Contact Agent, A Science Fiction novel by Jacob Malewitz, Chapter 2

 Contact Agent

by Jacob Malewitz

Wordpress 100

Age of Empires, 2

Civilization War Finder, 3

Blue Vest, 200

Chapter 2, The Lost Moment
Crossman woke up in the EM Circle, Day pouring over an eReader placed over her eyes, moving files with her hand and placing important ones just above her fingers. They had taken millions of shots of the Red Gate just in the past days, but still couldn't fathom what had happened. Boss, as Crossman suspected, was investigating further.
    A ship had crossed over and come back. It's model number was ancient terran, like some rogue satellite sent into deep space a millenia ago and forgotten. It held markings, however, of no known human ship, with a crew of one, and a being flying next to it sending out sounds in space like radio transmissions, but faster than light. Crossman could feel a bump on his head, and put his hand to it.
    Day had by now noticed Crossman had been planted, either by the Reds or by something else.They hadn't taken the chip out yet. It likely had a kill protocol upon discovery, if it indeed was for espionage and not something else.
    "It's a memory implant, meant to be discovered," And she wiped the screen of all files. "What would you have a memory implant located in your head, undetected, and seemingly with no purpose in you for?"
    He tried speaking but couldn't. His mouth was watering. He needed just a little Babel, but she'd made him taper off the partying months ago. Day. She was such a sight for him. "I don't know. I don't remember much of what even happened. What am I doing here?"
    "You have a chip in your head."
    "That's obvious."
    "What's important is finding out what's on it. Do you have nightmares?"
    "Why would I have nightmares?"
    "Like something you did in another life, perhaps?"
    "What the fuck are you talking about, Day?"
    "You don't remember The Babel Years," Day said. He hated her calling them that. Crossman had been a dope dealer and major junky for years during the initial contact ops training. It had been such high pressure stuff he'd taken to pain pills first, then the drug which made you forget language, time, reality, and everything else.The Babel years.
    "So what, I'm a double agent for the reds! What the hell--"
    "Don't scream at me!"
    "I'm not screaming!"
    "Calm down. Okay, you might not know why, and it's not your fault. You were where before you met me? You lived with your mom and did dope. Fun life. But maybe you did something else."
    "I would remember interviewing for a double agent job."
    "You're barely an agent."
    "What the hell does that mean? I passed every test."
    "For a man your age, you should have more money, more seniority, and a better grasp of reality. The babel ruined your brain, but maybe something else effected you."
    "Can we just go back to the bridge. I'm sick of this."
    "You're--" she stopped. She took in a breath. " A danger to the mission. You might have a foreign device in your head. How could we work with you?"
    "Did Boss put this on you? He can't even fire me in person for something I had no reason to do."
    "I love you. This is too big for you."
    "Fuck off," he said, standing, putting on his white shirt, and walking out and toward the bridge.
    "I tried," she whispered as he stormed off.
 
The world looked different from above. He had a gun in his hand. Sometimes you have dreams so close to reality you wish and hope something in them will change. You hope you are not the same person; you're someone better. And Crossman never could hold onto the dream.
    The EM had placed a wire directly into his head, and a patch held over it. It stung like alcohol on an open wound, and for some reason Crossman thought of the times putting the needle into the vein, putting the leftovers into a pipe, and double hitting Babel like no tomorrow. Now, with his job gone, or seemingly so, he could return to hell.
    "Did you see anything?" The EM, who Crossman couldn't place even though the ship had a crew of only 50, seemed to sense Crossman was a junky. Or maybe it was the one open vein, the black bruise, the blood flowing faster, the pupils dilating, the heavy breathing wanting a hit.
    "I don't see anything. Who are you?"
    "Whitaker."
    "What is in my head, Whitaker."
    "A chip placed, but not in Human Sphere space. It might have been the Reds."
    "Does it have info," Crossman said, touching the open wound on his head, "any basis for taking me off this mission?"
    "That's not for me to say. It's a web memory chip. It could be anywhere in the net, with any password, with any switch for when tampered with. By tapping into it, we may kill you."
    "What are my other options. Or am I fucked."
    "You're--" the ship seemed to rock. It then seemed to heat up. Crossman almost fell, while the EM braced himself against the wall, no surprise on his face. He looked old for a Man Sphere medic, but se la ve.
    "What's going on?"
    "First Contact."

Crossman knew this was a vision, or  a dream of some kind, but what's the difference.. A com system was playing the latest battle arena fights between prototype units, supposedly the next stage in crossing systems. There was a pistol in his hand, and he had it pointed at the head of someone in a dress. A woman. And she had Red Empire insignias on her shoulder. The gun felt calm in his hand, like he'd done this a million times. The look in her eyes said maybe this was it, that maybe the king had finally returned to take everything away.
    He fired.
    Her head blew apart. He placed the gun, with its markings, on her body and walked out.There were other bodies on the floor, a series of guards who'd been taken to pieces. He could see one: green eyes, a barb wire tattoo on his neck, a com link on his cheek. Above, a camera watched, but for some reason he knew it had been hacked by his second. He walked out.

