The Greys, you whisper, and
you immediately know the end is upon you. The maximum-security facility where
they’re housed, out of site from the American public, teeming with scientists
and military personnel, has been breached. The Greys have escaped. You stumble
upon the site, the last remnant of the research team, and it is a crater in the
earth. Nothing is left. Oh no, we’re
doomed, you have time to think before you see a silver disc rise from the
ashes and disappear at blinding speed into space. Seconds later a beam of
intense light fires down, incinerating the rest of the planet. Humanity’s end
is inauspicious at best.
Fast-forward to the alien homeworld. The escapees have safely arrived,
ready to debrief their superiors. “623y5,
35c493d?” asks The Enchanter. An escapee begins to explain: “N) v)ic3, n) d474…” Angrily, The Enchanter
interrupts: “T'4c7ic41 W38!”
Of course it’s ridiculous that they were captured in the first place! So much
for the terraforming idea. No point in assimilating into a population hell-bent
on dissecting you. Best to blow it up instead, start from scratch. Not ideal,
but better than that operating table.
Reassess, rewire, reconfigure. Supercomputer Belarisk repositions
coordinates, recalculates probabilities. The Greys, not Greys anymore,
intercept Belarisk’s transmissions through their frontal lobes, the electronic
pulses, sometimes quick and urgent, sometimes paced for reflective cognition,
providing a unified message. The Greys, not Greys anymore, understand as one
the transmissions and fall into pattern, preparing the next move.
Belarisk turns its transmitters outward, broadcasting its warning to
the universe. Let the perils of Earth be a lesson to them. “831i41 Ch2)m3'd,” break, media
end.
--Ryan Masteller
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