Alien Agenda
Why They Came
Why They Stayed
By Steve Peek
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I have never met Melanie. I have seen photos and read reports. It is hard not to like her
Melanie has not spoken a word in the ten years since she was stillborn. The first time most people see her they assume she has Down’s syndrome complicated by autism. The few people who work with her know better. Though she never speaks, they ‘know’ when she wants something. Ask them and they will tell you it is not words or pictures that come to their mind, more a sense—a ‘knowing’—that she needs a specific thing.
Most of the day she sits on a Hello Kitty pillow in the middle of a muted hooked rug, aligning then realigning cat’s-eye marbles. She has a pink, drawstring bag containing about one hundred marbles, but she always chooses nine to play with. Not always the same nine, but never more or less.
Though Melanie does not speak, she is not mute. Music plays softly in her room. She is calmer when music plays. It doesn’t matter if it is rock-and-roll, salsa, classics, or marching bands so long as it is not loud. On rare, random occasions she hums a tune in perfect pitch exactly as she heard it. If the tune is played again and a single note is changed, her humming catches and duplicates the changed note. Play a long piece of music, change ten, twenty notes, it does not matter. Melanie never misses a beat. She does this while aligning marbles.
“School” for Melanie is two ‘classes’ a day. Each may last ten minutes or several hours depending upon her engagement. She usually sits studying and realigning her marbles and seems not to notice the stimuli used to tempt her participation. No one knows what might trigger her interest. The teachers and caretakers try everything: visual, sound, motion, objects, images, smells, tactile contact, music, film, TV, other kids, other adults, the list is virtually endless. On rare occasion she will engage. Her first response to a stimulus was humming to music. When she was encouraged to hum to music she showed no interest whatsoever, but now and then, something clicks and she hums her perfect tunes in her little-girl voice.
Once she reacted at the end of a National Geographic documentary. Her caretaker felt she wanted a pencil and paper pad. The caretaker placed them on the floor next to the marbles. Melanie pivoted on her pillow, picked up the pencil, and began doodling disembodied shapes and shadows at what appeared to be random places on the paper. Three hours later she went to the bathroom.
Returning, she plopped down on Hello Kitty and started replacing the nine marbles that were out with nine from the bag. The sketch pad contained elements from the TV documentary, drawn perfectly and in amazing detail. The Eiffel Tower, pyramids at Giza, Empire State building, Statue of Liberty, the Mayan pyramid at Chichen Itza, Great Wall of China, and a dozen other famous things from the National Geographic TV show. These were the main elements, and each stood out from a background of indigenous people, animals, houses, and plants. The drawing filled an 11” x 17” sheet from edge to edge, and was a stunning, almost photographic rendering of what she had seen. The most incredible thing about it was that when a map of the world as seen from orbit was projected on it, each major element was placed geographically correctly.
Melanie was the straw that broke this camel’s back.
I have never met her. I have seen three photos of her taken at various ages. Her copper-colored hair is cut short and oddly thin. Melanie’s head is a little too large, too round, making her chin look more pointed than it is. Her trunk and limbs seem too long and thin. Her small nose and mouth make her large eyes look bigger and farther apart than they are. Other than that she has a sweet, kindhearted look. It is hard not to like her.
She actually looks more like an anime character than someone with Down’s syndrome. Because of my involvement in all of this, I knew the instant I glanced at the first photo of Melanie. She is a hybrid.
How she came to be is the last straw for me. Now hear this.
Melanie’s mother and father were stationed at Travis Air Force Base north of San Francisco Bay in 1998, the year Melanie was born. In her third month, Mom tells the doctor about strange dreams where little people come in the night and examine her. She tells the doctor the little men don’t talk to her but she knows they want to make sure the baby is alright. The doctor laughs and accuses her of eating too many pickles at bedtime and tells her not to worry about it. A nurse in the room hears the story and retells it to a friend at the officer’s club over cosmos. The friend tells it to someone in her office who is into reading about abductions and he e-mails friends about it.
It didn’t have to be an e-mail. It could have been a text message or a conversation on a cell phone. Do you know about the government program to intercept terrorist communications? I will tell you a little.
The system appears simple. In a small office in a government building in Kansas City, Missouri a man works with a keyboard and a monitor. The walls are lined with shelves containing various numbers of every component necessary to build a computer like the two in the center of the room.
Each one is about the same size as a Maytag washing machine. The two computers are linked to each other so they each know what the other is doing but only one, Prime, works at a time. The backup only works when Prime has a problem.
