Ascension: Invocation (2 page)

Milan had to interrupt the Colonel. "With all due respect, Colonel, if we have made contact with an inter-dimensional entity, it is not likely that they require our assistance."

"How so, Doctor?" asked Jim the anchor.

"If this entity does, in fact, occupy a parallel universe and they have found a way to make contact with us, then their intellect and technology is far superior to our own. It's not likely that we would have anything that they need."

"The OWL mentioned a failure in our past and that we must now reconcile that failure with victory," the Colonel misquoted. "That, to me, sounds like a call to arms."

"I don't think that's what the voice said," Milan corrected.

Jim grabbed his notes and read aloud. "The actual quote from the OWL was 'In that instance, you did fail. It is now evermore critical that you succeed. Soon you will understand.'"

"There was more to it than that, Jim," said Milan.

The Colonel agreed. "There certainly was. I guess we just heard two different things. And what about this constant buzz? It feels like we're on the verge on a massive quake of some kind. We need to talk about that."

"Colonel, the vibrations we're feeling could be the result of a dimensional tear. String theory suggests that each dimension is a string or a membrane if you will. If they have breached our 'string', it would be equivalent to plucking a note on a guitar, for example. We could be feeling the reverberations of that note being struck. That may be why they told us to enjoy the music," Milan said, giving a nod to Alicia.

"Interesting indeed. Let's bring in our theology expert," the anchor swung around in his chair to face his new panelist. "Dr. Robert Pembrooke. What did you hear today?"

Dr. Pembrooke paused for a moment. "I heard the voice of God. And I would suggest you stop calling Him 'Al'."

Milan couldn't help it. He laughed out loud, on camera. Dr. Pembrooke smiled at him through the monitor as Jim quickly gave a summation and went to commercial. The red lights went out. The director gave an all clear, and the producer began to shout to the team.

"Okay, we're done here for now, people. Let's get some new footage of the tear and the town. Milan, can I see you?" The producer walked to Milan as he removed his mic. He was anxious to get back outside. "L.A. would like for you to do more about string theory. We have something in the can that you did last year with Larry. Do you remember that?" the producer asked.

"Faintly," Milan said as he briskly walked to the door.

"Can you be back in an hour to talk with Jim about the advances in the theory since last year?"

"Advances?" Milan checked his cell phone. He had no signal. It was working before he thought.

"Yeah, like... has anyone solved it?" the producer said, his voice shaking. Milan looked up from his phone and saw the middle-aged man brush tears from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "What's happening?" he asked, trying to catch his breath. The producer had now thoroughly broken down and was crying as silently as possible, so not to attract the attention of his staff.

"No one really knows at the moment," Milan said, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. "But we'll figure it out. Let me see what I can find out at the site. I'll come back in about an hour, and I'll try to explain things further, okay?" The producer nodded and worked to regain his composure. "Walk outside with me," Milan told him. "Get a little air, clean yourself up. You'll be okay."

"I can't even call my family," the producer said.

"I'll try to see if I can make arrangements for that, okay?"

Again, the producer nodded. Milan began to walk away toward the radio station, disappearing inside the crowd dancing now to Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al". It was ridiculous. Milan left him with that. He felt terrible. He didn't even know the producer's name.



Alicia made her way past the remaining aisles of goods in the dollar store to her makeshift office, which consisted solely of a desk and her iPad. She took off her jacket and draped it across her folding chair. She checked herself in the reflection of the computer screen and tapped a key to wake it up. First stop: Facebook. She had thirty friend requests. Not bad. She updated her status. "It's a party in Tuscumbia, Alabama! Crazy here. Going to talk to the locals. Will update more details as they happen. Stay tuned to Triton! Blarrgh! Need coffee!!!"

She then surfed to the competing networks. CNN had a terrific shot of the tear. "God, they've got the best graphics," she thought as she made her way to Fox, then ABC, CBS, and finally MSNBC. No one had anything new. This was good. Everyone was focusing on ground zero, the radio station. She needed a different angle. Maybe she'd go for the fringe. "Oh, wait," she thought. "Mama fears for her family. Sweet!" She'd find a rattled backwoods family and do a piece on them and their response to the aliens. Southern kids had adorable accents. This was Alabama. There had to be some dust bowl-era-looking barefoot family somewhere. Potentially hilarious. Perfect.

"Brady!" she shouted.

"Yeah?" was the response from the wash room directly in front of her desk.

"You ready?"

“I'm taking a dump, babe."

"Hurry up. We've got to go."

"You got a lead?"

"I've got an idea, yeah. Finish jerking off and let's get out of here."

"I love it when you fantasize about my junk." The toilet flushed, the water ran and Brady emerged drying his hands with toilet paper.

"Are we out of paper towels?" Alicia asked.

"I couldn't find any."

"We're in a fucking convenience store, Brady. Aisle six."

"This is a fine." Brady tossed the wet paper in the trash can. He stepped to the corner and picked up his camera and remote bag. "Where are we going?"

"To the sticks. We need to find a redneck family."

"Can't we just do that in the parking lot?"

"No, no. I want to find a dilapidated house. No running water; that kind of shit."

"It's Alabama, Ali, but I'm pretty sure it's not 1936."

"You know what I mean. Let's go. You got the keys?"

"We're good. I don't know how you think we're going to drive through this mess."

Alicia and Brady walked toward the exit. Alicia stopped at the cold remedy aisle. "Wait a minute." She found a box of generic Sudafed, ripped it open, popped four red pills from the blister pack and swallowed them down. She put the rest in her pocket and made her way to the door. They took two coffees from the hospitality table on the way out.

