“Sightings of ship-like structures at Silverpine Lake are raising questions tonight. Authorities have not yet issued a statement, though experts suggest military activity.
Viewers are advised to avoid spreading unverified rumors, to prevent public concern. Meanwhile, in Austria, authorities are investigating a wheat field outside Braunau am Inn, where a human face was discovered etched into the crop earlier today.”
I muted the TV and took a bite of the dry ham sandwich, pouring another glass of whiskey into the cloudy tumbler I’d found by the sink in the motel bathroom.
I chewed slowly, tracing the edge of my teeth with my tongue. I wondered if that set of teeth in the Eidolon facility was being affected with each bite I took, microscopic dents erupting all over the enamaly.
I felt dizzy. I forced my self to focus on the TV, the image of those gleaming teeth in that dark lab felt too heavy right now.
Channel hopping didn’t provide any new information. It seems Eidolon had contained the incident, or maybe the world had simply run out of patience for another conspiracy theory.
I gathered the stack of hastily stapled papers from the Eidolon folder on the nightstand, thumbing through them numbly, catching fragments of headings, half-reading lists of data, pausing at pinned-down graphs and grim, overexposed photographs.
Carefully, I tried to tie down the frayed threads of unreal events that had unspooled throughout the day, but they kept slipping away, refusing to come together. The words on the pages ran through me like the whiskey in my glass.
I was lying on the dusty bed of a cheap Seattle motel, still in the same clothes I’d worn for two days. The cold stench of fear and sweat on me, masked by a cloud of the cheap whiskey.
Dinner had been the flattened sandwich and handful of miniature whiskey bottle scavenged from a beat-up vending machine outside. There was no restaurant. No room service. Not even a manned reception, only rows of low-slung huts, lined up against the dark fringe of the forest.
The place sat in a liminal stretch of land, wedged between the industrial outskirts and the woods beyond.
Earlier, the black SUV had brought me here, the driver parking at the far edge of the compound beside my assigned hut. He’d led me to the door, opened it, ushered me inside, and slipped away without a word. I didn’t even get a key.
Later, I’d stepped back out to hunt for food. A small act of defiance that seemed to have gone unnoticed. I’d been forced to leave my shoe wedged in the door, to keep it from locking behind me.
I felt hungry, even though they’d fed me properly at the Eidolon facility, twice even. But I needed the distraction, and I needed something to take the edge off. No signs of life had met me as I prowled motel lot. Only dark, vacant windows staring from the crooked huts.
I gazed up at the stars, scattered across the night sky, the wind biting through my jacket. I felt a dark pool of hopelessness rise inside. Cold and bottomless. I felt completely lost, and utterly alone.
I set the papers down and checked my phone again. 22.43. Still no answer from Valerie. I wanted to hear her voice.
She’d sent a few messages during the day, cheerful updates from her business trip, notes of love, feeding me fragments from the exhausting contract talks over mechanical IP and licensing agreements for an AI startup, somewhere in a glass-and-chrome office in the better parts of Berlin.
I had left her a string of voicemails, short and strained, neutral updates, last one short of begging her to to call back.
I knew she it was night time at Berlin. She had rounded off the evening fairly late at some function, mingling with clients, so she would have her phone off at night to catch up for the last stretch of a arduous negotiation weekend.
But I felt that dark pool stir in my chest again. I really needed to hear her voice. I needed something warm and familiar, something to pull me back from this unreality.
I turned my attention back to the Eidolon papers. I’d spent most of Saturday at the facility, trying to catch up with the rest of the team. So far, the investigation had resulted in more questions than answers.
No solid hypothesis as to the ships’ origins. No clue how they’d arrived here. Even their age proved to be difficult to determine. Isotopic analysis was inconsistent, spectrometry, radiometrics, particle bombardment, all inconclusive. The material was simply too foreign, as if it refused measurement.
The surface samples indicated an organic structure, marked by a strong internal repetition, suggesting it was grown or cultivated, most likely at deep altitudes. But none of this was really my expertise.
I picked up the briefing on the core scientific team. I’d met them all today, a sharp, focused, slightly shell-shocked group, with the exception of Dr Meyer, the psychologist, who seemed remarkably at ease.
The front page listed their names and specializations:
Professor Julian Ward - Symbolist
Specialist in Ancient languages & esoteric frameworks.
Dr. Claire Meyer - Psychologist
Focus: Neural effects & cognitive impact.
Fredrik Sørensen - Mechanist
Expertise: Internal systems & structural analysis.
Dr. Lian Zhou - Geochemist
Specialist in Material origins & composition analysis.
Dr. Elio Sakharov - Physicist
Research focus: Theoretical composition & anomalous properties.
Laszlo Varga - Cryptobehaviorist
Expertise: Emergent intelligence & algorithmic patterns.
I recognized Varga’s name from my field. The other were unfamiliar. I couldn't help but wonder how many among them, like myself, had found their way here, less than voluntarily.
