CHAPTER TWO

  The Secret Base

  In the hushed hours before dawn, General Samuel Woodridge roused from his slumber, his internal clock finely attuned to the rhythm of his daily routine. The impending sunrise painted his room with a warm glow, a recurring spectacle in the heart of the Nevada desert, where his base was nestled—a secret sanctuary known for over a century as ‘Area 51,’ ‘Groom Lake,’ or the enigmatic ‘Dreamland,’ the latter moniker capturing the essence of its covert existence.

  For Samuel Woodridge, this classified enclave was not just his workplace; it was a realm of unparalleled privilege and responsibility. At six-foot-two and 225 pounds of sinewy strength, his presence commanded respect, a manifestation of his disciplined fitness regimen. His closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair was a mere accessory to his potent personality, and his deep baritone voice resonated with authority.

  He relished the role. Within these walls, he bore witness to secrets few would ever fathom. He possessed knowledge beyond the reach of even the Commander in Chief, and he reveled in it. An African American who had overcome adversity from birth, Woodridge wore his lineage and achievements as badges of honor. His demeanor and physique were embodiments of his relentless determination, a testament to his journey from an orphanage to a position of unparalleled influence.

  His ritualistic morning commenced before five A.M. in disciplined solitude. Thirty minutes of calisthenics and stretches prepared him for a five-mile run, a regimen alternating with weightlifting sessions. Today, it was a day for running, the rhythmic thud of his feet echoing in the indoor track encircling the gymnasium. A crescendo of heartbeats later, he returned to his quarters, drenched in sweat and invigorated.

  His living space reflected his rank—more lavish apartment than barracks. Spacious and well-appointed, it comprised a bedroom, living room, a substantial bathroom, and dining room. The kitchen’s absence was a nod to the mess hall’s culinary offerings. Breakfast, a well-oiled routine, arrived punctually at six. The dining room doubled as a private retreat and drop-off point for mess staff. Through another door lay his private domain, a corridor connecting to his secure office.

  His efficient office featured an ornate mahogany desk lined with organizational tools. Behind it, an expansive window framed the American and Air Force flags—symbols of his allegiance. Chairs awaited visitors, but his attention was fixed on one thing—the elevator, coded for his access alone. That elevator led to his sanctum—a chamber where knowledge served as both weapon and shield.

  At exactly 6:30 A.M., a familiar presence awaited him outside his office—every step of the routine choreographed down to the minute. General James Carmichael, his second-in-command, was the only soul privy to Woodridge’s deepest insights. Slender and sharp, Carmichael’s boyish looks belied his seniority. Their morning handshake, unspoken camaraderie, was a bridge between their worlds.

  “Good morning, Sir!” Carmichael greeted with his customary enthusiasm, a daily refrain.

  “Good morning, James,” Woodridge reciprocated, his voice a symphony of authority. “How are you on this fine morning?”

  “Dandy, Sir,” Carmichael replied with an easy smile. “And you?”

  “Fine as ever, XO,” Woodridge affirmed, his words echoing decades of unspoken understanding. “How are things looking today? We should be in perfect shape for the new CIA director’s arrival.”

  Each morning, Carmichael reviewed department head reports—a ritual that kept the base’s intricate workings humming. Security mandated compartmentalization, each unit a cog in classified machinery. Woodridge and Carmichael were the sole architects of this synthesis, an understanding reflected in their daily briefings.

  Flipping through the last pages, Carmichael said, “All systems are green. Minor glitch in Project 497-B—Rayburn’s got the Engineers on it. Should be fixed soon.”

  “Excellent,” Woodridge gave a curt nod, his demeanor and physique embodying relentless determination—a testament to his rise from the foster system to influence. “When is the Director scheduled to arrive?”

  Carmichael consulted a dossier, “Director Parnell’s morning is booked with briefings. He’ll fly in on the Janet line from McCarran and arrive by lunch.”

