The Package
©1998 Jess Gulbranson
PRELIMINARY REPORT TO ADAM
Commisioner,
I need your advice on how to proceed with the matter of Agent Bruce. He is in too sensitive a position to be dismissed, but his behavior merits disciplinary measures. He is, in my opinion, the least valuable of our team, and as such transferral might be preferable.
Enclosed is a 'report' indicating example of this behavior and a transcription of my official reprimand.
AIC Benson
COPY
######
REPORT OF FINDINGS TO CO, CELL B
This report is the culmination of intensive research in the private sector. I have isolated a list of musical groups and individuals in the popular world that should be regarded as security threats or targets for observation. Please forward at once to Ops for immediate implementation of security procedures. (Please note that the first seven entries are British, and deserve special emphasis in light of recent occurrences in the UK.
Sic:
David Bowie (David Jones)
All documentation available in files Code ERIFRT 1-10, 34-36, 98
Agent Bruce
######
TRANSCRIPT,
[First speaker is CO Benson]
Before we begin the official reprimand, I would like to ask… what the hell do you think you are doing?
CO, my report was intended as the preliminaries of an ongoing investigation.
Investigation? How so?
To… um… [clears throat] investigate possibly overlooked avenues of investigation.
Agent Bruce, you've used the word investigate three times now in two sentences. You must realize that you are part of no such active ongoing investigation.
Yes, sir, I thought however-
May I remind you that you are not a field agent. You are strictly a medical examiner, and not cleared for the liberties you have taken. Would you please explain yourself?
Um… I pursued all possible avenues of invest- um, research, and discovered an alarming dearth of surveillance on popular figures. I began a program of cataloging their involvements and suspected ties.
David Bowie?!
Sir, David Bowie is the richest entertainer in the United Kingdom, with estimated holdings of $952 million. His latest recordings reveal information that could be interpreted in such a way as to hint at—
For Christ's sake, Emerson Lake and Palmer? Are you mad?
Yes sir, I mean, no sir. The group Emerson, Lake, and—
Emerson Lake and Palmer!? As in, 'ooooh what a lucky man'?
That song in particular reveals an occult doctrine that is extremely complex. I have all the documentation if you'd like to see it.
Agent Bruce, I happen to own that album. I know for a fact that Greg Lake wrote the song 'Lucky Man' when he was twelve years old!
Indeed, sir. Mr. Lake and his colleagues are representatives of a multi-national consortium of—
Let the record show, Agent Bruce, that you are full of shit. 'I hereby give you notice of official reprimand, for behaviors unbecoming an agent and uncompliant with policy, in accordance with Statutes 11.5 and 7.8. You will refrain from all activities aforementioned, and all others prohibited agents with your clearance and orders. Infringement of these rules shall result in further disciplinary action at the prerogative of your commanding officer. End official reprimand.' Aretha Franklin, Agent Bruce? Are you mad? Have all copies of this destroyed, and continue in your capacity as medical examiner. Is that perfectly clear?
END TRANSCRIPT
#DXI-888-217-76B- CELL B
CO, Cell R
######
#DXI-888-214-60C
TITLE: CULTURAL RESEARCH NODES, PART 1
George Harrison
Emerson, Lake, and Palmer
Peter Gabriel
Martin Barre
Charlie Watts
Black Sabbath
Lou Reed
Jello Biafra
Slayer
Doobie Brothers
Fairport Convention
Link Wray
Aretha Franklin
Alan Holdsworth
Donald Fagen
Cell B
OFFICIAL REPRIMAND
CO BENSON
(TRANSCRIBED BY DON ARTLINGER, SPECIAL ASSISTANT)
Message 212
Message 745
Sent: drpaularquette@ruealsa.eurasia.net
From: jbenson@businessplans.com
/Paul:
/I was wondering if you could supply me with some information
/relating to human electrochemical emotion suppression? It's
/for the science fair. Say hi to Maliy and the boys.
