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there was a computer core here somewhere. And all at once, like a baptism and
a Tourrette's spasm combined, I could see and understand what I had been
working on for the Air Force. They had an alien computer and were reverse
engineering it! They had an alien computer! Holy shit, the Air Force, the CIA,
and this Group W-squared has an alien computer!
Are you a SuperAgent the way I understand them? There was a brief pause.
Yes.
Are you the only one like you on this spaceship?
Yes.
Are there other lesser Agents then?
Yes.
Where are you?
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Here.
A map of the ship appeared in my head and a picture of the green and orange
cube I had seen at CIA Headquarters flashed in my mind. I knew just how to
find it. I found it odd that the computer
would be giving me such detailed information.
Can anybody speak to you?
Anybody equipped properly. Yes.
And do you give anybody equipped to speak to you any information they ask for?
Yes.
Can you be kept from others?
If programmed thus.
Okay. For now on, only let me talk to you.
Okay.
What stupid aliens! Don't they have hackers on their world?
I thought this without realizing it and forgetting I was still talking to the
machine.
No, they do not.
The answer shocked me a bit. After a few more minutes of this discourse, or
whatever you would call it, I began to understand that the entire species of
these Grays must be communal and work toward one common goal, with no straying
from each Gray individual's purpose. A hive. Or at least this was the feeling
that I got from the SuperAgent's explanation of things.
I had been quiet for so long that I had forgotten about the naked Russian girl
in the corner. She said something unintelligible to me, which brought my
attention to her nudity and mine.
I wish I had my clothes
, I thought. A small spot on the wall nearest me began to ripple like dropping
a pebble in a pond and then a small table floated through it. On the table
were my clothes in the exact same state which they were in when I drove away
from Lazarus's gravesite. The clothes were soiled with the sand and dust from
the rubble-strewn valley that I had buried my buddy in. There were a few
stains of blood on my shirt. This made me sad, very sad, to remember poor
Lazarus, my only remaining family.
Everybody I had ever really known was dead. Oh God, poor Laz. I missed him so
much already.
If my clothes had not been dirty I wouldn't have thought of Lazarus.
I began to cry.
Why couldn't they have been clean? I wish they were clean.
I was starting on the downward manic spiral again and the tears began to flow.
Now I was deeply, deeply depressed. I was out of happy pills so I
would be in trouble if my depression started running away unchecked by the
medication.
The little tray got fuzzy and my clothes looked as though I was looking at
them through a zoom lens out of focus, and then they were normal again. Now
they were clean and even the bloodstains were gone. I stopped thinking of
Lazarus for a microsecond to notice that somehow the clothes became clean and
then I realized I had wished that they be cleaned. Then it dawned on me that I
should have been surprised by my clothes suddenly appearing, dirty or not.
But that fleeting instant of rationality didn't last long, because the
avalanche of depression had started.
"Oh God, Lazarus!" I bawled.
If only I wouldn't have seen my dirty clothes, if only I wouldn't have thought
of Lazarus, why do I have to cry and be so depressed?
The SuperAgent responded in my mind. The tracking device implanted in the
limbic system region of your brain is interacting improperly with your hormone
production and is causing you to have rapid emotional swings with great
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amplitude. Your hippocampus cannot compensate swiftly enough for the chemical
differentials.
As I cried I mouthed the thought out and repeated it three times. "The
tracking device implanted in the limbic system region of your brain is
interacting improperly with your hormone production and is causing you to have
rapid emotional swings with great amplitude. Your hippocampus cannot
compensate swiftly enough for the chemical differentials. . . .
" . . . The tracking device implanted in the limbic system region of your
brain is interacting improperly with your hormone production and is causing
you to have rapid emotional swings with great amplitude.
Your hippocampus cannot compensate swiftly enough for the chemical
differentials. . . ."
The third time it pierced the manic haze, "The tracking device IMPLANTED in
the limbic system region of MY brain is interacting improperly with MY hormone
production and is causing ME to have rapid emotional swings with great
amplitude. MY hippocampus cannot compensate swiftly enough for the chemical
differentials!" I paused long enough to wipe the tears from my face and start
crying again. Now
however, the manic state swung violently to rage as it had when I had killed
the two aliens.
"I HAVE AN ALIEN IMPLANT IN MY BRAIN! MY GOD I'M NOT CRAZY!! I HAVE AN
ALIEN IMPLANT IN MY BRAIN! YOU BASTARDS! GET IT THE FUCK OUT OF ME RIGHT
NOW! GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT!" I beat the floor with my fists and
pitched a tantrum to beat all tantrums. I knew what needed to be done and that
flying off in a tantrum wouldn't help, but I
couldn't stop myself.
"Can it be taken out now!?" I asked and the SuperAgent didn't respond.
"Can it be taken out now, I asked!?" still no response.
"CAN IT BE TAKEN OUT NOW?!" Then I felt a slap across my face and the naked
Russian girl shook me and screamed at me.
This was enough to snap me closer to sanity and I realized I was speaking out
loud and not thinking to the computer.
Can my implant be removed now without harming me?
Yes.
Do it now!
I waited for some sign, a pain in my head, a bloody nose, anything like I had
seen in bad UFO
science fiction movies, but nothing happened. I was beginning to get
disappointed.
I said remove the implant now.
It was removed when you asked the first time. Is there a problem?
You mean, it's gone now?
Yes.
I thrust the naked girl away from me and stood up in front of her, all
six-one, two hundred and forty pounds of my hairy self. I reached for my
clothes.
Give me the girl's clothes, cleaned.
They appeared in the same fashion that mine had. Her clothes, if you want to
call them that, were merely an oversized cotton tank top. My guess was that
the Grays had grabbed her out of bed. I pulled my underwear up and nodded to
the girl and at her clothes. She grabbed the top and frantically pulled it
over her and then she squatted and began hugging herself and crying.
I realized then that she must have one of those damned tracking device things
in her as well.
Is there an implant in the girl?
Yes.
Is it affecting her emotions?
All implants do. Yes.
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