  “Good,” Woodridge affirmed. “Post-lunch, your charge is to oversee operations. Though Rayburn and the other department heads are solid, I want unblemished efficiency while I tour with the Director. We are not to be disturbed during his tour.”

  “Understood, Sir,” Carmichael said. “You know I’ve got your back.”

  Woodridge acknowledged the pledge with a nod. “Of course, XO.” They left the office in practiced sync, a partnership long forged by routine.

  As they moved through the corridors, staff saluted in silence while their conversation continued. Each day, their measured steps affirmed the pulse of the base, an embodiment of their united resolve.

  Lunchtime had arrived swiftly. The sun was now positioned high in the sky, casting a brilliant light over the sprawling base. At 11:30 A.M., General Woodridge and his XO, General Carmichael, stood within a cavernous hangar that could comfortably accommodate two jumbo jets. The buzz of an approaching aircraft grew louder with every passing second.

  From a nearby table, the two officers donned hearing protection as a mid-sized airliner taxied into the hangar, its engines winding down. The engines’ growl subsided to a murmur, and the door of the aircraft yawned open, revealing a tall and lean figure.

  Draped in a bespoke blue-gray suit adorned with a crimson tie, the newcomer descended the aircraft’s steps, pausing to survey his surroundings with theatrical precision. His eyes danced over the hangar’s expanse before he resumed his descent with an easy, buoyant gait. Despite his age, evident in his silver-gray hair and well-trimmed beard, his demeanor exuded vitality.

  As he reached the ground, the newcomer extended his hand toward General Woodridge. The two men engaged in a firm handshake, a gesture that bridged their distinct positions.

  The Director smiled, “General Woodridge, I’m Gary Parnell. As the new Director of the CIA, I’ll be overseeing matters from this end.” His formal tone belied an amiable demeanor.

  Woodridge reciprocated the smile, his deep voice resonated with authority. “Yes, Sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Call me Sam if you prefer.”

  Parnell then turned his attention to General Carmichael, shaking his hand. “XO James Carmichael—am I right?” he inquired.

  Carmichael returned the handshake with a genial smile. “Indeed, Sir. Call me James or Carmichael—whichever suits you. How are you today?”

  “I’m well, gentlemen; thank you. But let’s dispense with the formalities. You may address me as Gary,” Parnell said, his tone inviting camaraderie.

  Woodridge sensed a positive rapport taking root. With a touch of enthusiasm, he remarked, “Indeed, Gary. We appreciate your visit. It’s a testament to your dedication.”

  Parnell glanced between the two generals. “I’ve been briefed on your commendable work here. And from what I’ve heard, you both go beyond what’s expected, given the nature of this facility.” His words reflected respect for their role in guarding highly sensitive secrets.

  Woodridge’s smile broadened. “Thank you, Gary. It’s a privilege to contribute to the nation’s security, even if it demands more than the ordinary.”

  Carmichael added, nodding in agreement. “Absolutely, Gary. We’re proud of our responsibilities and the team we have here. It’s a unique role, and I think that’s why we’re all here.”

  Parnell’s eyes glinted with appreciation. “I concur. You both embody the dedication required for this role. It’s not easy, bearing the weight of information classified beyond top secret. It’s a testament to your loyalty.”

  They exchanged smiles, the camaraderie deepening. Their lunch, accompanied by lively conversation, was marked by a mutual sense of shared purpose. As the meal concluded, Carmichael excused himself to oversee daily operations, leaving Woodridge and Parnell to delve into the heart of the base’s operations.

  The ensuing tour commenced with the basics, stepping through illuminated corridors adorned with simulated windows. Parnell’s astute observation quickly discerned the illusion, prompting Woodridge to confirm their nature.

  “These projections serve a vital purpose,” Woodridge explained. “They block external views and help maintain a controlled environment. Even the staff forgets they’re simulations over time.”

  Parnell nodded in acknowledgment. “Clever approach. It ensures confidentiality and a consistent work environment.”

  Their footsteps echoed through the corridor as they reached the end, greeted by an intersection with two identical corridors leading right and left. Both corridors featured windows that mimicked real-world views. They proceeded right and halted before a door labeled Engineering-30.