Outside, the music was deafening. Alicia led the way and shoved past the revelers to the back of the building and the rented SUVs. They got in, Brady fired up the truck, and they began the slow trek out of the parking lot. A sea of people eventually parted to let them through the city streets.

"What do you know about this Milan guy?" Alicia asked.

"The scientist?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know. This is the first time I've met him. Seems like a good guy. Why? You crushin' on the geek?"

"Whatever. I'm not that kind of horny. I think he slighted me in the last break."

"He's smarter than you, Ali. Get over it. He's not the only one."

Brady glanced over to Alicia in the passenger seat and noticed that she looked a bit sad. This was rare. In the year that they had been partnered together, he had only known her to be a brash, hard drinking, pill popping, redheaded, wonderful nightmare. He was somewhat surprised to see her ego, which was epic, deflated.

"Hey," he said, gently punching her in the arm. "You can't be the prettiest girl in the room and the smartest chick. Leave a little something for the rest of us, huh?"

"Fuck you, Brady" she said, punching him harder. "I'm smart."

"Never said you weren't."

"Maybe not doctor-of-fucking-physics smart but smart enough to win a Murrow."

"Oh yeah? When did that happen?"

"It's going to happen. It might just be this story."

"Fuck yeah," Brady smiled. "Let's get it."

They were a solid pair, albeit a mismatched one. Brady was an overweight, balding 37 year old industry veteran. He had shot film in both Gulf Wars and on 9/11. His wife hated his job and worried that he put himself in harm’s way far too often. After all, he had two young kids at home in Colorado. Truth be known Brady would rather have been playing golf but as he often told his wife, "golf won't pay the bills." He ate too much junk food and was probably one cheeseburger away from his first heart attack.

Alicia, on the other hand, was 10 years his junior, stunning and an upstart in the business. She landed at the network a year prior after cutting her teeth in Portland and Seattle, first as a beat reporter and then an anchor. Brady often thought that she was meant for another time. He was a fan of old movies, and she reminded him of Bette Davis or Katharine Hepburn. She had a dignity about her. She could be competitive to a fault though, which alienated much of the staff. Alicia was driven, and Brady sometimes worried that the work consumed her. He didn't dare tell her to slow down. It was like working with a woman possessed, and she would have ripped his head off. Still, he knew a side of her that most missed. She was genuinely charming when she wanted to be and she made the work exciting.

"Jesus Christ, this place is weird. Everyone here is drunk and packing a gun," Alicia said.

"Then there's that whole alien thing," Brady shot back as he navigated through the crowd, periodically honking the horn.

"Yeah, there's that." Alicia paused. "Is that what you think this is? Aliens?"

"Who the hell knows? What? Are you worried you're going to get probed?"

"It might be the best part of the trip."



Milan made his way through the streets. The radio station was only a few blocks away from the dollar store. A month prior, he suspected that he could have made this walk in fifteen minutes or less. Now, he struggled to move a few feet per minute. The roads were just packed. It was like navigating through some insane street festival, he thought. The music was incredibly loud, and every kind of crazy was represented here. The whirling hippies, the religious zealots, the tin-foil hat crowd. This coupled with the presence of armed police, news media of all sorts and ordinary civilians sipping beers and talking about their mortgages amidst a dimensional crack in the sky was a new sort of surreal. He pressed forward.

Nearly a half hour later, Milan finally made it to the block where the station was located. The military had barricaded the perimeter several days before. Milan knew that getting past would be a challenge. He approached a soldier, flashed his press credentials and waved the gentleman closer. They would each have to shout in each others' ear to be heard.

"No press!" the soldier yelled.

"I understand! I'm a scientist! I'm not a reporter!"

The soldier looked him over for a moment and finally shouted "Stay here!"

With that, the soldier left the line and walked behind one of the armored trucks that guarded the city block. Milan saw snipers on the surrounding buildings. Behind the line, ambassadors from throughout the world, military minds and scientists like him huddled in the old Victorian home that doubled as the radio station studios where this entire debacle began weeks before. Milan desperately wanted to be a part of whatever was happening behind those closed doors. It was moments like this, however, that he cursed the day his agent had talked him into signing the consulting agreement with the network. Sure, the money was fantastic. The shot to his credibility amongst his peers, though, made it hardly worth it. He had become a "Mr. Wizard", as his colleagues often joked. It was unfair. His credentials were impeccable. They knew this.

One of the soldier's superiors appeared from behind the truck and approached Milan. Since his arrival in Alabama, earlier that morning, Milan had detected a palatable fear in the eyes of everyone he encountered. Even the new age freaks welcoming their new, next dimensional masters with drum circles and crystals held a spark of terror in their gaze. This man's cold stare was fearless. Something about that was reassuring to Milan who was, admittedly, as nervous as the next by-stander.

"What is your business here, sir?!"

"I want to help! I'm a doctor of physics! I have a few theories about what is happening!"

"We have plenty of physicists working on this!"

"I can't imagine that one more would hurt! My name is Dr. Milan..."

"I know who you are," the man interrupted. He paused for a moment and finally waved Milan through the gate. "Follow me."

Behind the perimeter was a flurry of military activity. There were several tents set up and Milan could see a number of personnel working diligently at their computers. It was a relief to leave the mass of people behind. Milan followed the man down the block and up the concrete steps of the yellow house. On the porch, they were greeted by two armed guards who parted immediately at the sight of Milan's escort, saluted and opened the double doors to the home.

Inside, the house boasted high, ornate ceilings. An elaborate chandelier hung above them in the entryway. A mahogany staircase to their right was full of traffic as people ran up and down the stairs, carrying files and various pieces of equipment. To the left, was a conference table now occupied by a number of dignitaries, apparently awaiting a presentation of some sort. The soldier told Milan to stay put, and he vanished around the corner, into the conference room.