Day heard panting when upon returning to the med center. She stormed in and woke Crossman up. "What's happening?"
    He took a deep breath. "The chip gave me a memory of something I never did." He calmly sat up. "I am sorry. I am useless now. Back to Vega."
    "So you're just going to quit when things get bad? Give up and never fight again?"
    "You don't want me here!"
    She didn't answer,walking out. Crossman followed.
    On the bridge, no guard held the door. It was only a contact op, meaning the number of personnel needed was few. The com screen and radar input showed a ship with a being of perfect light floating above it. Crossman could see its skin almost, it pores, its wave like power, all in one shot. It had no space suit, no clothes, no sex, no mouth, no eyes. it was simply a star being, a light in the darkness.
    "I want this damn thing out of my head! I want it gone."
    Boss looked over. He looked back to the screen. "I have another mission for you, Crossman."
    The ship was grey. By walking along its hull, you could smell the metal. Closer, you could smell it still had life. An old relic shuttle, but workable,a veteran.
    A few minutes later, Crossman was in a shuttle with a chip in his head, alone, expendable, living a lie. He could see why Boss had  allowed this: first contact protocols allowed for communication to be widespread. Whatever info he got, anyone could get. He might die trying, but that went with the job. Contact agents trained for no final exams; there was no marks for success or failure; nothing had ever been done so you could break, bend, and ignore most rules.  Unless you made the big spenders, the government, unhappy.
    He would see something. And then maybe he would kill himself and get it over with. Not out of self pity, but loathing, pain, memory, knowing he'd done something, killed someone for no reason on some rogue mission.
    He had nothing to lose but the kiss of a beautiful woman.
    And maybe that was too much.
    The being watched him, or he felt it watch him. Contact protocols were loose. You were supposed to make contact via other means; no one really expected a ship or superman to appear in Man Sphere space. It didn't happen. They'd found no life on most planets, except for Vega, a 20 Earth planet with oceans filled with slithery creatures and diverse bacteria. You expected first contact  from an intelligent race to come from a radio signal, a shot of light, a transmission, a discovery of a lost race on your own space jaunt.
    The Red Gate changed things. It changed everything. Another impossibility. Wormhole? Black hole? Collapsed star? It's dense matter seemed like a dead star, but it definitely had been built by something or someone, too close to detail its curves and symbols. It was not a random event.
    "Crossman, you in? I've been trying to com you for 2 minutes. Can you hear me?"
    Boss had the vane sound of a father, wishing his son to return from the hunt.
    "Here, Boss."
    "Get your ass together, soldier! You die, the mission is--" Crossman  heard  Boss take a breath. "You know the ops. You know the best ways to do this. Begin initial field report."
    The ship, he noted immediately via his personal log, looked centuries obsolete. It wasn't quite 22nd or 23rd first age, but it looked too new to have been used that much, or used at all. Instead, it glowed, like the metal of the Red Gate.
    "Should I be more excited about meeting a superman," he whispered out loud, "or his maker?" When he closed, something rocked the ship and he blacked out. For a moment, he thought he'd seen something in the Red Gate, like something new had crossed over. Then he heard something, a mad cry, a poem being red out loud.
    "Man cried for he couldn't see, couldn't know what is, and never understood the nature of angels."

Chapter 3, The Cop
A week later and the news got its bite of feed. The most popular web journal, "Lucky Journalism," reported the best story. An attempt to make contact had failed. But Crossman knew what had really happened, why he'd been let go at the most important moment man had ever had in space. The point of contacting intelligent life from another world. How it had all happened, how he became a beat freelancer drinking cheap coffee and smoking stale cigarettes, never really came into being.
    But someone took interest in Crossman.

0
"Crossman, report god damnit! Crossman, what do you see? We are sending in help. What do you see?"
    And he snapped awake. No, it hadn't happened.. He looked at the gun on the table.
    "We are death and life," something had said to him. No, it wasn't real, none of it was real. He was ... he was just a lost soul who quit the agency because he failed in his most important mission.
    He stood. Day had left him several days ago. Not because he'd been decommissioned  by the Agency, or because he'd completely lost it in his field report.
    No, she left him because he'd taken a vial of Babel into the shuttle, had shot up,and had given away a year of clean life.
    But the Babel was good, too good.
    "Crossman, this is my final try. It's leaving. You have to make contact with the ship. It's going back into the Red Gate. For god's sake, come in." The needle felt good in his arm. The things he'd seen, the places he'd gone, all disoriented like a big high you could never forget.
    "I'm leaving you," was all she'd said.
    He walked to the fridge, to another needle. He pulled it, shot up, burned it, and smoked it. He could see something leaving the ship for a moment, and then he remembered. He remembered why'd he'd frozen up. Thee ship had held a man, and this man was named Jamesian.