  Woodridge swiped his wrist to unlock the door, the embedded chip granting access. He paused to elucidate the technology. “Embedded microchips grant access privileges throughout the facility. They only respond to authorized personnel, and should someone die or be declared permanently unfit, the chip deactivates automatically.”

  Parnell regarded Woodridge’s wrist with intrigue. “An innovative safeguard mechanism.”

  “Indeed,” Woodridge affirmed. “It’s one of many measures ensuring confidentiality and security.”

  Parnell smiled appreciatively. “I’ll rely on your guidance for now.”

  They entered an expansive chamber, illuminated by the simulated windows lining the walls. The room buzzed with activity—around a hundred individuals engrossed in various tasks. Some moved with purpose, monitoring screens and documents, while others were stationed at desks, sketching designs or analyzing calculations. A cluster of researchers engaged in a lively discussion; their attention focused on a model resembling the engine of a fighter jet. Amidst this controlled chaos, a few workers acknowledged the high-ranking visitors. A blond bearded man nodded in quiet reassurance—an unspoken affirmation of order amid the bustle.

  Woodridge pointed. “That’s John Cooley, Director of Engineering. They’re currently focused on the G-374 bomber’s new engine.”

  Parnell’s prior briefing kicked in. “Yes, I’ve been informed about that project.”

  Woodridge continued, “I won’t delve into the details here, as you’re aware. Each section concentrates solely on its designated part. However, there’s more to this base. Let’s move on.”

  They returned to Woodridge’s office, then proceeded to the next phase. Pausing in front of an elevator, Woodridge initiated an intricate scanning process, requiring his and Parnell’s ocular verification. The crisp male voice from earlier pronounced their permission to enter. Inside, the elevator compressed into a confined space.

  Woodridge guided Parnell through a vivid recounting of the base’s history and its well-known surveillance technology endeavors. Tension mounted as they neared the heart of the facility. Their journey ended in a dimly lit underground chamber with a tunnel curving ahead and a trolley car stationed on the tracks.

  Woodridge assumed the role of conductor, escorting Parnell onto the trolley. As it set in motion, lights flashed by the windows, and a sense of mystery unfurled. Parnell’s anticipation was palpable; he was eager to explore the clandestine depths of the base.

  The General spoke plainly, revealing the true nature of what lay ahead. Woodridge unveiled a well-kept secret, one that extended beyond conventional human knowledge. Parnell’s incredulity and curiosity converged as he absorbed Woodridge’s words. The revelation that they possessed alien technology was staggering, and the possibility of imminent interaction with extraterrestrial life was awe-inspiring.

  As their trolley arrived at its destination, the door slid open, ushering them into a broader chamber with dim but discernible lighting. Parnell was poised to witness a singular spectacle—the elusive entity known as “Old Blue.”

  Navigating the tunnel, Woodridge and Parnell approached a guard-posted doorway. The General’s tone reflected the secrecy of the place—even the guards didn’t know its full purpose. The government’s air of mysteriousness shrouded the base’s origins, hinted at by the track’s connection to Edwards Air Force Base.

  As the door granted them entry, Parnell’s heartbeat quickened. The dim light of the tunnel gave way to a brighter ambiance. It was a room hewn from natural rock, an enigmatic chamber housing secrets. A lone trolley track sprawled before them, while to their right, natural light flowed in from the end of the tunnel.

  Woodridge’s measured explanation unveiled another facet of the operation: “Old Blue,” an epithet for the elusive entity they held, by its own choice, to assist them. Parnell wrestled with his emotions as the moment neared—a meeting unlike anything he’d ever imagined.

  They approached a door guarded by two sentries inside a concrete room encased in bulletproof glass. The room was equipped with control panels, each guard seated before one. Above them, automatic machine guns were locked in place, their presence a stark reminder of the secure environment. Gas guns and other gear lined the room’s exterior in strategic positions.

