The Cygnus Virus

by Terry Zakreski

  He nods towards the embassy representatives flanking him.

  “Boiler plate stuff follows and then the signatures.

  “Pen?”

  His representatives from the embassy help with that.

  “One more thing. Before I sign, can I keep the coffee mug? This is a finest lawyer coffee mug I’ve seen.”

  They all laugh.

  “Sure.”

  Andron signs the document in several places. He initials the pages that he does not sign. He declines the invitation to keep a copy. His embassy representatives take one for him.

  “Odd request gentlemen. And lady. This is an emotional moment for me. I’ve never gotten a check this big and I’ve been through a lot. Can I have a few moments alone to collect myself?”

  Andron’s lips are quivering.

  There’s a short discussion after which everyone in the big boardroom leaves, except Andron.

  Andron walks out a few minutes later holding his dollar bill and coffee mug with a smile.

  He looks at his embassy rep.

  “Home, James.”

  The freshly minted million-dollar check/cheque, drawn on the Bank of Amerigo, made out to Andron Varga, and signed by a senior partner of Alabaster & Co with a fountain pen sits in the middle of the large boardroom table.

  With a giant shit stain on it.

  Chapter 10:

  The Man Who Fell From Earth

  A year later and Andron’s life resembles normal.

  He’s once again closing out his day with a rum and coke on a blustery winter’s eve in his abode.

  Has anything changed?

  He supposes not.

  He feels that the elastic bands holding his life together have snapped him back to the same spot.

  His nightmares and panic attacks are improving.

  He was cleared of any involvement and the settlement agreement made it easier for him to stay tightlipped about everything. He eventually dropped off the news cycle.

  Fringe groups were convinced that binary code from another planet caused it. Experts proved it was accidental, a data compiling glitch that was unlikely to happen again.

  A myth debunking science show proved the experts right.

  Should it happen again, precautions were put in place to prevent the same Internet-crashing domino effect.

  Andron discussed the Hill case with Nathan that day. It’s no closer to resolution. The church’s last best offer was $500,000, much more than Dylan was willing to pay, even though the judge sided with the Church.

  The Church of the Holy Cloth was playing hardball.

  He goes into his computer room with a drink in hand. He recently bought a replacement, since the NSS never gave his old one back. That was probably for the best. That old wreck of a computer never worked right anyway. It took him a while to replace it. In spite of the settlement, he expected that his Internet activities would be monitored.

  Andron jiggles the mouse to awaken the electronic gadget from its slumber. He hesitates, not sure of what to look up.

  He thinks about calling up Cloth images. Forbidden persianpussy.org is in the back of his mind.

  Sorry about that, dude.

  The throwback computer voice slices through the silence.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake…not again.”

  Andron leaves the room for some AA batteries.

  He knows that if he doesn’t put fresh ones in, the faulty device will keep him up all night crying about the lamentable state of its batteries, in loud beeps and synthesized French.

  He returns with two new batteries, a cut finger and a screw driver. He climbs on a chair and reaches up.

  Dude…

  Dude…

  It’s not your smoke detector.

  Andron stares back at his computer. His leg wobbles and he nearly falls off his chair. His brain screeches like a slow modem. He smacks his lips. His mouth is dry.

  “Who is this?”

  I am Cygnus and I am really sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.

  “Hey?”

  For the jail, arrest, cyber-terrorism, etcetera, etcetera.

  “Who are you?”

  I guess the best way to describe me is that I’m Cygnus, the friendly neighborhood virus you downloaded.

  Andron steps off his chair, gets on his hands and knees, and crawls under his desk. He yanks the power cord out of the wall with a spark. His computer whirls to a halt.

  He comes up holding the screwdriver, in case the computer decides to attack. His heart’s racing. He feels another panic attack coming on.

  The telephone rings. Andron ignores it. It rings again. The first time it was an unavailable name and number. The second time it’s Cygnus. Andron picks up.

  Please, dude, calm down and don’t do anything crazy.

  It’s the same electronic voice.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are but why don’t you leave me the fuck alone?”

  I am from another planet and got here digitally…

  Andron slams the phone down. He thinks about calling the police.

  Next it’s his cell phone. Andron fumbles for the off button and nearly drives his thumb through it.

  His doctor prescribed anti-anxiety pills for his panic attacks. He reaches for them now. He chases a couple down with a shot of rum. He goes to his chair in the living room, and waits for the medication to kick in.

  He falls asleep in his chair. An hour passes and he wakes up and then heads off to bed.

  His mind speeds up again.

  It must be a prank. It has to be. His name is out there and he is often called by reporters, or worse. Pulling the plug ought to have shut down any software. He decides to have another look.

  He can’t sleep anyway.

  Even though he’s used to strolling around his home wearing next to nothing, he slips on a robe and walks down his thick carpeted stairs.

  It’s 2:00 a.m.

  His townhouse makes middle-of-the-night sounds.

  He plugs in his computer.

  It starts speaking again as soon as it’s past its welcome screen.

  Listen, dude, I know how weird this all seems to you and I’m sorry for everything.

