1
8 December 1985
0715 Hours Mountain Time
“So, what do you feel like doing for your birthday?” Erica asked, draped across Cherko’s naked body. She traced a finger along his chest.
“Well, this is pretty nice...”
“All day?”
“And why not? I can’t imagine another person I’d rather be with—wait, gimme a minute—”
Erica hit him.
“Since my birthday’s really tomorrow, and I have to work, why don’t we go for a drive today,” he said. “Into the mountains. Check out this new territory called Colorado.”
“Sounds fun!”
“But, first...”
Cherko pulled Erica’s naked form atop him and anchored her with a passionate, open-mouthed kiss. Erica rewrapped herself around him....
* * *
Holding hands, Cherko and Erica drove west along Highway 24. The day, initially blue sky and beautiful in Colorado Springs, had turned overcast and gray through the towns of Woodland Park, Divide, and beyond. Cherko negotiated the vehicle down the steep, windy decline of Wilkerson Pass and into the flat straightaway through South Park. Cherko released Erica’s hand and rubbed the back of his neck.
“What’s the matter?” Erica asked.
“Think I’m getting another zit.”
“Let me see.”
“You wanna look at my zits?”
Erica leaned across and looked to where Cherko directed. She felt around the nape of his neck.
“It looks more like a cyst.”
“What the hell’s a cyst?”
“Oh,” she said, settling back into her seat, “it’s like an impacted pore or something. Not a huge deal. I’ve had one or two removed by the doctor.”
“Surgery?”
“Oh, no,” she said, laughing “it’s done on an outpatient basis. They just ram this huge needle in there and suck out its puss-laden innards.”
“Pleasant.”
“It really isn’t anything,” she said, still laughing loudly at the look on his face. “You should have that looked at.”
* * *
The two flew past miles of open, empty plains, passing the occasional cattle or herd of pronghorn. Pronghorn... deer of the American Southwest.
Deer.
Deer. Road. Storm.
Mom?
Deer.
“Is that buffalo?” Cherko asked, peering off into the distance.
“Yeah,” Erica said. “Ranchers raise buffalo around here. You can actually buy ground buffalo in the store.”
“Really. Never had it. But I’ve always loved how badass they look, out there in the fields. Standing strong against a blizzard, that kind of thing.”
“They are kinda neat looking.”
“What do people who live out here do? It’s so desolate. Remote.”
“Not sure.”
“They must ranch and do whatever’s associated with ranching.”
“It’s too removed from the world for me,” Erica said, staring out the window.
“It’s kinda like space. Open and vast... empty... but, really, there’s all kinds of life forms: ants, bugs, moths. Bacteria. We just can’t see them.”
“There’re bugs and moths in space?” Erica asked, smiling.
“You know what I mean,” Cherko said, grinning. “Space is so vast and open, and it’s like there’s stuff out there, stuff we can’t see, and other stuff we can—just like here. There may only be a molecule or two of something for light-years... but even that’s something. Not total emptiness.”
“You really are into this ‘space’ thing, aren’t you? Don’t you realize that it’s probably all romantic and fetching, now, because you’re here, down on Earth among Earthlings—me—but that were you really up there,” she said, bobbing an index finger upward, “you’d be all alone? You’d have none of this. No moths. No wide, open plains. No cars, no buffalo. No apartments. No sex—”
“No sex?”
“Nooo sex. Cause I wouldn’t be up there. I’d be down here.”
“You wouldn’t be with me?” Cherko asked, pouting.
“Most likely not. You’d be your bad astronaut self, and I wouldn’t be. So how could I be up there with you?”
“Hmm.”
Cherko again rubbed his neck.
Thoughts of ERO, satellites, and his training flew through his mind.
Thoughts of... The Project.
What’d it all mean? The Project—his job. Was this what he really wanted? If he couldn’t be with those he cared about, what was the point?
And was any of this even real?
It all seemed so distant, now, out on these open plains of Colorado, on a cozy morning drive with his new girlfriend.
Had he really been able to mentally mess with computer electronics?
And how did he know he wasn’t being messed with by his trainers?