A buzzing sensation dragged me out of restless dreams. I blinked at the dingy room, shrouded in blueish glow from the muted TV. Where am I, I thought. What am I doing here?
I noticed the phone vibrating on the night stand, it’s digital digits read 23.12.
”Val!” I spoke into the receiver, trying to sound grounded.
”Hey baby!”
I lit up. She was honey. Sweet and clean. I could feel my body absorbing her, washing away the stress and confusion. I listened to the slightly hoarse, sing-song softness in her voice, laced with three maybe four glasses of wine from yesterday. I listened, and I drank her, greedily.
”you sound weird, are you okay?” She asked.
Her voice was a warm bath. I sank deeper and deeper into her, pink and sparkling, a place to drown and rest, hide away from all the madness screaming in my ear.
”I just woke up, I heard your messages.” She continued.
I jolted, snapping awake, realizing I'd nodded off again.
”Yes” I said ”Or… no. I don’t know. A lot have happened”
”You are weird! where are you. Did you say Seattle? Still?”
”Yeah… yeah. They called Friday evening. It was this consulting gig, I don’t know, something urgent, under the radar. I’ve been up for 48 hours, trying to catch up.”
”That’s insane. Will it be worth it? I hope they pay you well. I’ll be back tomorrow evening, will you be home? I just want to lie in your lap in the sofa, watching crap TV”
”I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I can’t leave yet.”
”Awh, I was really looking forward to it. I miss you! Then, when? Do you have an idea?”
”To be honest, I haven’t asked. Baby, this is… it’s high stakes. Serious players, I am not sure if the government’s involved, there’s definetely military connections.”
”What?”
”Yeah, I… I honestly wish I hadn’t picked up the call in the first place. I would be home, waiting for you.”
”Honey! Can’t you cancel this? It sounds really sketchy”
”I think I am in pretty deep already, they ran all kinds of tests, DNA, blood, I signed a bunch of wavers. They’ve got me holed up in the outskirts at this motel. I don’t even have a key to my own door.”
”What?” Her voice cracked. God, I wish I could be with her right now.
”Yeah. Everything’s tightly run. I don’t know much yet. Oh, wait, did I tell you? It is about those ships. Have you heard anything over there?”
”Ships? What ships. Wait, I read something about some military operation…” her voice trailed off as I heard her clicking away on her laptop in the dark.
I pictured her there, half-naked, surrounded by fancy bed sheets, sleepwarm and undone after a night of restful sleep in some foreign hotel room, a lot nicer than this one. Her skin soft and smooth, still smelling of that wonderful sexy perfume she would have wore the night before. Maybe that pink bottle by Etat Libre d’Orange.
”Man! This is for real? I’ve seen a bit about it, but… This is what they pulled you in for? Is this serious? Military?”
”Yeah, I mean…”
”Listen, this looks fucking, Like very high alert, okay? I get why they want you close by and cut off. You won’t be coming home for a while, I don’t like it. Tomorrow, make sure to get all the specifics, and get it in print, signed and confirmed. Obligations, terms, rights, liability. And compensation, don’t forget that. Make them pay, they can afford it. I understand they want this contained, but you still have rights.”
”Yeah, I guess. I mean, they’ve treated me fine so far.”
”Of course they have, they’re experts at this. High-level manipulators. They’d drag your ass to Guantanamo and make you feel like apologizing for bleeding on the floor. But listen, baby, don’t panic. They obviously need you, or they wouldn’t go through all this effort. Remember what I said, get all the specifics on paper, and push for a damn good compensation. You’re already there, so your position to negotiate is weaker, but they definitely have the means.”
”Yes, yes. You’re right! I will. I just, I miss you so much.” I felt exhausted. Fragile. But her words made sense. I felt stupid for making no demands, everything had just spun out of control.
”I miss you too, I need you. Get some sleep now, I got to get ready. And tomorrow, focus on getting some terms on paper. I refuse to wait forever to see you. I love you.”
”Love you. Good luck today.”
Untitled Transcript: Extract 47-C
“Brother, the Thirteen have been seen.”
“The Thirteen?”
“My sources speak of signs.”
“In our time?”
“They say miracles are occurring.”
“By God… The Thirteen, now?”
“The limbs are moving. Miracles are spreading. An American man opened a portal in his chest. An old Belgian woman is growing moss, her skin is thick with it.”
“The Earth-Eater stirs. He, The Swallowed One. Shifting in his pit.”
“In the bowels.”
“Stay in the bowels.”
“He won’t.”
“The gifted, The ones blessed with miracles. You mentioned them. Where are they now?”
“You think the heretics have them.”
“Do they?”
“They have the resources. The reach. They’re moving faster than we are.”
“And the Oarsmen?”
“Most likely.”
“So they’ve begun collecting.”
“Yes. And no. Some are taken. Others, still loose.”
“Then we must begin. We follow the protocol.”
“Yes. The protocol.”
“Inform the Prior!”