The man has two functions: monitor the internal performance of Prime and keep it functional. Occasionally, when a part has to be upgraded or replaced, the man transfers operations and the second computer becomes Prime until the work is completed.
Cables run from the computers into the conduit in the wall then down to below street level and emerge from another wall more than one thousand miles away. A wireless, secure, satellite-transmission system exists in the Kansas City facility, but is only used in emergencies.
This is the heart of a system that monitors every cell-phone call, text message, and e-mail sent anywhere in the world.
I do not know where the cables emerge from the second wall, but I have an idea of what happens there.
Voice-recognition software is used everyday. Every time you call a service and the automated voice ask you to say ‘yes’ or ‘back to main menu’, you are using the technology. Well, a rudimentary version of it.
Someone operating the Prime computer provides it a list of words or phrases to find and report. Prime translates that list into about 100 languages and then listens to cell-phone calls and reads text and e-mails. Nothing is safe.
As incoming messages trigger keywords, Prime assigns priority codes. The number of trigger words in a message, the language in which the message was communicated, and the locations of the sender and receiver all figure into the priority.
The prioritized messages are read, cross-referenced with previous communication, and reported to the CIA, FBI, and the Pentagon, again, using secure hard lines.
At the Pentagon the list is subdivided by type and distributed to a number of departments.
What the FBI, CIA, and Pentagon don’t know is there is a fourth place that receives messages with a special set of keywords. This is the place that received the e-mail about Melanie’s mom’s dreams. This instigated an initial investigation, which led to the assignment of the special doctor and nurse who are engaged in a secret government program to create psychic warriors for the future. None of the babies they steal are really intended to be psychic warriors. They are currency in the negotiations with the HUC.
By the time Melanie’s mom is at six months, her doctor is transferred to Afghanistan and the nurse that handles the sonogram has already been replaced. The new doctor is young, a graduate of John Hopkins, and Mom feels good about the change.
The delivery is unusual. Melanie’s mom is having problems, and it is all she can do to hang on. She has little inclination to focus on her surroundings. The only people she would have recognized in the delivery room are the young doctor and Nurse Sonogram.
She comes out of the anesthesia. Her husband is red-eyed, sitting by her bed. The doctor tells her what the husband already knows. Her baby died at birth. Later, after she recovers, the doctor explains how sometimes these things happen. Later still, she is allowed to see a dead baby. The funeral is tragic: the tiny coffin, the canned service by a base chaplain. Melanie’s mom went home wondering about all the things she did wrong in her life to cause this.
Melanie is alive and well. She, the young doctor, and nurse were choppered to an unknown location, which is Melanie’s new world.
It is bad enough to have placed all this on Mom’s shoulders. Worse still, someone else’s baby was murdered so Mom would have a body to bury.
I am too old. Twenty years ago, reading the reports and typing the summary, I would have been annoyed at the arrogance of the people who could do this. Now, it makes me angry—angry enough to do something about it.
It turns out Melanie is a very special little girl. She is the trillion dollar jackpot on the alien slot machine. Rolled into one small, Hello Kitty-loving, ten year old is a being with the potential to fill all three seats necessary to navigate craft safely between dimensions.
Melanie is the only one of her kind so far. Statistically, she is the winning ticket in a cosmic lottery where it requires a half page of zeros to show the odds. With the HUC improving their genetics program the odds are in freefall. At some point the HUC’s medical teams may better target humans having genetic tendencies and improve their manipulations to where one out of ten efforts produces a winner. At that point, human economics will center on raising and training the winning numbers.
For the present, the HUC seems content to produce a child competent to fill one of the three seats. Melanie is the triple-crown winner.
But what are they winning?
The HUC needs, for lack of a better phrase, flight crews: entities with incredible focus and memories. Each crew consists of a person on Harmony, another on Photography, and finally, a Detailer.
Using HUC craft that move with dimensional portal fluctuations (doorways), the flight crews are plugged into machinery. Literally, they are plugged in. In addition to recycling and oxygenating their blood, providing nourishment and providing waster, their brains are plugged into portal translation devices that allow them to see, feel, smell, virtually touch the ever-morphing fabric of quantum nothingness between dimensions.
Portal is a misnomer. This area of various forms of radiation and energy fields can connect to millions of dimensions. The connection ranges from a powerful singularity that nearly pulls other dimensions into itself to frail, weak, and fragile signs that only whispers hints of a doorway. For now, we will stick with portal.