What if he wasn’t doing any of what he thought he was doing, but his trainers were just messing with his head?
But... he had heard those tones—in his head—no headphones.
And there had been that voice... that attractive, hot voice with which he communicated... and had been second guessing during his training. Who knew, it was probably more like those sex hotlines, where you thought you were talking to some hot chick (not that he’d used them, mind you), but in reality....
So, why not test it?
If he could second guess the voice, why not see if he could second guess Erica?
He glanced over to her.
She was still gazing out the window.
She’s thinking about sex right this moment.
Right, that was just him mak—
“You know,” Erica said, turning to him and reaching out for his hand, “this morning was really wonderful.” She gave him a lingering look.
“Yeah?”
“I loved waking up to you jumping my bones.”
“Did you, now? I thought girls didn’t like making whoopee right after waking up.”
“That’s because they don’t sleep with you,” she said, squeezing his hand, “and they better not—ever!”
“What’re you saying?” Cherko asked, looking between the road and her. “You want an exclusive relationship? Cause, if you are, better let me know, now, so I can cancel that other date—”
Erica again hit him.
“Ow!”
“That’s not funny!” she said, frowning and crossing her arms.
“Kidding! Was just kidding!”
“I know,” she said, with a pouty smile. Then she reached over toward his legs. “I want you all for myself!”
* * *
Highway 50, West of Pueblo, Colorado
1400 Hours Mountain Time
Cherko leaned across the hood of the car, staring south. He held a map under his hands against the occasional light gusts of wind. Another small herd of pronghorn grazed directly out before his view. He focused on them. Pronghorn.
Deer.
Road
Storm.
Mother....
His eyes drifted upward towards the clouds. They looked peculiar, swirling. Felt out of the ordinary. He looked back down to the fields before him. There seemed to be something that called out to him from down there.
He looked to the map and saw the Great Sand Dunes National Monument was directly south.
Sand Dunes... in Colorado?
Cherko looked back up into the sky.
Not only had he mentally flattened sine waves, but he’d also made these points—a bunch of electronic dots—come together in another training session. Several electronic points on a screen, separated by various distances, and he—again, through only the use of his mind—had been able to bring them together. Each and every one.
In training for over a month, and he’d been able to do that?
To what end?
But again, was he even doing this, or was some hidden government flunky, hiding behind some Oz-like curtain, doing all the electronic manipulation, only making him think he was doing it?
Why would the government be training him to do this stuff? Why wouldn’t they tell him? They just send a van around to pick him up after work, take him to some clandestine location, then force him into a training program over which he had no say—but at which he seemed to outright excel.
For what purpose?
He’d always wanted some super-sexy job, all right, and apparently that’s just what he got. He just didn’t know what it was.
You are not authorized an answer....
Be careful what you wish for.
Cherko reached out to the cloud with his mind. What was up there, and what did “cloudness” feel like....
Erica popped up on the other side of the car.
“Much better!” she exclaimed, schooching up and wiggling back into her jeans.
Cherko smiled. “Feel better, now, do we?”
“Yup!”
“Couldn’t have gone back in Salida, huh?”
“Didn’t have to.”
“I see,” he said, nodding. “I must admit, I’ve never before been with a girl who peed alongside roads.”
“I’m unique,” she said in a playful lilt. Erica smoothed out her attire, tossed back her hair, then casually hopped back into the car.
“You certainly appear to be.”
Unknown Location
15 January 1986
0110 Hours Mountain Time
Cherko sat before his screen as still-images flashed up before him on the large glass behind his workstation. As images of everything from flowers and insects to world and cosmic events flashed before him, the sine wave boxes lit up in various degrees of flattening, in rapid-fire combinations, many at a time on his screen. Without warning, the still-images changed to video, and the sine wave boxes mirrored the video images at a blinding rate of speed... all of which Cherko took in easily.
Some were pleasing. Some not so. Images of humans, animals, flowers, and insects. Of a bee pollinating a flower.
Of WWII carpet bombing of Germany.
Of JFK speaking to the American public.