/
/Jim
Sent: jbenson@businessplans.com
From: drpaularquette@ruealsa.eurasia.net
/Jim,
/Aren't you going to send me some work? Or clue me in on that
/project you're with? A man has to make a living, and an
/interesting one. It seems that neurosurgery is in as much
/demand as ever, and I'm still as senior (haha) as ever, but I'm
/in danger of losing my position. 'Unorthodox research practices,'
/mon pied! Merd. Sure you can't help me out? Ah well, enough
/crabbing from your aged grandfather.
/
/Paul
/Ps… here is the information you wanted.
TRANSCRIPTION OF INTERROGATION OF JOHN DOE #802
MOORE: Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Benson.
BENSON: No problem gentlemen. What can I do for you?
M: This is John Doe, suspect in the Downey murder. He was found fleeing from the scene with the Downey girl's severed leg in his hand. Saliva, hair, and semen traces found on the victim are all a match.
B: Sounds pretty open and shut… why do you need me?
M: Frank Harrison from Internal Affairs told me to get you ASAP.
B: Ah yes, Frank's a friend of mine. Any reason?
M: The… occultic nature of the suspect.
SOUTH: This evidence was declared Top Secret, Eyes Only, Delta Green Clearance, you name it. Harrison went right over the DA's head, and is he pissed.
M: It's FYEO, Mr. Benson.
B: Thanks… I'll take a look at it back in DC, if you don't mind.
M: Shall we take a look at the suspect?
[Officers enter the interrogation room]
S: John Doe, we'd like to have a few words with you.
DOE: [sounds made by John Doe are rendered accurately as possible] Eeya eeya, fuhtagun! Nyarlothotep! Fuh ungooey! Rely eh!
M: It's no language we've found, and he refuses to speak any English, if he can.
S: I've been guessing that it's schizophrenia, and he's doing a running stream of, what are they, logarithms? Neologarithms?
B: Neologisms. To tell you the truth, I don't believe so. If you're hinting at this man having ties to a cult, then he may be using cipher and a mix of language and slang.
M: The Crips around here don't speak English anymore. They don't even speak Ebonics. It's more like pig latin.
D: Kammog, kammog! Eeya cutooloo! [sounds continue behind conversation]
S: It's creepy. I wish he'd stop that bullshit.
M: The evidence I just gave you, I took a look at it at the scene. Pretty much indecipherable, in code like you said. But what was just scrawled like graffiti in the margins was enough. They hint like they're plotting something. I notified FBI antiterrorist, but we don't really have anything to give them, tell you the truth. We're missing the connections.
B: You won't find them, either. They don't exist, at least, outside of their own minds. Conspiracy nuts, usually.
M: You don't have to give us the party line. Harrison let on there was more to it.
S: He cleared us most of the way.
B: [laughs]
D: Rely eh! Eeya eeya, cutooloo fuhtogun! Eey—
[gunshot, followed by approximately two minutes of silence]
M: He instructed me to do that once you were done with John Doe. He arranged for clean-up. I wish I could find these bastards where they wait and do them all like this.
B: Agreed. Then you didn't really need me here for consulting at all.
S: Nope. He said we had to get you here to see this under any pretense.
B: Well, gentlemen, it's fun, but I have to get something accomplished.
END TRANSCRIPT
OFFICIATING OFFICERS LT. JEFF MOORE & SGT. PHILLIP SOUTH, LAPD
CONSULTING SPECIALIST JAMES BENSON
(TRANSCRIBED BY BRADY MEYERS, LAPD)
Message 232
Sent: drpaularquette@ruealsa.eurasia.net
From: jbenson@businessplans.com
/Paul:
/
/Are you still interested? I've got a permanent position coming
/open. One of our medical examiners is taking leave, and with
/my group's budget increases, we can afford a high-priced
/sawbones like yourself. I mailed a package with info, but it's
/in code. Yes, in code. Remember the letter I gave you last time
/I stopped by La Rue Alsa? Open it now… it's got the code. Don't
/mind the secret spy antics, you'll have your fill soon enough.
/We'll arrange to meet as soon as you're done with the package.