  Upon the director’s and general’s approach, the guard to the right barked, “Attention!” In unison, all four guards snapped to attention.

  Woodridge’s authoritative voice sliced through the tension. “At ease, gentlemen.” The guards promptly resumed their seats.

  Standing before the door, Woodridge took the lead, Parnell following closely. Up close, the door revealed its true nature—a massive barrier like a fortified bunker, possibly even nuclear-restraint. Another scanner, similar to the one in the office, activated. With a mechanical voice, it addressed them, “Access granted. Welcome, General Woodridge and CIA Director Parnell.”

  Gradually, the door began to swing open, its immense size impeding its movement. Woodridge and Parnell stepped into a confined metallic room, the door sealing shut behind them. On the opposite end of this metallic chamber stood another door, smaller than the entrance they had traversed. Recessed lights in each corner of the ceiling cast their illumination over the space, creating an eerie atmosphere. The room’s temperature felt cooler than the tunnel, a slight chill pervading the air.

  A vibrant green beam suddenly bathed the room, emanating from the walls. It moved in a clockwise rotation around the chamber, starting from the wall that accommodated the smaller door.

  Woodridge’s reassuring glance met Parnell’s, a silent assurance that they were entering routine territory. “The scanning is just standard procedure,” Woodridge explained, his tone steady. “It’s checking for any potential threats or objects that could cause issues once we’re inside.”

  As Parnell nodded in understanding, a hint of unease crept into his demeanor. This level of scanning was far more advanced than he was accustomed to at Langley. His nerves seemed to tremble beneath his skin, his thoughts escaping in a somewhat jittery response, “It’s a bit… unsettling, this thorough scanning. Feels like I’m being scanned by one of those conspiracy-theory UFOs. Definitely not Langley. Not that it’s a big concern—I doubt I’ll be here often.”

  Woodridge’s smile was reassuring. “You’re not alone in that feeling. I remember my first time, I felt much the same way.”

  The scanning beam dimmed, and the second door in front of them opened, revealing a long cinder block hallway illuminated from above. At the far end stood another door. But before they proceeded, Woodridge halted, turning to face Parnell.

  “Before we proceed, there’s one more thing…” Woodridge’s voice carried a note of caution. “These beings communicate through telepathy. They can access your thoughts. Anything you hold in your mind, they’ll know. If there’s something private, push it out of your mind. As long as you don’t dwell on it, you’ll be fine. Also, remember, they possess a hive mind. They function as a single entity—interconnected. That’s why I keep referring to them as ‘they’ or ‘them.’ Individual names or identities don’t apply with the exception of “it”—Old Blue. Anything you say or think in front of Old Blue, the individual you’re about to meet, the hive mind will comprehend.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Parnell gasped, his disbelief clear, but quickly recovered with a sheepish grin.

  Woodridge’s smile remained understanding. “Gary, don’t worry about it. We’ve all had our moments. Honestly, you handled it better than I did on my first encounter.”

  Parnell’s grin returned, his curiosity overcoming his initial shock. “Thank you for understanding. But I must admit, this whole telepathy and hive mind concept is incredible—though a bit eerie.”

  “Yes, Sir, it is,” Woodridge agreed with a nod, his gaze steady. He pushed open the next door. The sight before them was astonishing: three spacecraft filled the vast underground hangar. Two dominated the space while a smaller one sat in the right corner. As they entered, the enormity of the hangar revealed itself. Rough rock formed most of the enclosure, interspersed with sections of constructed blockwork. It dwarfed the hangar Parnell had encountered on his initial arrival. Giant LED shop lights hung from the thirty-meter ceiling, a major upgrade from the original incandescents. The far end featured enormous doors, each sixty meters wide and nearly as tall as the ceiling—easily large enough to accommodate massive objects. However, the sprawling ships left little room—clearly not enough room for a fourth. The larger ships were in varying stages of disassembly, while the smaller one looked weathered and scavenged, bearing scars of a significant crash—scraped, bent, and twisted.

  With a nod, Woodridge gestured toward the smaller ship. “We call that one ‘Roswell’.”