Portals to discovered dimensions are recorded. Their Harmonics, light fluctuations, radiation, and fields are played into the flight crew’s minds. Using their senses and talents, each crew member searches the ever-shifting portal to find the one set of criteria that matches what is on the recording. Once the crew member has it, they lock on and determine at what point the portal’s rhythm will exactly match the recording. When all three crew members coordinate synchronization, the craft projects electromagnetic plasma that stabilizes the portal between two specific dimensions. Viewed from either dimension, the doorway appears to open and close in a blink. In reality, the HUC craft freezes time in that bit of space long enough for other craft to pop through.
Pop is not an oversimplification of what happens. The craft traversing dimensions ‘pops’ out of one and into another. Now you see it, now you don’t. Now someone somewhere else sees it.
All craft are designed with navigational devices that direct their ‘pop-ins’ to previously known points. This usually results in the craft appearing in orbit around a specific planet or plasma cloud or wherever the craft is going to trade, mine, or conquer. Sometimes things go wrong and the craft appears in space beneath a planet’s surface, or under a sea. This can result in the pop being followed by a ‘snap, crackle, crunch.’
It’s quite possible the UFO downed at Roswell was popping in or out when the Rainbow Projector disrupted the navigation device and they popped into the ground.
So creating the humans and other life forms that can find and open portals is essential to the HUC’s economy. The good news is they have become quite good at doing this.
The bad news is that, for reasons unknown to us, we believe the flight crews have relatively short lifespans once they began manipulating portals. The HUC accepts this as a cost of doing business. It’s likely they have genetic or some other mutating operations taking place on anywhere from thousands to millions of planets in every parallel universe where life has been discovered.
While Melanie would be the champion Portal Crew member of all time, that’s not the reason she is so valuable. If they were able to clone her genetics, they might improve their mutation programs to a success rate that tripled the number of flight crew members available from the same quantity of genetic farming.
At least the illuminati in our government believe this, and have sequestered Melanie as the prize chip in any future negotiations.
Chapter 25
N. Fairfax Drive, Arlington, VA
“Missing aircraft,” one of the younger Team Intercept members called out, leaning back and rubbing his eyes.
As Kate approached, he continued, “N321DC. Flight plan from Huntsville to Miami. It dropped off Pensacola radar over the Gulf. That was about three hours ago.”
“Good job,” Kate said, patting his shoulder and leaning closer to see the screen.
She stood erect and said to the young woman to her right, “Heather, find out who we have in Huntsville, get ‘em on the phone and patch them to my headset.”
Turning back toward the display nearest her she said, “Okay, what do we know about that….?”
Tom Cray cut her off from his worktable. “N321DC is registered to the Merit Electronics Corporation.”
“… plane,” she finished her sentence then added, “Shit. Double shit, shit, shit. That old fuck has half of Congress at his troughs.” She paused, thinking, then added, “Why would Charles Merit have anything to do with this?”
Tom hit his enter button and said under his breath, “Something goes missing that causes the greatest manhunt in recorded history and the same day a multi-billionaire’s plane drops off the radar and vanishes. Coincidence? I think not.”
Kate’s headset buzzed. “Heather, please get me what we have on Mr. Merit,” she said, before turning her attention to the FBI agent in Huntsville, Alabama.
Before she hung up the phone, Tom started talking, “N321DC, it’s a Falcon 900. It can cruise at 600 miles per hour, give or take, and has a range of 5,000 miles with internal and can be extended another 2,000 with external tanks. Which means there are a lot of places they can pop up.”
Kate gave a great sigh and dialed TLS. This was not going to be fun. Before he finished saying ‘Hello,’ Kate waded in, filling in the details and ending with the suggestion Homeland Security engage Interpol to monitor all aircraft landings within a 7,000-mile radius of Mobile, Alabama.
Then, just like clockwork, TLS began a barrage of questions to which Kate had no answers or she would have already told him. Once he understood she did not have the answers, his next ploy was to ask for her best guess to a particular question, then Kate would tell him speculation usually leads to wasted time and money and he would raise his voice two levels thinking that this time it might impact Kate. It never did.
Tom had pulled up some data on Merit. He had to admit if Merit was involved in this and James Tate was behind it, then Tate kept powerful company. He wondered what Tate could have possibly offered Merit that would make him risk imprisonment.