/
/Jim
MEMORANDUM TO ADAM
Commissioner:
After repeated evidence of mental disturbance and incompetence for service in Delta Green, Agent Bruce has been placed under house arrest. I believe that I have found a use for Agent Bruce, in reference to the project I have outlined for you in REPORT #DXI-888-217-34F, in conjunction with Agent Billete, who is the perfect choice for such operations. As justification for his high rate of pay, let me relate a piece of conversation. When I detailed the projects we had in mind for a neurosurgeon of his caliber, he responded with a pay demand. I stated that his price was almost ludicrous. He maintained that other top neurosurgeons make much less, and when I responded that other top neurosurgeons would not even do the projects, he simply said: "My point exactly." Agent Billete is not only a brilliant surgeon, but is perhaps craftier than any of us. He will go far. A full proposal For Your Eyes Only will be in your office at the end of the week, with complete details of the project.
AIC Benson
THE RICHMOND TIMES DISPATCH
In what is suspected to be an instance of foul play, Everett Bruce, a medical examiner with Henrico County Coroner's office, was declared missing. After not meeting appointments for a week, Bruce's home was found to be ransacked and uninhabited. The case is open, as no ransom note has been found, and Henrico County Sheriff's Department continues to dredge the James in search of a body.
AP WIRE REPORT, FORWARDED TO ADAM
London- The popular Thoth Club, a nightclub in SoHo, was destroyed in an explosion this morning at 5:03, say the police. The Thoth Club was infamous for number of arrests, and was believed by the authorities to be a major clearinghouse for drug and sex trafficking, as well as the headquarters of Satanic cult activities. The explosion occurred when the Thoth Club was reserved to unknown private parties. Neighbors state that this time of night is when alleged cult activities occur. Forensic results have not come in, but authorities on the scene believe the explosion to be C4 or another similar high explosive, set by a rival gang or cult.
AP WIRE REPORT, FORWARDED TO ADAM
RE: DISCIPLINARY MEASURES, AGENT RECRUITMENT
CO CELL B
Section A, Page 12
[scribbled note in margin reads : "Here are results for the fellows who do the budgets- Benson."
[note in margin reads : "This'll show them.- Benson"]
Brighton- Another explosion has rocked the British Isles, this time one week later. The explosion in question destroyed a former Anglican church now being leased to a private fraternal order, the Illumined Knights of Dagon. This group, considered a splinter of the Freemasons, was convening a meeting when the explosion occurred. Casualties are estimated at 42, including John Herriot, Head Clerk of Brighton Civil Service. Police are still pursuing leads.
Message 306 (FILE ATTACHED)
FLASH
FROM: CELL A
PRIORITY ALPHA ONE
GENERAL ALERT
AIC Benson of Cell B, recently missing, is to be considered compromised, and dangerous. AIC Benson has been rigged with an explosive device, and should not be approached or apprehended. Members of Cell B have been quarantined for questioning. EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION, AND REPORT SIGHTINGS OF AIC BENSON.
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIBED STATEMENT OF AGENT BILLETTE
...and he had documentation for everything. It looked authentic. These documents you've showed me, as his progress reports, I've never seen them. He said we had the go ahead, with full discretion. I didn't question. He was my friend, and leader, and I wasn't sure how to buck the chain of command. It bothered me, sure, and I thought he just had too much stress. It was a day or two after the operation that he called me and demanded if I had read Agent Bruce's report yet. I told him I had, and didn't believe it. He went into a rage. It was like he was another person altogether. He made references I had never heard of, all sorts of crazy occult terminology that no one but cultists use. I got scared then, but that was the last I heard from him. I don't think we'll see Jim Benson again. If you want my opinion, you'll be getting a forwarded press wire saying that one of those singers on the list got blown straight to Hell. That is, if no one does anything.
END TRANSCRIPT
OFFICIAL NOTICE
Effective now, leadership of Cell B has been assumed by AIC Beard, formerly a special consultant for the NSA. Project 503B-999K will commence under his direction.
AP WIRE, FORWARDED TO ADAM
Los Angeles- British superstar David Bowie narrowly escaped death this evening, when the new art gallery Angels Height, which he was dedicating, was destroyed in a freak explosion moments before he entered. Bowie's survival was due to his late arrival, as he had been accosted in front of the gallery by an unidentified French autograph seeker, currently in police custody. Casualties have not been estimated yet, but are believed to be in excess of 200 people. Bowie did not release a statement.