Of a Saturn V launch and subsequent moon shots.
All he took in and assimilated without the faintest idea why.
Then everything went blank.
“Your progress has been most curious,” came the soft voice.
Thank you, Cherko mentally replied.
“We had not anticipated your degree of ability, though it was probable. Your degree of mastery is extraordinary.
“During contact,” the voice continued, “you will receive information and input it into whatever workstation you are working before. You will do this by the following procedure, which you are to mimic as I voice it.”
“Copy that,” Cherko said.
“Select the right trackball switch...”
Cherko selected his workstation’s trackball switch to the right of the computer monitor.
“... while holding down the right trackball switch, select the F10 key.”
Cherko did as instructed. He saw a dialog box appear on-screen with a blank entry field.
“A dialog window appears. In that blank field, you will enter your password. Enter the word ‘password,’ now. You will be prompted to enter a new one. Use the constraints for passwords from your other responsibility.
“Do this now.”
Cherko did as instructed, and came up with a new password.
“You will now get a blank screen on which you will enter all future communications. All entries will be blacked out—even while typing—for obvious security considerations. After each entry, or string, you will enter a forward slash, and at the end of each report you will enter three forward slashes.”
“But how will I know what I’m typing if I can’t see what I’m—”
“Practice.”
“Okay...”
“When complete, you will select only F10. When you hit the first F10 and trackball switch, this blank screen remains in the background, so you can seemingly continue on with what you are doing in your official capacity while entering your program data. Do you understand.”
“Affirmative.”
“That is all.”
Cherko sat, casually looking around the room.
“Where am I?”
“You are not—”
Authorized an answer, Cherko finished. Fine.
“We are complete.”
I’m done?
“Affirmative.”
“What do I do now? Do I ever come back?”
“That is no longer necessary. You will practice your data entry at your other responsibility, which we will monitor. You will be contacted when you are ready.”
“By whom?”
Silence. All displays went blank, and the lighting dimmed.
Cherko got to his feet; retrieved his jacket. He stepped back from his console and stared at it. Then he turned and entered the elevator for the last time.
Cherko lay in bed, staring into the ceiling.
Had he really been attending clandestine training sessions in some unknown location?
Had he really had mental discussions with... whomever?
And had he really influenced electronics through the use of nothing but thought?
None of this seemed real in the light of day. Even his ERO job was unreal. The only thing that seemed any kind of real was Erica. She was his only apparent life outside of work. Face it, he went to training at unusual hours, and arrived home tired, exhausted. And all he did outside of work was work out and see Erica.
His life suddenly seemed quite unreal.
He’d come a long way from that upstate New York kid. Reality had come knocking and had come knocking hard. Though his work seemed exciting, it all felt... fuzzy. He did stuff he couldn’t tell anyone.
But what was the big deal?
He tracked and looked in on satellites? Okay, so he seemed to be able to influence electronics with his mind, which was kind of spooky, yet downright cool, but he could think of all kinds of uses for that.
Scary uses.
What was he becoming?
What was his real mission?
And that disembodied voice... he’d considered all kinds of possibilities about that. Could someone really telepathically communicate with him?
Or was it something else?
Not only did the voice sound slightly off, it felt... different.
Alien.
Really alien.
This was just all way too out there to believe. It brought up way too many other issues, like... if he was being trained by an alien, then the government was obviously in on it. The van. Turnbull.
Why?
And not just any “why?,” but why would aliens need to work with our government? Weren’t they supposed to be so far in advance of us that they shouldn’t require our assistance for anything?
It just felt like an alien was goddamned training him!
How do you get past that?
Cherko got out of bed and entered the living room. Looked about his empty apartment.
At one point he’d been a 14-year-old kid with romantic notions of warp speed star travel and green women.
At one point he’d been an average student in high school who’d gotten a Most Improved Student award.
At one point he’d been in college studying physics and having a hard time of it.
And at one point he’d been in the right seat of a T-37, trying to dead reckon a new course as mountains came up real fast, his navigator IP whacking him up aside the head. Commanding him to think, dammit!