“Guys,” Kate announced, “I’m leaving normal duties with the FBI center for the time being. I want all of you to go home, get some rest, then be back here in eight hours.” She looked at each of them, “We are going to be in for the duration once that plane lands.”
As they stood up to leave, Kate opened the file on her desktop. The PDF document was so sensitive it had been put together by one of the government’s scribes, maybe even Tate himself. A red stamp across the top of the first page read, ‘Congressional Influence,’ another stamp, this one purple just below the red one read, “Presidential Influence.”
The title of the paper was Charles Winston Merit.
Chapter 26
Aboard N321DC
Jim Sees had fallen asleep as the three-engine jet slashed through the air over the Gulf of Mexico. When he woke, he stood up to use the toilet and noticed the other passengers were all asleep except for Merit, who was engrossed in a thick book titled The Arms of Krupp.
When he came out of the toilet, Charles Merit was looking at him. The white-haired man smiled and winked then went back to his book.
Sees sat, raised the shade on his window, and looked down. Thirty thousand feet below him clouds appeared as white islands on a sea of green. Ten thousand feet below the clouds was an endless, green carpet covering everything to the Earth’s curved horizon. As he studied the piece he saw through his small porthole, Jim made out occasional rivers and tiny clearings that might have been towns or villages.
“The world is different from up here,” Charles Merit said softly, his northern Alabama accent sounding the last work as ‘he-ah’. He did not allow Jim the opportunity to respond, “It almost makes me believe in God.”
Jim looked at him, trying to decide what, if anything, he wanted to say.
Merit locked eyes with Jim and offered his annoying little smile that made him look wise and smug at the same time. “If I was God, this is where I would be when I wanted to look at my garden.” Merit pointed a finger at the view beyond the window. “When you get too close you see all the bugs eating your creation.”
“And we are the bugs?” Jim asked, leaning toward the side of the plane to put a little distance between himself and this man who would be God.
“Oh no, Mr. Sees. We aren’t that big in the scheme of God’s garden.” He looked at Jim to see if he seemed interested in hearing more. He didn’t, so Merit rose and turned to go back to his seat.
“What are we then?” Jim Sees surprised himself when that question tumbled out of his mouth.
Merit bent back down and said, “Why, Mr. Sees, we are cells in the bugs’ bloodstreams. Civilizations are the bugs.”
The cockpit door opened and the pilot approached Merit. They were landing in an hour. Merit nodded and returned to his seat.
Fifteen minutes later Merit moved from seat to seat waking everyone up.
He allowed them time to make trips to the toilet, grab water or juice from the refrigerator, and generally shake the cobwebs from their brains. He retrieved a metal briefcase from a cabinet, placed it on the countertop, and snapped open the latches.
“Okay, folks, we’ll be landing in a little while and it is time to give you your survival kits.”
Everyone but Melanie, busy with her small crystal ball, waited with anticipation.
Merit removed a stack of 9 x 12 manila envelopes from the case. Each had a name written in marker on it. He said, as he moved from seat-to-seat distributing each to its new owner, “Inside there’s identification documents— the most important is a passport—as well as credit cards, driver’s licenses, business cards, old movie tickets, all the stuff you might find in a purse or wallet. There is also a sheet explaining your new identities. Take some time now to learn who you are.
“Be thorough,” Merit continued. “At the very least, if we are lucky, we will have to clear Colombian immigration to get out of the airport.” He paused and added, “This is important. If we are still here when the people looking for us find out where we are, we are all going to be very unhappy.”
Jim opened his new passport. He was now Mr. Robert Werner from Parma, Ohio. He had grown up outside of Cleveland and knew the area, so he felt he could wing any questions about his residency. He was also a technical writer for the computer company SAP. He studied the rest of his documents and placed them in the used wallet that gave the envelope its thickness. When he was finished, he felt a little comfort because it looked genuine.
The plane had taxied into a hangar for private aircraft, and a Colombian official waited at the foot of the aircraft’s door steps.
Jim quickly concluded Colombian drug lords and their customers don’t relish waiting in immigration and customs lines. So, at the Bogota International airport, passengers on private jets were afforded their own detachment of immigration officials.
Jim and Merit were at the aircraft door. Everyone else was at the foot of the stairs having their passports examined by an official with a UV flashlight. Merit said, in his deceptively soft southern voice, “Y’all go to the pick-up area. Look for a driver holding up a sign that says ‘Sr. Werner’. That’ll be you.” He smiled then added, “He will take you to a hotel. Get on the Internet. Nice knowin’ you.”