Sent: drpaularquette@ruealsa.eurasia.net
From: jbenson@businessplans.com
/Paul- I mean, Agent Billete, I need you to perform the cortical
/surgery and implantation on me. It's direct orders from Adam that
/I'm to be the first AIC with the capability. Let's schedule ASAP.
/I've sent you a file that you should read and consider, authored
/by Agent Bruce. I believe it is important to our jobs...
/and it makes sense now.
/
/Jim
FLASH
FLASH
TO: ALL CELLS FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION
(TRANSCRIBED BY DON ARTLINGER, SPECIAL ASSISTANT)
[note written in margin reads: "I was right. Agent Billete."]
JOURNAL ENTRY NO. 907
I am Agent Beard. You do not know me, and you will never tell anyone about me. I am Agent Beard.
It was a Monday when they appointed me head of Cell B, the medical research group of Delta Green. I was chosen, I believe, because my background implies a stability that my predecessor was decidedly lacking. It is believed that he wired himself with explosives and then waited in an art gallery to try and blow up David Bowie.
Myself, I had just completed medical school in 1949 when I joined the Army as a surgeon, and went to the Korean War. I ended up with the state department for a while, and then joined the newborn National Security Agency. I'd been with it ever since, in a capacity as a logistics expert and consultant. I joined Delta Green in the early seventies as what we call a 'Friendly,' that is, an allied operative who is not a full agent. I became a full agent after five years, retaining my position at the NSA. Now I head Cell B, and it is the unspoken hope of the Administration that I do not go mad or surrender to dark powers. It's happening with more frequency than you would think.
The group of doctors, coroners, and scientists that is known as Cell B has provided medical research and aid to the rest of Delta Green for a long time. The Administration felt that my particular background was perfect for the leadership of the cell: a medical doctor, wartime surgeon, and member of the intelligence community.
I had already seen some of the strangest things life has to throw at you, in war or peace; but nothing had prepared me for the encounters I would have with Cell B.
The Cell was large, composed of three physicians, five specialists, two pathologists, and eight scientists in the medical field, with a complement of five agents whose specialties lie on the business end of medicine. I was to add an ingredient of efficiency and practicality. It seemed that the agents of Cell B had been exposed in the past to some particularly nasty phenomena, and somehow I was supposed to crack it. It interested me that not a one of the medical personnel of Cell B was a pychologist or other mental health professional.
Upon my instation as Agent-In-Charge of Cell B, I found that the command records and database were a complete shambles following the tenure of former AIC Benson. Everything had been subject to a complete reordering. Files and documentation were spliced and misplaced in seeming random order, when they were not obfuscated or downright altered. I can only surmise that the extent of missing or destroyed files is even greater than those tampered with.
The most interesting part is that the hard-copy filing has all been annotated in the most annoying fashion. Former AIC Benson seemed to have taken a critical turn in the later stages of his madness, adding handwritten notes in blue-black ink into the margins of all the literature. He has underlined such a large number of passages that it seems moot; emphasis now resides only in the places where he did not underline.
With the assistance of my colleague Agent Ellspeth I was able to finish correcting the records, after a whirlwind three days. My next task will be to oversee the daily operations of the cell, and prepare it for the project which is coming. 503B-999K is the code number for this project, and among the Administration, normally a very humorless bunch, it is known as Operation STIFF. A complete reevaluation of past forensic evidence will be performed, in light of new priorities. Delta Green has decided to place a new emphasis on the supernatural. The events in the UK, as well as the loss of Benson, have given our group a bit of perspective. We are human, and the things we face are not so. I do not look forward to my first encounter as an agent.
JOURNAL ENTRY 907
The gods have thrown a strange thing my way, in my first week as AIC of Cell B. An alien craft crashed along the Pacific Coast, at the northwesternmost tip of Oregon, practically in the back yard of the Army's Fort Stevens. Not only was the pilot recovered from the wreckage, but an over-eager beachcomber fell victim to the still-active point defenses of the ship. Two fresh cadavers, and both sent to the special facilities in Denver. The entirety of Cell B has been assigned to the autopsy. Myself included. We leave in half an hour for Denver.