  Parnell chuckled, his skepticism evident. “Quite the weather balloon.”

  Nearby, five individuals were deep in conversation, too absorbed to notice the General and director’s arrival.

  Woodridge’s explanation followed, laced with a wry grin. “Our top scientists and engineers. They’ve been down here a long time—dedicated, but often buried in their theories. Most would consider them eccentric.”

  Parnell’s response was tinged with dry humor. “Sounds like my ex-wife.”

  Motioning toward the center ship, Woodridge continued, “We acquired that one in the eighties. The one on the left came in the mid-2000s. All of them are immensely complex—even the smallest. We’ve reverse-engineered parts of their tech, but flight is still beyond us. Many of our technological leaps in the ‘60s and ‘70s can be traced back to this machine.”

  Parnell shook his head, awed. “It’s mind-boggling. I used to think our progress was purely our own when I was younger.”

  Woodridge gave a slight nod. “Hate to crush those childhood illusions, but these ships are way beyond anything we’ve built. The one from 2058 is even more advanced than the ‘80s model. We’ve made only limited headway in reverse engineering it—it’s been a nightmare to decode. But the real reason we’re here—what you’re about to see—is over this way, on the left.”

  They proceeded along the wall through the underground hangar. They rounded a corner to a door on the right, where a retinal scanner granted them access. This led to a narrow hallway, culminating in another door. A scanner beeped and authorized their passage. The next room was brightly lit and rectangular, with three tables neatly arranged. Snack and beverage machines lined the right wall beside a counter with a microwave and sink. A Restroom sign marked a door beyond the snacks, while a separate door on the left had a shaded window.

  Parnell gestured playfully at the machines. “Didn’t expect to see vending machines down here.”

  Woodridge’s response was lighthearted. “Everyone needs sustenance, even down here.”

  “Who’s using them now?” Parnell inquired.

  “Norman Walsh,” Woodridge said. “He’s probably chatting with it right now.” He gestured toward the left door. “This way, Gary.”

  The hallway was dimly lit, their steps echoing softly. After a right turn, they continued for another ten meters. Observation windows lined the left wall, each with a seat positioned in front. At the end stood a central door, behind which lay a chamber about four meters deep that extended along the corridor. The dim lighting cast an otherworldly ambiance. As they rounded the corner, Parnell stopped in his tracks, jolted by what he saw. “Jesus Christ!” he blurted. “They’re even uglier than I imagined!”

  Woodridge’s tone held a hint of amusement. “Luckily, they don’t take offense. Just remember—they’ll know what you’re thinking. Keep any secrets buried deep.”

  Before them, Old Blue sat, engaged in conversation with a man who kept adjusting his glasses, perched precariously on his nose. The being remained mostly still, while the man’s expressions shifted along with his glasses’ precarious placement,.

  Parnell’s observations were a mix of familiarity and novelty. He noted the creature’s resemblance to the descriptions of countless abductees. Yet, the perspective was different. This time, he wasn’t the abductee, consumed by terror that could warp memories.

  Its large head featured the iconic black, almond-shaped eyes—though these were clouded, milky, like cataracts, even in the dim light. Thin slits marked where its nose and mouth should have been. Its skin was gray, laced with a faint blue undertone. Its considerable height was evident as it sat across from the somewhat portly, balding man, its frame thin and wiry. Absent of clothing, as lore suggested, its breathing pattern stood out—quicker and shallower than a human’s.

  Suddenly, the alien’s gaze shifted, its large black eyes locking onto Parnell. A chill ran down his spine. Then, as if summoned by his own thoughts, a single word appeared in his mind hello, clear and vivid.

  “Holy shit!” Parnell’s exclamation echoed through the room. His astonishment was palpable. “That was weird. I saw the word. It spoke to me.”

  Woodridge kept his eyes on the alien, unshaken. “Yes, sir. Just think your words back to it. That glass may be bulletproof and soundproof, but it doesn’t matter. Humans sure as hell can’t do anything like that—unless you count sign language. Think something back, Gary. A greeting. Whatever you want. It will understand you perfectly. Our languages are simple to them. They’ve mastered every one of them on Earth.”