Jim saw a fuel truck pulling into the hangar and a ground crew preparing the Falcon 900. Jim understood. Merit was out of here, his part done.
He turned toward Merit and asked, “Why?”
“Made a deal. Owed a guy a favor. My word is my bond. Now we are even,” Merit said and stuck out his hand.
“Well, thank you I suppose,” Jim said releasing the handshake and heading down the steps.
Chapter 27
N. Fairfield Rd, Arlington, VA
Tom Cray knew it was over for now. He knew the powers that be would bluster, pose, and demand action, but so long as Tate and his crew of kidnappers remained silent there was very little chance of discovering anything more.
They learned, several hours too late, that N321DC had landed in Bogota, Colombia. Four people deplaned and cleared immigration and had been picked up by a hired limousine driver who took them to the Hotel Dann Carlton.
N321DC refueled, filed a flight plan to Lisbon, Portugal. From there it flew to Cyprus. Flight records indicated the plane had remained there, but it was gone.
The four people had checked into the hotel, picked up a package at the desk addressed to Mr. Werner, and gone to their two rooms. The next morning the two men, a woman, and a redheaded girl ate breakfast and boarded a bus providing historical tours of Bogota.
That was the last anyone had seen or heard from them. A maid cleaning the room the two men stayed in found identification documents in the trash can: passports, driver’s licenses, credit cards, and various other documents for Mr. Werner and each of the other three.
Kate Hollister was happily refocusing on more important technical snooping: ferreting out terrorist threats instead of virtually chasing a nun and a little girl around the world. The filters were set to trigger and reactivate the kidnapping investigation. Kate knew eventually something would throw the switch again. Try as she might, she could not imagine how finding the woman and the girl could take precedence over terrorist threats. In the scheme of things, how important could they be?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
My name is Jim Tate. I decided when my wife died that Einstein had been right about living: life is worth living only if you have someone to live it for. I decided when Crypto, the best dog that ever tolerated me, passed on, it would be more important to tell this story than to live out what is left of my life in lonely resentment over the time I wasted with my career and not with my family. I was a good government man for almost four decades. I did what I was told and kept my mouth shut. No more.
You are ready to learn the bottom line. Now hear this.
It turns out our tribe did not sell our planet to the colonists for beads and trinkets. We sold it for drugs, the kind that generates unbelievable wealth and power. Once the new science and technology was shot into our political veins, we were hopelessly hooked. The black SUV squad had a busy second half of the twentieth century. Anything that threatened the continuation of the Truman Treaty was dealt with swiftly and severely. No one was exempt, not even President Kennedy.
By the time Eisenhower gave his famous Military-Industrial Complex speech, we knew alien experiments on sleeping victims were increasing annually. Six months before Kennedy was assassinated, we knew the alien goal was to genetically alter the human race for their own purposes and that one of the side effects would be to increase the number of people born with autism by five hundred to a thousand times. It was only after President Bush and Rumsfeld were stood up in the high-desert night that we realized we had been cut off. Cold turkey. No more new toys to feed our addiction.
Human nature is often to suspect the worse of fellow men. It naturally follows not only should we know non-fellow men are at some point going to break their agreement, but just knowing they will makes it okay to break the agreement first. Hence, knowing the HCU would break our treaty (which they did not, they simply let it expire and did not show up to renew it) we spent a few decades improving the Project Rainbow projectors and developed new energy-based weapons in preparation for the day the HCU would cross us.
So now you know everything about how we came to be where we are. Why we are here and what we are going to do about it are uncertain.
The best theory for the ‘Why’ of it all goes back to how the aliens came here in the first place: nuclear detonations disturbing parallel universes. Without going into quantum mechanic details (which I couldn’t anyway) here are the basics.
Every universe is connected to dozens (maybe thousands) of other parallel dimensions. Myths from every culture contain stories of abductions and heroic trips to other worlds. Granted, the crossing from one dimension to the next was usually accidental and more often than not ugly things found their way to our side of the dimensional fence. Distilling these stories to common elements, we find dimensional crossings are almost always accompanied by booming, bass sounds, musical (though not necessarily pleasant) notes, strange light displays, earthquakes, solar alignments, and electromagnetic activity.
Imagine all of these elements are involved in a connection between dimensions. Further imagine these elements are constantly fluctuating relative to the specific connection and to each other. A single doorway to another dimension might randomly open for a few seconds before the fluctuations close it for another 13 billion years.
