Underneath a header consisting of B-movie graphics and some text that read The Vault of Mystery in a slimy font, there was an article about extra-terrestrial visits to Earth. It described incidents such as Roswell and the Bermuda triangle, linking them to a theory about unmanned space probes and alien abduction. It all seemed far-fetched and tenuous, but knowing what he knew about UV One, Sean had a hard time laughing it off. There was a time when he would’ve scorned it as second, even third-rate journalism, but now it was a gold mine of possibilities. He skim-read the rest of the article, which continued to talk about present day sightings and abductions, and featured a few snippets from astronaut Robert Gardner. Seeing that name made Sean’s stomach lurch with excited anticipation.
We have been able to track down former NASA astronaut Robert Gardner, it read, who was unfairly dismissed from NASA in a massive alien cover-up that would have shocked the world. ‘It was like there was something in my mind, calling me,’ he told us. ‘It made me think and feel like I’ve never done before.’ Such was his trauma that he couldn’t answer any more of our questions, and he now denies ever meeting with us at all.
The article went on and was uncredited. Aleks clicked some of the links on the page, but they were all dead.
‘I feel like I’m missing something obvious here,’ Sean said, so Aleks scrolled back to the top of the page and they read it through again. A paragraph caught Sean’s eye and he read it aloud, word for word.
‘In 1947, a probe was sent to Earth, where it crashed in Roswell, New Mexico. It is believed that government scientist Dr R. Bales was in charge of the classified research —’ he stopped reading, his brain doing a mental loop-the-loop. ‘Dr R. Bales — I don’t believe it…’
‘I’ll run a search on Dr Bales,’ Aleks said, fingers flying as he spoke. He hit the return key and a new window of results appeared.
‘Dr Rupert Bales,’ Sean read, ‘was born on the sixteenth of July, 1917, to Daniel and Molly Bales in Longview, East Texas. After graduating with honours from Stanford, Dr Bales joined the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics as a molecular research scientist. His pioneering work at the closed Walker Air Force Base in Roswell, New Mexico, aided the development of early rocket propellants. He is considered one of the leading scientists of our time, advancing rocket propulsion technology by several decades with his work. Dr Bales died of unknown causes in 1954. His only son, John Rupert Bales, was born the following year.’
Sean took a moment to digest the information, which swilled around inside him like tainted bile.
‘It can’t be — can it?’ he said in a thin voice. ‘Did John Bales’ father die because of something like — like UV One?’
As a key turns in a lock, each thought pushed a mental tumbler into place, unlocking the conscious as a whole. Did Bales know his father had died at the hands of an interstellar traveller — if his father had died at the hands of an interstellar traveller — and was this his motivation for sending Gardner up with a payload full of explosives? If it was true, he could imagine the message Bales had given Sally to pass on: See you in hell.
Taking the mouse from Aleks, he scrolled to the bottom of the entry. In the list of references there was a link to a page on Rupert’s molecular research team, and he clicked it. A brief summary paragraph and a list of names came up. He clicked the first name.
Albert Levard — 1916-1949
He was only thirty-three when he’d died. Coincidence? Sean navigated back a page and clicked the next name.
Joseph Collins — 1923-1955
Sean clicked the next name, a sick feeling rising in his throat at what he knew was coming.
Charles Freeman — 1913-1960
And the next:
Edward Warner — 1905-1955
All nine of the ten names followed the same pattern, all having died soon after the 1947 Roswell incident. Except the last one: Ruth Shaw. Her entry suggested that she was still alive.
‘I need to see Ruth Shaw,’ Sean said.
‘She’d be ninety-three,’ Aleks replied. ‘Are you sure she’s still alive?’
Sean was thinking exactly the same thing.
‘I hope so.’
‘Captain Novitskiy, there’s a car here for you.’
Novitskiy gave the nurse a nod, and she disappeared back around the door. Looking in the mirror, he straightened his tie, brushed down his dress jacket with the back of his hand, took his walking stick and doddered to the exit. Muscle atrophy always made him feel older than he was, and he thumped the floor with his stick in frustration as he walked. At the end of the corridor, a black-suited man waited for him.
‘Good morning, Captain,’ he said, holding the door open for him as he approached. ‘I hope you’re feeling better.’
The words seemed more of a statement than a question, but Novitskiy responded anyway. ‘I’m much better, thank you.’
The suited man didn’t say anything further, and together they walked down and out to the SUV that was waiting for them. Novitskiy climbed into the back. The suited man closed the door behind him and got in himself. They pulled away.
Out of the hospital, they turned onto the main road. Novitskiy didn’t know the area, but he soon saw familiar landmarks and could tell they were heading to the RFSA building. When they arrived, they were ushered straight in, and before he knew it, he found himself outside an office on the second floor.
‘The Major General will see you now,’ the suited man told him, just as he was about to sit down.
‘Can I catch my breath please?’ Novitskiy said, holding his weight up as best he could with his walking stick. He had a pain in his chest and his legs were shaking.
‘I’m afraid the Major General is a busy man, so you will need to see him now.’
Begrudgingly, Novitskiy went in. A man, the Major General he assumed, was sat at a desk leafing through a wad of files. The office must have been temporary, because the desk was bare beyond a few folders and the decor was sparse. The Major General looked up, saw Novitskiy, stood, and offered his hand. They shook and sat.
‘I’m sorry to bring you here on such short notice,’ Bales said, neatening his files. ‘Our situation calls for a quick reaction.’
‘I agree,’ Novitskiy began. ‘Sally Fisher is still—’
‘We will get to the matter of Fisher shortly,’ Bales said, ‘but not right now. We must start from the beginning.’
‘Okay, sir…’
‘Captain, I’ve seen your record, and it is very impressive.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You have surpassed the expectations of your commanding officers, excelled in your training and in my opinion, bettered your immediate superiors.’
Novitskiy said nothing. He didn’t know where the conversation was going, but he didn’t like it. He could sense something was up.
‘You’re a man I believe I can trust,’ Bales continued, ‘and I need to be able to trust you now more than ever. What’s at stake is far beyond what you could ever possibly imagine.’ He paused to open the first page of the topmost file. ‘We know very little about UV One. The little we do know gives me cause for great concern. What can you tell me about it? About your experiences?’
Novitskiy had spared little thought for his time in the presence of UV One, and back on Earth those experiences seemed distant and muddled. He would have preferred to keep them that way, and even the mention of the vessel caused an immediate surge of panic in his veins. He gripped the arms of his seat, hard.
‘Ahm…’ he said, his throat drying, ‘it’s hard to describe. Sometimes you have your good days, and sometimes your bad. On a bad day it’s as though your mind is being stretched to breaking point, being forced to experience thoughts and feelings that far surpass its capabilities. Sometimes that translates as an overwhelming euphoria, other times as horror beyond imagination. As time passes, it gets worse, more intense, harder to fight. I believe it was too much for Major Romanenko. Gardner and Williams, too.’