  Parnell stared at the enigmatic being, its eyes holding his attention. He hesitated for a second, then gathered his thoughts. He thought of the word Hello.

  Almost instantly, image-words formed in response. you are the new c.i.a. director, gary parnell. yes?”

  Parnell, still grappling with the astonishing reality unfolding before him, voiced his question. “It thinks in punctuation too?” Before Woodridge could answer, more words emerged in Parnell’s mind. yes, we do. punctuation avoids confusion.

  With a mixture of disbelief and intrigue, Parnell addressed the creature aloud, “Yes, I am….” He paused, then let the thought-form words flow, Yes, I am Gary Parnell. I am the new director.

  Woodridge stayed quiet, letting Parnell take in the moment for himself.

  In the realm of thought, the alien’s response surfaced, seamless and direct. Welcome, Mr. Parnell. How are you today?

  Parnell’s consciousness sent forth his reply, “I’m…fine. This is a lot to take in.”

  The alien pressed gently into Parnell’s mind. We understand. There is knowledge you lack—and knowledge we seek.

  Curiosity burning in Parnell’s thoughts, he inquired further, What are we learning from you?

  You have already learned much. we allow you to keep the ships we lost so that your race may progress—slowly. Direct teaching would accelerate your advancement beyond what we consider safe. In your terms, you must crawl before you walk.

  Parnell’s questions piled up, his thoughts flowing seamlessly. What do I call you? What is your name?

  The response was swift and unambiguous. We have no names. We are not like you. We are one. the name old blue was given to this body long ago. You may use that if you like, or another name. It makes no difference to us.

  Intrigued by the moniker, Parnell pressed on, forgetting to think communicate. “Why Old Blue?”

  this body is old, the alien explained. The skin turns blue as the body ages. The eyes turn milky.

  The natural inquisitiveness of human curiosity pressed further. He thought: How old are you?

  The reply carried a sense of factual detachment. If you are referring to the body, it is almost two hundred of your years old. We estimate it will last no more than thirty years.

  Parnell couldn’t help but comment, Wow, that’s much longer than a human.

  Yes, the entity acknowledged. We are attempting to merge our DNA with yours. To benefit both races.

  The extraordinary conversation abruptly snapped, and Parnell blinked, his eyes watering from the long, unbroken stare. He turned to Woodridge, still processing what just happened. “Sam, can we talk for a minute—without Old Blue eavesdropping?” he said, gesturing toward the window.

  “Yes, sir,” Woodridge affirmed. “If we return to the snack room, we can talk.”

  Parnell urged, “Let’s go for a minute.”

  They returned to the break room. Parnell headed straight for a drink dispenser, his thoughts still reeling from the alien conversation. He studied the machine, noting the absence of any payment slot, then selected water. The bottle clanked down, and he took a long drink before turning his attention back to Woodridge.

  “Where are they from, Sam? Do we know?”

  Woodridge began, “Well, sir, as far as we know, they come from one of the stars in the Reticulum constellation—assuming they’ve been honest with us.”

  Parnell raised an eyebrow, skepticism plain. He took another sip of water.

  Woodridge continued, “The constellation can be seen in the Southern Hemisphere, Sir. They’re from a planet that circles the star Zeta Reticuli, though I’m not sure which one that is. It’s just shy of forty light years away from us.”

  After a moment of thought, he added, “They were originally created as food—bred to be eaten by another race that lived there, Reptilians supposedly. They escaped and came here. For a long time now, it’s been believed that they need us to survive. They want to blend our DNA with theirs because cloning is their only way to reproduce—and it’s been steadily failing over the centuries. As advanced as they are, they may never be able to fix it.”

  Intrigued, Parnell asked, “What’s the issue? Why are they blending us with them? And why hasn’t it worked for all these years?”