Now imagine two or three autistic savant riverboat pilots stationed in a craft between dimensions with equipment capable of manipulating the fields and forces that allow dimensional connections. Each operates a machine, each remembers precisely the patterns of sound, light, and energy that culminate in opening the door between worlds. Their job is simple: keep this one door open. Keep it open so a never-ending stream of cargo continues to flow, feeding unimaginable colonial expansion into billions of universes.
I was a good government man. What a waste. If I had my life to live over I would have had more children and kept less secrets. I’m too old to father more kids, so I guess I’ll just keep less secrets until the SUV pulls up outside.
Chapter 29
A New Home
There is an orphanage that has two new residents; an autistic, red-haired girl named Melanie, and a new teacher named Sister Fran. This is the second wonderful gift from God in the same year. Only a few months earlier they received electricity, so now the children have light at night, don’t have to carry water from the well, and someday soon a very generous man will send them a computer.
The children are very excited about receiving the computer. Most of the children in the orphanage are normal, fun-loving, homework-hating, put-your-chores-off kids. There is one, Crista, who looks a lot like Melanie. She is autistic and does not talk either. They came together like two peas in Mendel’s pod.
At night, when the two play with their sets of crystal stones, some claim to have seen a soft glow in their room.
About the same time Melanie arrived at the orphanage, men sitting outside smoking after dinner claimed they saw strange, glowing lights near the peaks of the sacred mountains.
7 July, One Year Later
I am not sure I will ever return to the United States. It’s very beautiful here, and things are working out very nicely. Just like 1947-07 promised.[ahh ok, I was mistaken when I said Steve Peek was 1947-07 in a earlier part(3 or 4, I forget) Peek then is the man that used to be Jim Sees DC]
We stayed at the orphanage for nearly a month. At first it was boring beyond belief. Well, for myself and Mr. Blue.
Sister Fran, who spoke fluent Spanish, took immediately to teaching the children. They ranged in age from infant to fifteen. She taught English and French to all ages, and math, physics, and world geography to the older kids.
Melanie and Crista were like long-lost twins who never spoke. They became inseparable and extremely adept at performing feats of ‘magic’ using their sets of small crystal balls. I actually saw one that involved placing the nine balls, the largest in the center, in the tic-tac-toe layout. They hummed their tunes and worked their hovering hands in circular motions until the crystal balls began to vibrate, then one by one they rose from the floor. As they took on a glow, they formed a circle of about a foot diameter and slowly circled the larger center crystal. The glowing balls faded in and out of existence for two or three minutes until the girls allowed them to slowly come to a stop and let gravity have its way. They seemed to smile at each other.
Sometimes, late at night, Melanie and Crista sit cross-legged on their beds playing with their crystal marbles. They say you could see the glow coming from under the door.
Three times after these episodes, men would come from the mountains to talk to Mother Superior. Without giving away too much, the area’s ancient myths testified to a place of oracles. It was high in the mountains, not terribly far from the orphanage. When the indigenous people were conquered, the shrine built to the oracle was destroyed.
I occasionally take weekend trips and camp in a valley below the oracle’s ruins. I bring no electronics. It is a quiet, unplugged sort of place. I learned to meditate there, which has helped me enormously to work through all the choices I made that cost the loss of so many years of my life and my family. Two or three times, while asleep in my tent by the oracle, dreams came to me. In them someone spoke to me, maybe the oracle: I can believe almost anything at this point. The voice told me things about myself, things hidden so deeply the only sign of their existence was a swath of self destruction. These dreams introduced me to my real self and somehow, just knowing the truth allowed me to bring it to the front of my thoughts and address it. I feel much better now.
I stopped going on the oracle overnighters. It felt like too much, too soon. My emotions were vibrating like high-tension wires. It took some time and help from Sister Fran to deal with the dark things rising in my soul. The next and last time I went to the oracle was on a field trip with Melanie, Crista, and Fran.
Sister Fran had come down from the orphanage to take care of weekly business in the village. As was our custom, we were breakfasting on the patio of a small café.
“Melanie made me aware she wants the two of us to take her and Crista to the oracle this Thursday,” Sister Fran said as she picked up her tea and blew across its surface.
Sister Fran was always cautious to phrase her conversations with Melanie and Crista so that she did not give the impression either of the girls had actually spoken words.
I understood that Melanie never actually spoke, and knew that if she ever did, Sister Fran would make such a case of it that there would be no doubt about the mode of communication.