And now... now he was standing in the middle of an empty apartment with a new life looming before him like an approaching thunderstorm. One about which he wasn’t sure he felt all that comfortable.
ERO Operations
5 March 1986
2330 Hours Mountain Time
First Lieutenant Jimmy Cherko entered the ERO ops floor. Major Turnbull was talking to several crew members when he looked up.
“Evening Lieutenant,” he said.
“How you doing, sir,” Cherko said.
“Need to see you. You can change over when I’m done.”
Cherko looked to the gathering of operators preparing for shift change, and nodded. Cherko followed Turnbull off the floor.
* * *
The two entered Turnbull’s office. Cherko had more images of him standing with others—others not in uniform.
Turnbull locked the door; Cherko took his seat in the usual chair. Turnbull went back behind his desk.
Did Turnbull know he was being trained by an alien?
“Everything going well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Typing?”
“Going great, actually. I’ve done some before, so it’s not too bad, though it’s been a while.”
“Good.”
Cherko and Turnbull sat in silence for a moment.
“Sir... do you know much about what I’m to be doing?”
Turnbull leaned forward over the desk. He formed a pensive steeple with his fingers to his lips.
“Lieutenant... we both do as we’re told. Nothing more.”
Cherko nodded.
“That is all,” Turnbull said, sitting back upright.
“That’s it?”
“Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
That is all. Seems like he was to hear a lot of that.
Cherko got to his feet; left the office.
Returning to the ops floor, Cherko took his briefing, and took over his position on console. Without warning or fanfare, it came.
Prepare for information string.
“What?” Cherko said out loud, immediately looking to his crew members. No one had noticed his outburst; they were all still talking among themselves.
Is this my “contact,” Cherko mentally asked.
Prepare.
Cherko casually looked around, hit the right trackball switch on his console panel, then F10. A dialog box, like what he’d been trained on, appeared. He quickly entered his password and it disappeared.
Ready, he sent back.
The communication came unnervingly clear as a bell.
There was no mistaking it for some stray or crazy thoughts. And there were several-second pauses between each information string. When Cherko felt he’d fat-fingered an entry, he asked for and was granted a pause and retransmission. There would be just enough pause for him to backspace over the mistyped entry, and then the data was resent. After each pause he entered a “/” and at the end of the communication, he entered “///”. What he typed, but couldn’t physically see was:
77900/849657/86115876557/8316/98999
77900/65468438/68488/6841385/5812
77900/5782/425646556/545/54845685584///
Communication terminated.
Is that it? Cherko asked, but there came no reply.
Cherko waited several seconds, and when there was, indeed, no further communication, Cherko closed his invisible window by again hitting F10. He again looked to his crew members, but they were busy with their own duties. Cherko sat back, scratched the back of his neck, and grimaced.
That was it?
This was his huge, new, can’t-tell-a-soul mission?
No pictures, no mental video? Just bland old numeric streams? No “How ya doin—how’s the weather on Earth”—just prepare and terminate?
As well as he’d done in training, as much as he’d been trained to do this, he’d severely had his doubts that all he was being shown could possibly be real, that it was really going to happen.
Yet here he was.
It’d happened exactly as he’d been trained, and he’d performed exactly as he’d been trained. It was real, and there was no denying it. He hadn’t made up the material that entered his mind. He hadn’t made up the voice he’d heard. There was a decidedly detached and, yes—in more ways than one—alien sense to the contact, the communication.
It was a gut feeling.
It was like he was the Go-Between, the translator, between whatever the aliens were doing out there, and what the government was somehow complicit in. But there was no way to yet tell what was going on, because it was all numbers, numbers that just weren’t yielding up any of their secrets.
Except that there was one string that recurred.
One string of numbers had been repeated. Seven-seven-nine-something. Zero-zero. Interesting. And when he’d gotten those numbers all three times, he felt something about them. Like they were related to a position. His position.
77900.
Like it was his positional designator.
And there was something else he realized about the communication... unlike his training, this communication felt like a good interior mind-scratch. Like getting your back scratched, only it was his mind getting back-scratched.