  Woodridge took a sip from his own water bottle, pausing a moment. “They’re sterile. No reproductive organs—no ability to breed. They weren’t created for that. It was a way for the Reptilians to control their numbers. Cloning became their only option—but over time, the copies degraded. Like making a copy of a copy of a copy—it just keeps getting worse. They’re trying to merge with our DNA—to create hybrids that can actually reproduce. So far, every attempt has failed. Some say it’s because of biological incompatibility; others think it’s because of the human soul—that being a creation, they don’t have a soul. No one really knows anything for sure.”

  “They haven’t been successful?” Parnell interjected. “But for over a hundred years, people have reported seeing hybrids during abductions.”

  “That’s true, sir,” Woodridge conceded. “They do exist, but they are still sterile so far. They claim they’re getting closer, though. Regarding abductions, we get to keep the ships and reverse-engineer them, so we look the other way on those.”

  Parnell mulled over the information, a mixture of fascination and incredulity in his gaze. “This whole thing is a bit crazy,” he finally commented. He took another sip of water, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and questions.

  Walsh joined the conversation, his voice even. “Because they have two brains. That alone gives them a far greater cognitive ability than we do. Their brains are also slightly larger than ours, which has pushed their technology forward at a rate we can’t match. What might take us a century to achieve, they could master within two decades. Their entire society revolves around technology. For them, science is more than a tool—it’s a form of worship.”

  Parnell leaned in. “So, there’s no concept of God in their society?”

  Walsh nodded slowly. “They assert that they are God—or at least the source of the idea. They claim creation myths were based on them. They say they created us and inspired the stories of Adam, Eve, and others in early human texts. As humanity evolved, they pulled back—becoming more enigmatic, more myth than memory. Since then, they’ve operated from the shadows.”

  Parnell’s expression hardened. The skepticism hadn’t faded—if anything, it had deepened. “But how can they claim to be God? We don’t resemble them much, except for a basic form. The rest is quite different.”

  Walsh’s face broke into a friendly smile. “Your confusion is entirely understandable, Director.”

  “Please, call me Gary,” Parnell requested.

  “Sure thing, Gary,” Walsh replied, smiling. “As I said, your confusion is expected. They claim vast knowledge of our origins—enough to lend some weight to their story. Maybe they’re lying. Maybe not. Honestly, I don’t care. What matters is here and now.”

  Parnell inquired further. “What about the Greeks, Egyptians, Romans—cultures that believed in many gods? How does their claim fit with that?”

  Woodridge nodded, thoughtful. “That was one of my first questions, too. Seems we’re all asking the same things. I’ve been digging deeper ever since.”

  Parnell’s interest piqued. “So, how do they explain the concept of multiple deities?”

  Walsh responded, sharing the insight he had gained. “According to them, other alien races visited Earth and steered humanity off course. Our current guides—these Reticulans—say they drove the others out to bring us back on track. They believe their actions help both our species.”

  Parnell expressed his hopes. “I really hope you’re right. I suspect I have more questions to pose, given their complex nature. Can I approach them directly, or is there specialized training required? Perhaps for safety reasons?”

  Walsh nodded, nudging his glasses back up. “Absolutely, Gary. Old Blue isn’t dangerous. You can speak to them directly. They understand both speech and thought. Just talk normally, and they’ll reply to everyone through thought.”

  After a round of confirmations, they made their way to meet Old Blue in person. Walsh led, with Parnell and Woodridge close behind. At the door, Woodridge scanned them in. Inside, Walsh returned to his seat, Parnell sat to his left, and Woodridge took the chair beside him after securing the door.

  Parnell broke the silence. “A quick question before we begin—why is the lighting so dim in here?”

  He got two answers at once—Walsh said aloud, “Bright lights hurt their eyes,” while the thought, Our eyes cannot tolerate intense light, entered his mind.

  Parnell blinked. “That was…weird. You both answered at the same time.”

  Walsh chuckled. “That happens sometimes. You’ll get used to it. Go ahead—ask whatever you’d like.”