“Did she say why?” I asked, taking a slow sip of the rich, powerful coffee. So special was the coffee here that I quickly gave up first cream and then sugar.
“I didn’t ask,” Sister Fran said. “Melanie hardly asks for anything anymore now that she and Crista have each other, so when she requested this outing I knew it is important to her.”
Sister Fran picked up her pastry and, just before taking a small bite, said, “We have to go Thursday morning. We can come back Friday morning.”
On my previous journeys to the ancient sacred place, I had the luxury of time, and since I do not have a vehicle at my disposal, I alternately rode and walked two burros up the mountain tracks.
“Have you borrowed the truck?” I asked, knowing the orphanage’s fifteen-year-old Ford F-150 was the only way for us to go there and back so quickly.
“Yes.” Sister Fran took a draught of tea, looking around the small village square with a cautious eye for people who do not seem to belong. “I’ll pick you up at 10:00 AM,” she said, then quickly added, “If you are in, that is.”
The paranoid residue of the ordeal that brought us to this place was receding, but it was not gone. It may never leave us completely. I found myself glancing around corners, covertly studying people passing through the village.
I climbed into the truck’s passenger seat Thursday morning. The girls didn’t mind being crowded together on the truck’s single seat. Once we cleared the village, Sister Fran drove like a NASCAR dirt-track racer.
We arrived in the early afternoon. Fran spread a heavy blanket on the ground for the girls to sit on while I unloaded the truck. I erected two tents, then poured a glass of water from the ceramic pot lashed in the pickup’s bed.
Fran made two fires: one for cooking dinner, and a larger one for warmth against the night chill.
It had been a clear day, but by the time the light faded enough to reveal the amazing spectacle of the stars, dark, bruised clouds hung about the mountaintop and descended toward us as the temperature dropped.
Fran and I cut and hauled some large logs to the big fire, as the clouds would bring cold mist and the flames needed to be robust to generate enough heat to keep the mist off the wood.
Dinner was sandwiches made with local sausages and bread.
After dinner we lit the lanterns in the tents and waited for Melanie to let us know when it was time to move to the oracle. The girls sorted and resorted their crystal spheres. Sister Fran read a thin book, which was treatise on St. Thomas Aquinas’s writings about angels. I sat on the tent floor looking outside at the fire’s flames flickering in the thickening mist.
About 10:00 PM, Melanie and Crista stood and put on their plastic ponchos and stood just outside the tent waiting for us.
We formed a single-file line of hooded figures, barely visible in the lanterns’ light. As we moved up, the temperature dropped, and the mist might as well have been rain. I led the way with one lantern and Sister Fran brought up the rear of our tightly spaced group holding her lantern high enough keep her eyes on the girls as much as the ground.
What should have been a fairly easy fifteen-minute ascent to the spot that marked the oracle turned into a half hour of making sure each step was secured against the slippery rocks and wet mud. At one point I thought we had missed it then, for the first time, I felt Melanie in my head. “A little farther.” As Sister Fran had said, it was more a feeling than a voice.
We reached the small plateau on the mountain’s side that holds the oracle. The cloud and accompanying mist made it impossible to see, but I felt its presence.
About thirty feet before reaching the cliff facing containing the oracle, Melanie and Crista stopped. They held hands, then looked at us. “Stay here,” Melanie’s creepy communication instructed. This was my first experience with Melanie talking to me. Quite frankly, I didn’t like it. It felt alien.
Sister Fran said, “No, honey, we need to come with you.”
“Stay here,” came again, stronger this time. I don’t know if I could have followed if I tried, but I let the two girls slowly fade into the grayness.
Fran stepped up to be by my side.
“You okay?” I asked, using my hand to wipe the water off my face.
“Did you feel that?” Fran asked. I found myself speaking very loudly. A deep tone had built its volume so slowly I just now noticed it had dampened all other sounds.
“That!” Fran shouted and braced herself against an unfelt wind.
Then some miniscule force sliced through my body at the speed of light. It was not there, then, a fraction of a second later, it moved through me and was gone almost too quickly to notice.
Through the rain, where I supposed the girls stood at the oracle, a soft, blue light pulsed, barely visible in the mist and fog. At first the pulses were slow, one every two or three seconds, and the brightness of the electric-blue light waxed and waned. Each pulse was faster and brighter than the one before it. At some point, when the bluish light created a strobe effect, I could see the girls holding hands before the oracle, their free hands’ palms flat against the slick, wet surface. I tried to move, but all I could do was watch and wonder if the light came from the oracle or the girls. It was not possible to tell.