JOURNAL ENTRY 908
After we arrived in Denver, the autopsy began, and it seemed as if it would never stop. I suppose it never will, because there is simply too much work to be done.
The first autopsy was that of the alien, known colloquially as a 'Gray.' The results were surprising. This alien did not fit the previous anatomical model we had for this type of alien. It is humanoid in strucure and size, though it is in height 105 centimeters, and weighs an astonishing 181.8 kilograms. So far this mass has not been accounted for. The creature is short and stocky, with stubby legs, arms, and phalanges, similar in proportion to our own congenitally deformed dwarves. The head is even and squarish, with a very rough bone structure. The face is broad and angular, displaying a large jaw. The eyes, though reflective black and almond-shaped, are nowhere near the size of the previously observed Grays. Nervous and circulatory functions were similar, only minor internal differences evincing themselves. DNA evidence shows similarity, though perhaps not to the degree of varying species.
It may be too early to conjecture, but I believe that this alien is our first real glimpse of the Gray's subsects. These short aliens have been observed before, and always in conjunction with the main variety of Gray. Further observations of the physiology wll merit more definite conclusions.
The second autopsy, that of Oregon resident Jason Thompson, thirty-five years old, was less ground-breaking though definitely a step in the right direction. The corpse showed evidence of no ailment or injury that could be accounted for prior to his encounter with the craft. Traces of gamma radiation were evident, and the extreme charring and dissolute nature of the cadaver suggested some sort of high-energy weapon. Following the autopsy, monitoring of the body yielded an astounding discovery. Energy scans revealed that the atoms of the corpse were undergoing a continual proton decay, at an alarmingly high rate, similar in effect to bombardment with neutrinos. Agent Erickson has been called in from Houston to assist in the study of this phenomenon, assuming it lasts. The decay has become noticeable by the naked eye, as the mass of the body has become increasingly light and friable.
The discoveries of the past 48 hours are amazing. It will keep the bulk of Delta Green and uncountable friendlies a long time to analyze and catalog this event. I know that our own research acitvities will be limited to the study of the two corpses for quite a while.
Tomorrow the wreckage of the craft will be contained, and I will be paying a personal visit.
JOURNAL ENTRY 909
The strangest thing happened today. Early in the morning I donned an environmental suit and hopped a plane to make a tour of the wreck site. It was quite amazing. A kilometer-long swath of molten sand, reformed into swirling strata of glass, was immediately obvious from the beach. At the end of this swath is an enormous rock, known locally and in guidebooks as Sarley's Hump. It juts from the earth halfway in the water and halfway on the shore, forming quite an effective barrier. It is the engineer's surmise that the craft's shields were functioning intermittently, and when it struck the rock it was destroyed by its extreme momentum. I find it curious that this should fall into our hands in such a perfect condition. The only way it could have been better would for the Gray to have landed his craft at Fort Meade, handed his keys to the MP, and then gone to report to the Director.
As I toured the site with Agents Erickson and Wilcox, it occurred to me again that this was all a little too pat. I was about to remark on it when I noticed that Adam had arrived. He was taking in the sights as well, and he strolled down to the far side of the wreckaged, where he seemed to notice something.
I watched as Erickson and Wilcox moved over to Adam, hailing him. They conversed for a while, occasionally motioning towards a certain spot in the wreckage. I couldn't quite hear, between the noise of the ocean and the heavy machinery that was being brought to the spot. The pickups on the outside of the environmental suit weren't that great. At last they came over and informed that they had all seen a strange glimmer from inside the wreckage that you could only glimpse from the corner of your eye. Adam and the other two agents returned to Fort Stevens, leaving me there with my thoughts. A sudden wave of curiosity overcame me and I made my way to the spot they had visited. I did not need the corner of my eye.
When I rounded a large standing piece of wreckage, the spot came into view, or almost. Blinding white light with a tinge of violet burst into my vision. I could scarcely stand it, and was wincing when all of a sudden it became tolerable. The light flared from what appeared to be a rough crystal, of the type I believe is called acicular. I could not stare very long at the crystal itself, and soon I had a yellowish imprint on my retina in the crystal's shape.