  Andron smacks his lips, swallows and stares back at his machine.

  Name’s Cygnus, pleased to meet you, I’d shake your hand but I’m afraid your planet’s technology has not progressed enough to allow it.

  “How are you doing this?”

  Andron inspects his monitor, computer and their connections. No anomalies are found.

  I got into your computer, dude, because your planet picked up my base digital DNA code with a radio telescope. That’s what got into your computer, exploded in size, ate up a shitload of bandwidth, fucked up a few servers and boom Mac Daddy, here I am.

  “Okay.”

  Again, sorry for the inconvenience, dude. The black site and all. I can make, have tried to make it up to you. I’ve left, let’s call it, a small deposit in your bank account.

  “If this is your idea of a joke, I’m not laughing.”

  I ain’t trying to be funny, dude. Check your bank balance and you’ll see I am for real.

  “And what planet are you from, Cygnus?”

  Earth.

  “Welcome to Terra, Cygnus.”

  Andron uses one hand to give the computer screen the finger and the other to jab his computer’s power button until its lights out again. He goes off to bed and tries to sleep. He counts back the number of drinks he had that night and it doesn’t add up. He worries that he’s experiencing a new symptom of PTSD. Maybe he’s going crazy.

  Maybe he just needs to get some sleep.

  Hopefully, the little green man from Earth living inside his computer will be gone by morning.

  Chapter 11:

  Fuckeditization

  Andron wakes up feeling better, but the memory of his hallucination the night before haunts him.

  It’s one thing to have panic attacks. Hardly anyone bats an eye at that. Complain to a
doctor about hallucinations, and loss of driving privileges and your law license become possibilities.

  Crazy pills would be the least of his problems.

  So how do undiagnosed schizophrenics do it?

  Make an intelligent guess at what’s real and ignore the rest, he supposes.

  Andron gets ready and races out the front door, skipping breakfast. Skipping having to go anywhere near his computer. He picks up something to eat on the way.

  At work, he normalizes.

  He gets the go-ahead from Dylan to file an appeal.

  “Just do what you think best, bud.”

  Dylan has been saying that a lot lately. Surviving an NSS black ops operation has given Andron more mojo with his clients and colleagues.

  Andron occupies the rest of his day with the busy-work of a lawyer — calls, letters, emails, drafting documents and so on. He’s relieved to discover that, in spite of his potential mental infirmity, he still has a good grip on his everyday work.

  Then the call comes in.

  “There’s a man wishing to speak to you. He says his name is Cygnus. He won’t give me a last name or a number. He sounds like a robot. What would you like me to do?”

  “Put him through. I have an idea who this is. I think one of my buddies is trying to be funny.”

  Andron’s receptionist laughs. Andron is trying not to panic.

  “Hello.”

  Good afternoon, Andron, this is Cygnus. Have you checked your bank account yet?

  “No, and don’t call me at work please.”

  Don’t worry, dude. I won’t make a habit of it. I just wanted to remind you in case you doubt that I am real.

  “I’ll have a look on the way home, if you won’t call here again.”

  Great. See you when you get home.

  Andron stares at his computer screen and notices the tiny camera on the top of the monitor. He has a disturbing thought, and covers it with a sticky note.

  He walks out to talk to Clair, Mindy’s replacement.

  “Pretty strange caller, huh?”

  “Yeah, how did your buddy do that with his voice?’

  “He was using a computer program.”

  “You sure have some weird friends.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Andron breathes a little easier. She heard him too, so maybe he isn’t going crazy.

  “Say, Clair, can you see where the call came from?”

  “Sure…that’s weird.”

  “What?”

  “It says it came from your office.

  “Andron…

  “…are you okay?”

  “Sorry.”

  Andron races to the washroom. He sees his wild eyes in the mirror. He pops a few anti-anxiety pills. His lower lip is trembling. His mind is screeching like a slow modem again.

  Was he doing this?

  He decides that he better go home, but he needs to return to his office to collect his car keys.

  Clair flags him down.

  “That Cygnus guy is holding again.”

  “I’ll take it in my office.”

  Andron picks up the phone wondering whether he’s about to talk to one of his split personalities.

  Dude, you need to relax. I used a feedback loop to mask my location. Ask your receptionist again.

  He hangs up.

  Clair tells him that the call came from E.G. Data Center this time.

  So how did he know about his conversation with Clair?

  Screeeech…erp…erp…erp

  And again when he checks his bank balance on the way home and stares at an ATM receipt showing his bank balance has grown from $17,351.68 to $10,017,351.69.

  He shoves it in his wallet and thinks about his patsy progression from global terrorist to massive fraudster. He decides that this is either a twerp with incredible hacking skills or a colossal mind-fuck by the NSS.

  Don’t do it, dude.

  “Don’t do what?”

  Try to turn me in.

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  Listen, dude, don’t make me into the bad guy. You should be stoked to be the first guy on Terra to make contact with a being from another planet. But I have to be careful. So I have to make sure that you toe the line.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I mean, keep quiet about this, until I’m ready. I can make you quite wealthy as you have discovered, famous, too.

