Power

by E. S. Strout

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

1235 hours: Probe Z4 to Z2R Alpha Epsilon: Mind probe of security alien not useful. Female medical type equivocal. Will concentrate on scientist.

Z2R Alpha Epsilon response: Success is imperative.

When they returned to Adrian’s lab the message waiting light was blinking. Dr. Maas listened, blinking with concern. “Thank God.”

“Adrian? What is it?”

“It was Blake. He was admitted to the infirmary with severe headaches. They did tests, all normal. The headaches quit and he signed himself out.”

“I’d better look at his test results...“ Susan winced. “Ow. Now I have one. Ten on the Richter Scale.” She took three Tylenols, chewed and swallowed without water. Then four more.

Maas stumbled to his desk chair. “Mine is back too. How odd. I sense numbers again.”

He reached in a desk drawer, removed a pint bottle of Jack Daniels. “Now don’t get antsy, Susan. This is an experiment. It worked yesterday.”

He took a swallow as Grant favored him with a skeptical eye. “Hmm. Headache’s easing up. Numbers still there, very clear.”

“Write them down,” Dr. Grant gasped as she massaged her temples.

7146 3214 8804 9601...

“How do you do that?” she asked as the computer screen confirmed the figures from the intercepted transmission.

“They mean something,” Adrian said. “I need to get my cryptographic brain wrapped around them.”

Dr. Grant exhaled a sigh of relief. “My headache just quit. Gone in an instant, like a switch was turned somewhere.”

Maas took another swallow. “You’re lucky.”

Susan stood. “Give me an hour or so to do some research, then go to the Neurology lab. It’s room 304. When they finish, come to my office.”

Dr. Grant’s office. 1500 hours

Susan was studying a computer image when Dr. Maas arrived. “How did it go, Adrian?”

He plopped in a chair. “They were waiting for me. What’s a PET scan?”

“Positron Emission Tomography. It lights up areas of increased brain activity.” She turned the screen. “Here’s yours.”

“Wow. Looks like a fireworks display.”

“That’s your frontal lobe cortex. It’s involved with intuitive and cognitive functions. Definitely hyperactive.” She clicked another key. “Your MRI right after the accident. Suggestive but not conclusive.”

Grant pulled up another image. “This is Mr. Watkins PET scan, taken when he was admitted with his headache attack.” She clicked another key. “And this one is mine, taken an hour before yours. No fireworks in either.”

Dr. Maas massaged his neck with both hands. “So my frontal lobes are working overtime. Explanation, Susan?”

She pushed a current Neurology Research journal across the desk. “Take a look.”

Adrian scanned the highlighted text and shrugged. “That’s a mouthful, Susan. Way over my head.”

“The authors believe that ethanol may increase the sensitivity of molecular receptors in the sensory neural synapses of a few individuals.”

He gave her a questioning look. “You mean like me?”

Dr. Grant nodded. “You could be hypersensitive to external stimuli. Like those weird transmissions.”

Her cell phone broke into The Beatles’ “Across the Universe.” “Dr. Grant here. Of course, Mr. Watkins. Bring it right over.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, but he’s pretty excited.”

Watkins handed Dr. Grant a computer printout with a series of numbers. “Some folks in U.C. Berkeley’s Astronomy Department picked this up. NASA believes it’s our hacker. Your Q-7 password opens it.”

She tapped a flurry of keystrokes as Blake and Adrian peered over her shoulder. A logo followed by Allen Radiotelescope Array appeared at the top of the page. Another series of numbers followed. “What are these?” she asked.

Watkins shrugged. “Beats me.”

Dr. Maas said: “I think I know. Keep going, Susan.”

She pressed another series of keys. A star chart appeared, with a red circle emphasizing a small cluster in the center. A bemused smile. “Adrian?”

“Celestial coordinates. Enlarge it and get a printout.”

They spread it out on one of Susan’s examining tables. Adrian read the text aloud. “Zeta Reticuli. A constellation with multiple star systems. 93 light-years from Earth. Two-way streams of numeric code from there to us.”

Watkins smiled. “A UFO, Doctors.”

Adrian nodded. “So it seems. Just a foreign language, only not of Earth. Who are they? What are they doing here?”

Susan grabbed his arm. “Think, Adrian. Your cognitive cerebral areas are working. Get past the headache.”