After the first dozen pulses that shot through my body, I became disoriented and a little nauseous with each new and more powerful bolt that cut through me.
The bluish light, now complimented with magenta, clicked on and off so quickly it almost seemed constant. Its magnitude continued to increase.
A pulse ripped through me and I nearly collapsed with vertigo. Sister Fran dropped to her knees and clasped her hands in prayer. She was shouting, but the continuous bass tone blocked all sound now.
The powerful blue light, now mixed with flares of magenta and neon green, seemed to ignite. If it had been bright before, it was now unbearable to see. It was like staring directly at the sun on a desert noon. My eyes slammed shut, but even so the afterimages took on a solid realness. I could see the pulse moving toward me in extreme slow motion now. It was a thin, vertical line brighter than the rest of an expanding bubble. Somehow I knew that Sister Fran saw her own thin line of energy coming directly at her. Even in super slow motion it came at me fast. Just before it hit me I flashed on a memory.
Have you ever been in an earthquake? They are not all the same. The oddest earthquake experience I had happened twenty-something years ago on the beach in Acapulco, Mexico. I had just stood and was brushing sand off my swimsuit when two things happened. I felt a slight feeling of dizziness, and out of the corner of my eye I caught movement.
Turning my head to see up the beach, the palm trees were now swaying. They were shaking violently back and forth three or four times, then they came to a stop. It was if the shaking trees were charging toward me. The next thing I saw was people performing balancing acts on the beach, some more successful than others. Finally, I saw the hump in the sand. It was a small mound, maybe a foot high and three feet wide. It emerged from the ocean, ran across the beach and onto the golf course above. It moved at tremendous speed. Just before it reached me I could see grains of sand dancing a foot into the air above the mound. As it moved beneath my feet I was downed like a student surfer on Hawaii’s north shore.
The earthquake on the beach was nothing like the line of energy speeding toward me. It was, however, the only experience that even relates to the pulse.
When it hit my body, it split me. I was me on the left and also me on the right. The subatomic particles where the force split me were flung away from the line and, as it passed, they panicked, like the sand grains on the earthquake hump, trying to restore their balance. As the light passed beyond my body it sealed the split, but in the joyful reunion of particles there were tiny differences. I fell, not knowing when the fall had started.
The next think I remember was the feel of Crista’s soft hand on my shoulder. She gently pulled, physically imploring me to rise. My eyes opened and I saw Sister Fran still locked in prayer with Melanie stroking her face soothingly.
We made it back to the tents. Neither Fran nor I spoke the whole way back. The kids went into their tent and climbed into sleeping bags. Sister Fran had planned on sleeping in the pickup truck’s cab but changed her mind and brought her sleeping bag over to my tent and settled in.
I loaded the fire up with wood and climbed into my bedroll, thinking I would have no sleep tonight. About a minute later I was out like a light, a blue, pulsing light that took me to faraway places.
The next morning, we packed up and headed back to the village. Sister Fan and I passed the time speaking of mundane things. It was several weeks later, at our favorite coffee shop, before we finally began to exchange stories about that fantastic night.
As I said, it’s beautiful here. I have a house on a beach. My book royalties are deposited in an account on the Isle of Man. The advance on my new book swelled the balance to ten times its highest previous amount.
I sent the first three chapters and outline for this book to my publisher. They loved it, hence the advance check that led to the house on the beach.
The best news of all is next month my ex-wife and children are meeting me for two weeks in Fiji to celebrate my one-year anniversary of sobriety.
It turns out 1947-07 was right about everything except Melanie.
Watching Melanie and Crista perform their magic, thinking about how valuable they are to the HUC, I wondered why the aliens didn’t just abduct Melanie when she was still in Virginia, or why not right here. Then I figured it out. The aliens’ genetic program created something they didn’t expect; something of which the sum is greater than its parts. They are afraid of her.
Yesterday, over bread and coffee, Sister Fran told me that Crista was beginning to communicate with her in the same manner as Melanie. Sister Fran felt this was some kind of breakthrough.
I am happy the girls don’t communicate with me often. I find it a creepy experience, and some part of my consciousness wants to reject it on the grounds that if they can put things in my mind, they can take things out.
The big news Sister Fran had for me is Melanie and Crista told her together. It was one communication in her head but she knew it was both girls. They told her soon everything will be perfect. Their sister is coming.
THE END
SOURCE
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