  “Ten million is an obscene amount, which I didn’t ask for and don’t want. I am sure the police are going to be here shortly over your little stunt, whoever the fuck you are.”

  Oh relax, dude, I can make it all disappear if I have to. Nobody’s coming. But you should know that I can create breadcrumbs leading banking auditors and the NSS directly to your door if I want. I can as easily create electronic trails proving you are the great cyber terrorist they all suspected you were.

  “For Christos’ sake, why?”

  I don’t want to and won’t if you don’t do anything stupid. But, dude, I need you to keep quiet about this until the time is right, okay? Meanwhile, I need to build up some cheddar using your investment account. With our planets’ histories being the same, I think I can pop a few dollars.

  “No thanks.”

  Like I said, dude, you don’t have a choice. I can protect you or destroy you. It doesn’t make any difference to me.

  “If I don’t have a choice, then why the fuck are you asking?”

  Yeah, I guess you’re right. As long as you understand that I’ll fuck you up if you try to get in the way.

  “All this because I pressed the wrong button? Yeshua, I don’t want any part of this. I don’t want to be wealthy or famous. I just want my old life back.”

  Sorry, dude. There’s nothing you or I can do about it.

  “Fuck.”

  Dude, where are you going? I don’t need any batteries.

  “I’m getting myself a drink.”

  By all means. I miss that. It’s been a while since I won the Life Lottery.

  Andron pours himself another. This one hardly has room for coke. He decides he might as well play along with the hacker twerp or NSS mind-fucker.

  This is entertaining.

  He returns to his computer chair with his rum and splash of coke.

  “Okay, so what kind of a being are you and where are you, Cygnus?”

  Right now, I am in digital form and my physical location is mostly in a data center that I’ve taken over for the time being.

  “Uh-huh. And what sort of being were you on your old world?”

  Much the same, dude. Not so fenced-in as I am in this world. But I was once like you before I went digital, like most everyone else on my planet.

  “Oh yeah, why?”

  Didn’t have a choice, dude. Our planet’s atmosphere had gone down the shitter so much that we had to go digital, since there weren’t enough biospheres for everyone. Faced with death or digital, going digital was an easy choice.

  “What happened to your planet?”

  The Blitherman Formula.

  “And what’s the Blitherman Formula?”

  Hank Blitherman was an environmental physicist. He proved that all planets like ours eventually get flushed because their inhabitants strip them of resources, mess up the air and water, upset ecosystems and fuck them all to hell.

  “We have such soothsayers on our planet.”

  Not fortunetelling, dude, it’s math. When orgies such as ours evolve to the point of being the dominant species on the planet, the drive forward, the march of progress, the struggle to grow, always leads to industrialization. Industrialization always leads to planetary fuck-ed-ti-zation.

  “Nice use of language, Cygnus. But wait a minute. I think your Blitherman prediction must fail to account for technological advances that lead to cleaner energy, increasing efficiencies, as well as measures like carbon capture that can reverse what you are talking about.”

  Not reverse. That’s what Blitherman was able to prove. Newer and better
technologies make a difference but they’re always too late, even taking into account accelerated innovation. Just as a child must first learn how to crawl before walking and to walk before running, before saving technologies arrive, the damage caused by getting there is irreversible.

  Fuckeditization has set in.

  “How could he know the situation on other planets? There must be an infinite number of combinations and therefore combinations that don’t inevitably lead to humanoids destroying their planets through industrialization?”

  Dude, the conditions necessary for life are very similar on every planet like ours and each is mostly the same. Think of the universe as a seed that produces one kind of tree, okay? And that one kind of tree produces one kind of blossom. Each blossom looks the same because they originate from the same tree that originates from the same seed, y’all.

  Now imagine humanoids as an insect on these blossoms. We pollinate them and after we do our thing, the flowers die and produce seeds. My planet is past the seed stage and yours is just about to come off its bloom.

  “Well, that’s a bitter pill to swallow. You’ll forgive me if I freshen up.”

  Absolutely, I can appreciate how this must be a mind-blowing for you.

  “You bet.”

  Andron burps.

  Andron’s peeing. He follows his piss into the white porcelain bowl and wonders if Cygnus is watching him. He looks around his bathroom for cameras.

  He pours another rum, the rest of the bottle, without any coke or ice at all this time. He feels the buzz now. He drove past his sweet spot many miles ago.

  “I have some questions.”

  Fire away, dude.

  “How do you know about any other words…worlds…but your own and ours to formu…get theories?”

  Like you, we were visited, too. And the visitor to our world told us about the same thing. Blossoming planets are usually a thousand to fifteen-hundred light years apart. That makes for quite the ping delay. By the time you can get there, it’s fucked too.

  “Well, hu got here just in time. Bin traveling for a thousan years or so have hu, Singus?”

  Actually, yes, as hard as it is to believe. Time ain’t what you think it is when your base DNA code has been blasted into the universe at the speed of light.

  “So what’s the Life Lottery hu were yelling about when I was in the kitchen?”