zippo lighter. The sergeant glared at him. Click. He pulled the flame closer and lit the cigarette.
“You know you can’t smoke that in here.” The sergeant had a mild southern accent.
“Ah, he speaks,” said Trent. “Maybe you’ll just have to give me my shit and let me smoke it on my way to the aid station to check on my girls.”
The sergeant continued to glare at him.
“Dude, you do realize I’m an American, a vet, someone who was in this brigade for four years during the war, right? I didn’t ‘rush the gate’ like that bonehead teenager probably told you.”
“So you say.” The sergeant looked distracted, not fully present, which was odd given the circumstances.
That’s it. Kid gloves are off now. Trent took a pull on the cigarette and felt the soothing sensation of carcinogens filling his lungs. It had been hours since his last cigarette. The lightheadedness calmed him a little. He was aware how immaturely he was behaving, but he didn’t care.
The junior sergeant walked over to him. Trent stood, took another pull and exhaled out his nose slowly and deliberately. “What now, sergeant? How you gonna handle this one, big man? Are you gonna shove a gun in my face like that little boy at the gate? I’ll bet you are. I’ll bet you’re the little shit that taught him how to act like that too.” Hit me, faggot.
“Keep talking you piece of shit. You’ll see just what I can do to you.” The sergeant squared up to Trent, locking eyes with him.
Do it. Fucking do it. Just give me a reason to choke you out. Trent knew if he went for his carbine - eight meters away in the corner - he’d be shot for sure. He reasoned that if he got the junior non-commissioned officer angry enough to hit him, he would be able to win a scuffle on the ground, and walk out relatively unharmed. His rage and overpowering desire to find Callie and Jessica prevented him from thinking what would happen after the sergeant regained consciousness.
“Big Army man!” said Trent. “I’ll bet your family in South Carolina or whatever southern white trash shithole you crawled out of is VERY proud. THANK YOU for your service! Big boy with a clean right shoulder!” Trent indicated the absence of a unit patch on the right shoulder of the sergeant’s uniform; the patch was only awarded to soldiers who had spent at least thirty days in a combat zone. Trent had spent two years in a combat zone. Come on, you dick. Hit me so I can roll over you and get to Callie and Jess. They are a hundred times more important than people like you.
Something in the sergeant’s face changed. He became pale. No way this dude is going to get scared and back down. If I were him I would have butt stroked me in the face forever ago. The sergeant wiped his brow. He looked at Trent with a pleading expression.
“Just sit here for a few minutes and we’ll clear this all up.” The sergeant’s pallor increased alarmingly. Trent could tell the man was getting lightheaded. He had seen it many times before in people who were bleeding out while trying to get to safety. Oh shit, what’s wrong with him? “Hey sergeant, you OK man?” Trent’s attitude quickly changed. He was now looking at one of his soldiers bleeding out in a dusty Iraqi alleyway.
The sergeant stumbled, the weight of his equipment straining him. “I… Just please, sit down.” The young man’s head tilted back and his eyes squinted. He sneezed in Trent’s face.
“Dude, cover your mouth!” As Trent wiped the mucous from his face he came to a disturbing realization: it wasn’t mucous. It was blood. “Hold on sergeant, I’m going outside for two seconds to find someone to take you to the medics. You won’t have any more problems out of me.”
The young sergeant fell to a knee and rested his weight on the butt of his rifle. Then the door to the trailer swung open. Trent turned around. Two soldiers walked in, a master sergeant and a specialist.
“What the hell happened here?” demanded the master sergeant. Oh shit, he’s gonna think I fucked this dude up!
The specialist grabbed Trent by the crook of his elbow and flung him into the wall adjacent to his carbine and assault pack.
The sick young sergeant tried to speak. “Guys, I can’t ke-” he said before vomiting all over himself. All attention focused on the downed soldier. Trent could have easily made a grab for his weapon, but his innate concern for a fellow soldier took hold. All he wanted was to see this kid to safety.
“What the fuck did you do?” thundered the master sergeant. Wait a second . . . Martin? Sergeant Martin? Trent couldn’t believe who he was seeing in front of him.
Jack Rugerman’s second-in-command stopped, canted his head to the side as if to process what he was seeing. Trent sat there, his face and shirt flecked with the sick man’s bloody mucous.
“Sir?” asked the master sergeant.
“Are you kidding me?” said Trent.
The two remembered each other from a yearlong tour they did in Baghdad in 2006. It had been an especially unpleasant experience neither of them cared to repeat.
Small world. What are the chances? thought Trent.
“Lieutenant Hughes?” asked Master Sergeant Martin.
“Shit, Sergeant Martin! Help me, this dude’s sick.”
They both ran over to the young NCO, now doubled over in agony.
“Wait, why are you here?” said Sergeant Martin.
“Look, you know I’m not some scumbag off the street,” said Trent. “I’ll explain everything as soon as this kid gets to the docs. We need to move, man. Look at him.”
“Good enough for me. Harrison, get back to the two-shop and hit the aid station on the radio. Let them know what we’ve got coming in. Move. NOW!”
Trent grabbed his gear. He and Sergeant Martin tried their best to support the weight of the young man as they moved down the stairway, into the evening air.
“Sir, what are you doing here?” asked Sergeant Martin. “And why the hell are you not in a uniform?” They were slowly making their way to the low rumble of generators next to the aid station.
“It’s not sir anymore, man, just Trent. I live about six miles from here. They saw my long-gun at the gate and some dipshit E2 flipped the fuck out and detained me. Things got out of hand quick.”
“Right on, man. You remember said dipshit’s name? I’ll get him to apologize as soon as we get this dude some help.”
“Dude, I don’t even care. I got two of my people at the aid station and I want to link up with them. Is that OK?” asked Trent. They were beginning to tire from supporting the majority of the young sergeant’s body weight.
“Yeah man, definitely,” said Martin.
“What the hell is going on here? Tell me you fucking know something. Anything.”
Martin was breathing very heavily. Before he could respond, a foul odor came upon them. The young sergeant had soiled himself. Martin wretched a massive dry heave. “Oh my god. He shit himself. He just fucking shit himself.”