“Right.” He took a swallow of Jack Daniels. “Don’t worry, Blake. This is legitimate therapy approved by Dr. Grant.”

“Adrian,” Sue gasped, “I didn’t mean...”

“Hush up, Susan. My modified sensory neural receptors are speaking to me. Move over.”

Maas took two more large swallows, made a gagging sound. He pressed fingertips against his temples, squeezed his eyelids shut. “Good God,” he muttered. “These numbers. I thought so.”

Susan and Blake stared as Dr. Maas hammered keys. “I can decode their messages now. Their syntax is a bit weird, but I can approximate. Here it comes.”

Probe Z4 transmission: Brain probe failure. Neural function altered by unusual chemical imbalance in target scientist. Pathways are conjoined. It can decode our transmissions... We have power vehicle coordinates.

Z2R Alpha Epsilon response: Acquire, then terminate mission.

“I’m calling Air Force Security,” Watkins yelled as he punched cell phone keys.

Dr. Grant gave the screen a worried stare. “Acquire? What does...”

Maas stumbled to his feet. “Give me a hand here Blake, Susie. The garage. Hurry!” he shouted in a drunken slur. “We’ve only got minutes.”

1520 hours

“Susan, Blake, wait in my office. You’ll be safe there.”

It seemed an eternity to fumble into the HAZMAT suit in Adrian’s inebriated state. Longer to make a small change under the Corvette’s hood.

He slammed it shut, just missing a fingertip. “This better be right,” he whispered in a barely decipherable mutter.

Seconds later there was a blinding flash.

“It’s gone,” he muttered as he shed the HAZMAT gear in the office.

“Oh no,” Sue wailed. “The Corvette?”

Maas nodded. “They have teleportation capability, but they can’t transmit organic structures. They’d have grabbed me if they did.”

“How can you know that?” a skeptical Watkins asked.

“I could hear, sense, feel all input from them and their craft’s data banks now. Their ship is fueled by plutonium,” Dr. Maas said. “Their mind probe caused the headaches.”

“What did you do in the garage?” Susan asked.

I took a chance. Muons are very reactive if their half-life is prolonged, especially with other radioactive elements. Like in the aliens’ plutonium reactor.”

“You removed the shielding,” Blake said.

“I did.”

“Good God, Adrian,” Susan shrieked. “They are more technically advanced than us. Stealth and FTL technology, tachyon transmission capability and teleportation. They’re aiming some kind of weird weapon at us right now.”

Maas hiccuped, excused himself, giggled. “They don’t have one, Susie. But they would use my cold fusion specs to make weird weapons.”

“We assume alien races will be more advanced,” he slurred. “These guys are inept klutzes. They couldn’t crack my files and their mind probe only gave me a headache. Superior intellect, my ass.”

“Hell of a first contact scenario,” Adrian muttered. “All they had to do was ask. We could have shared technology. Damn.”

Security Chief Watkins raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What happens now, amigo?”

“Help me to Susie’s office before I fall on my face,” he mumbled. “Then surf the all-news channels on her TV. You’ll see.”

1730 hours

Susan poured a fourth cup of strong black coffee for Dr. Maas as he held an ice bag to his throbbing skull. “You’re going to be hung over for a week, Adrian. You put away all that Jack Daniels in an hour.”

“Oh God,” he moaned. “My bladder is ready to burst.”

“Here it is, Doctors,” Watkins said as he hit the volume.

BREAKING NEWS. Science Editor Randall Roberts reporting:

A sudden bright flash was seen at 5:02 P.M, EST by an orbiting telescope. Not a known asteroid or comet, about half way between Mars orbit and Jupiter. Satellites with radiation detection capability report a burst of gamma rays and subatomic particles, consistent with a major nuclear incident. Updates to follow. Stay tuned to Fox News...

Watkins’s cell phone tweeted. He listened for a full minute, shook his head. “I’ll tell them,” he said with a dubious frown.

“What?” Susan asked.

“We’re celebrities,” Blake said with a sour grimace. “Homeland Security, FBI, CIA, NASA, and the Air Force are all lining up to debrief us.”

“I think I’m getting another headache,” Dr. Maas groaned.

“I can get more Jack Daniels,” Watkins said with a wry grin. He barely dodged Maas’s flung icebag.

“Professor Maas needs a more sensitive type of therapy, Mr. Watkins,” Susan said. She took Adrian’s hand and gave his sutured face a delicate but tender kiss.