  Parnell took a moment to gather his thoughts, still awed by the reality of sitting across from an extraterrestrial. He studied Old Blue’s features—the light blue, faintly scaly skin; a wiry frame; the milky, penetrating eyes.

  After a pause, he said, “I have to admit—your claim of being God troubles me.”

  The response entered his mind. We understand your concern. But we are your creators.

  This message reached not only Parnell but Walsh and Woodridge as well. Parnell pressed on; his thoughts organized. “So, you ‘created’ us—but from nothing?”

  The answer formed in their minds: No, not from nothing. Your historians are partially correct. You evolved from upright apes—a natural progression. We intervened, shaping you into a form closer to what you are now. But your evolution continues, bringing many advancements across the centuries.

  Parnell continued, glancing toward Woodridge and Walsh to make sure they were still tracking. “Why abduct people instead of asking for volunteers? The God I know doesn’t force His will.”

  Walsh shifted uncomfortably, but Woodridge stepped in, eyeing the man. “I’ve asked that too. We need to hear it from them—Let them explain.”

  Walsh bristled, anger flashing and fading just as quickly, “We shouldn’t be interrogating our allies like this!”

  Woodridge countered, his voice steady. “As I’ve just stated, I’ve been thinking about this too. These questions are long overdue—and Gary’s courage in asking them is commendable. Let them answer.”

  Walsh’s anger faded into a serene smile as clarity returned to his eyes.

  Parnell turned to Old Blue, his determination unshaken. He looked at Walsh. “Are they communicating with you right now?”

  Walsh’s answer was straightforward. “No.”

  Parnell turned his focus back to Old Blue. “I want an answer.”

  The images flowed quickly. The answer is complex, beyond your current understanding. But we will try to explain. Our connection with you is delicate. We guide you, knowing that our differences provoke fear. Abductions are necessary because of this fear— and the need to suppress memories. Asking for volunteers is not feasible. A full explanation requires more time than we currently have.

  Parnell quieted his thoughts, signaling his acceptance of the answer. He excused both himself and Woodridge from Old Blue’s presence. As they walked through the hangar, he paused the trolley to speak privately. He halted at the trolley and turned to Woodridge. “It’s clear Norm lied about their communication. The whole thing was unsettling—the way they go beyond reading thoughts, almost into our subconscious. It felt…manipulative. Immoral.”

  Woodridge nodded. “Yes, Sir. He was communicating with them.”

  “The whole situation is troubling—especially Norm’s reaction,” Parnell said. “It feels like they’re tailoring their responses to please us…maybe they can dig deeper than our thoughts. It doesn’t seem right to me—feels deceptive. Manipulative.”

  “I share your concerns, to a degree,” Woodridge replied. “But I’m not convinced their intentions are entirely sinister. I doubt they’re seeking to fully control Earth. That doesn’t align logically. They could have dominated us long ago. We’ve advanced over time. If their intention was conquest, they would have struck before we could resist. Maybe they want us to underestimate them, to show aggression too soon.”

  Parnell appeared thoughtful. “So, it’s about deciding what actions to take.”

  Woodridge exhaled. “I don’t think we possess the means to counter them. Whether their intentions are benevolent or not, they hold the upper hand. I hope they’re here for good, but if not, there’s little we can do. Their presence predates ours. Except for the abductions, they haven’t posed a significant threat. Time will tell.”

  Parnell reflected for a moment. “I hope your optimism proves right, Sam. Alright, press that button again. I need to return to Langley. More briefings await, but rest assured, I’ll scour Langley’s archives and consult with General Anderson. I want to uncover everything about them.”

  “Understood, Sir,” Woodridge affirmed. He restarted the trolley, and they continued, leaving both men lost in thought over the uncertainties ahead.

  As the trolley hummed softly beneath them, carrying Parnell and Woodridge away, neither man spoke. But far behind them, sealed behind glass and stone, Old Blue still listened. Their thoughts—doubt, fear, suspicion—drifted through the silence like whispers in the void. They believed themselves alone…They were wrong.