“Where they fucked up, see, was thinking they’re privileged or something.” McDevitt took another hit on her ever disappearing joint. “They always thought First Contact – with capital letters, mind you – would be beamed right to them.”
“Like straight to their computers or something?”
“Beamed straight up their asses for all I know. They just expected to be special because that’s how politicians see themselves.” She set the joint down on the ash tray and watched the smoke trail up, leaning forward to turn up the television showing a black screen. Every tv, every computer, every object that could be connected to the internet or grab hold of the airways or even just had a screen displayed the same soundless message at the top of every hour for the last three days.
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
“We’re part of that great lie, too.” She glanced at her phone on the table now lit up with the same message. “The message is in every language. English isn’t special. I bet somehow they’re tapping into our individual neuralities to show whatever language we recognize.”
“Neuralities? Making up words now?”
“Brainwaves. Whatever. Neuralities sounds better.”
McDevitt and Henry sat in the dim living room on the small love seat, McDevitt’s legs stretched on top of Henry’s out on the coffee table in front of them, blinds shuttered to blot out the cloudless noon sky, and a half empty Pringles can on its side with crumbs sprinkled around it next to the ash tray. A microfiber blanket, one of the good one she regularly employed as a pillow, hung off the end of the couch grazing the floor.
“Neuralities, sure. Does that mean you’re going to start wearing tinfoil hats? Probably start thinking Elvis and JFK are sending these messages from Mars.” Henry said.
“Shut up.” She didn’t bother looking away from the message still on the screen. “But really. I mean, what else is there to do?”
“I’m assuming someone somewhere is transmitting something? And that should be stopped?” Henry reached out for the joint. “Or…”
“Or what everyone else is saying. Stop every kind of radio wave. The predator theory.” McDevitt said.
The Predator Theory had become common knowledge, a household name throughout the world since the messages first started disrupting life every hour. As Dr. Klein, who had already exceeded Fauci status as the face of a crisis, explained in the White House Press Room: The Predator Theory can be explained through Fermi’s Paradox, that one that science fiction fans are accustomed to. The Paradox posits the question that if there are billions of stars with billions of planets, where’s all the life? It should be like a giant fish tank swarming with different varieties of lifeforms. Only there’s silence (or was).
The Predator Theory, Dr. Klein had mentioned behind a podium, looking every bit like the beleaguered scientist from an Apocalypse movie, explains that Paradox. The universe is quiet because like antelope on the savanna or mouse in a home, they have to be quiet. They have to hide their presence from the predators. The ones that swoop in and devour life as it arises throughout the galaxy.
Any time people say “throughout the galaxy” or “little green men” it’s easy to roll your eyes. And who could blame them? It was people worrying about what’s up there when there was still so many things wrong down on this planet. Though, not many eyes were rolling by day three. Not when what’s “up there” started to change what’s down here.
“Do you have another theory?” McDivitt asked.
“I wish it was like a virus or something. Just something some kid cooked up in his garage and let loose across internet.” Henry put the joint down without smoking it. “But devices not connected to anything do the same thing. At the same time. I mean, even our old CRT tv in the closet that’s not even plugged in turns on every time. That’s not something explained away by your antivirus acting up.”
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
“So you think we’re gonna need Arnold covered in layers of mud to save us?” McDevitt’s laugh was laced with unease.
“I think we need to shut everything down. Go full Amish for a little bit.”
“Countries would never admit that we’re weaker than whatever’s out there. Have you seen Independence Day? Not gonna happen. No way.”
The message flickered off after four minutes, as usual, returning to the two news-people behind a desk. The scroll on the bottom of the screen read the same warning message, though McDevitt was pretty sure the news couldn’t change it. A change took hold earlier this morning. The first time it happened, it was just a curiosity.
McDevitt was in the office stretched with cubicles and egg white walls, waist deep in excel with her mind engulfed in pivot tables and what general nicety to write on Erik’s birthday card who she barely knew. Then, like a calm between thunder rolls, an eerie silence took hold over the entire office. Everyone stopped typing or talking about reports. A moment later they all saw the message for the first time.
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
A virus. Damn it. Across the entire network. McDevitt watched a handful of the well-trained corporate folks dash to unplug their computers. First by taking out the network cable, then unplugging their entire computers. McDevitt just hoped it wasn’t anything she did. She remembered that Travelocity tab she had opened, but that was a safe website, right?
It was such an odd text, even the font was slightly off, so she pulled out her phone to snap a picture.
STOP TRANSMITTING OR THEY WILL HEAR YOU
Huh. She tried turning the phone off, but nothing happened. That’s when she started to hear more murmuring around the office, others had taken their phones out and noticed the exact same message. She heard someone walk in and say, “The breakroom TV’s busted, it’s showing – oh.”
As more heads started popping up over the cubicles, the message went away and computers (the ones that hadn’t been unplugged) went right back to normal. McDevitt looked at her phone, no message, just her background of an astronaut holding ice cream.
By the end of the day the message showed up four more times and everyone realized the problem wasn’t unique to their office, it was worldwide. Managers were told to recommend desisting any activity on the computers. God forbid whatever it is accesses proprietary information.
McDevitt’s manager called her that night saying the office will be closed the next day. She asked Henry to go to the grocery store that evening. The world had the same feeling as the coast on the days leading up to a hurricane. People unsure where the storm would hit, if it hit at all, but stocking up just in case. He came back empty handed. The parking lot alone looked like a tailgate gone horribly wrong, inside the store probably resembled the Thunderdome. They’d be fine with whatever was in the house.
McDevitt reached into the half empty pringles can and munched on the yellow chips. The newspeople looked haggard. Then suddenly shocked. An object, they said, was just spotted by NASA near Saturn.
McDevitt turned off the television, just in case.
“I think we’re fucked.”
The New Martian 