My brain wondered why Adam and the agents had missed such an amazing phenomenon, and my gut seemed to insist they were lucky. I felt strange fear for a moment, and then I was fine. It seemed as if there were nothing spectacular or strange at all, and I should simply take the crystal and be done with it. That thought went through my head as if it were the most sensible thing in the world, and I bent down to pick up the crystal removing my environmental suit's glove as I did so.
As soon as my hands touched it, I felt for a moment as if I was kicked out of my body. I can't explain it in any better terms, no more than a man can explain the feeling of being kicked in the crotch. I looked down on my body standing there, holding the blinding crystal, and for an instant it seemed as if the crystal was merging with my hand. Then I was back in my body, and there was no crystal.
I could not quite understand what had happened. It must have been only a bizarre hallucination, as there was no evidence of any crystal or other light in the wreckage. It was fortuitous that the engineers were preparing their containment, and I took a hasty leave. I made excuses when I returned to Fort Stevens, and rested for the night. Who knows what strange energy fields are present in an alien craft, and induced hallucinations are probably the least harmful side-effect of them. For now I will hope that that hastily rationalized explanation is the truth. For now.
JOURNAL ENTRY 910
If I did not believe in tampering with what I have already written in my journal, I would amend the previous entry's first line. It should read "The second strangest thing happened to me today." That was three days ago, and two days ago I saw a man spontaneously combust when I shook his hand.
The heads of each cell present at the site had returned to Denver to deliver their preliminary reports to Adam. So far it was all cautious speculation with the scent of unrestrained excitement. The craft had delivered- how did former AIC Benson put it- "results for the people who do the budgets"? A number of friendlies were brought in as well, experts and analysts of every sort, including a crackpot UFOlogist named Jeff Talbot. He had published a number of trashy books on the subject, and he plugged them constantly during his surprisingly accurate report. I did not like him.
The reports finished, and as everyone crowded around the long table provisioned with black-gang coffee, an informal line of handshakes and introductions was set up. Everyone was very friendly, perhaps all pleased with themselves over the discovery. Was I the only one who was nervous about it? Was I the only one who was suspicious of this crash? Was I the only one who didn't dismiss the inner voice that screamed 'Trojan Horse'? I sensed that the strain was getting to me, and for a moment I was glad there were no psychiatrists in Delta Green.
At last the handshake line brought me to Talbot, even though I didn't really want to meet him. He was a tall, lanky man, with greasy blond hair slicked back on his head. He was clean-shaven, at least until the bottom of his neck, where long hair sprouted just above his loud necktie. I definitely did not like him. I felt obligated to shake his hand, however, and he began babbling at me, nervously perhaps, until I reached out and gave his hand an over-firm shake.
Then he exploded.
The first thing he did was to make a high soprano squeal, and then a luminescence showed through his flesh, casting an orange glow on the surroundings. I had released his hand, of course, and within a second flames had sprouted all over him. He began running everywhere like a hollywood stuntman whose flame-proof suit isn't of the best quality. The crowd had scattered to the corners of the room, out of his reach, and he had barely run in a few circles when his head quite simply exploded, and then the body fell, where it burned for five minutes. It was too hot for anyone to approach, until at last it died out, leaving only a thick pile of dark ashes.
Adam's presence at the site had brought a very high level of security, and I found myself whisked away by two agents and five MP's. I was put in a confinement room, basically a cell with no bunk.
After about an hour of waiting, the interrogation began. First a duo of agents I did not know took my statement and asked questions without challenging my answers. Then another pair of agents did the same after another hour, only they did challenge my statement, and attempted to pick it apart. I didn't work at the NSA because I cracked under pressure, and the interrogation was no problem. The second pair of agents left, and I waited for about three hours. I had begun to daydream when the door opened again, on another pair of agents. Something in the blank looks on their faces made me cringe. I had only seen that look on the faces of psychiatrists. When they introduced themselves as Agent Xavier and Agent Xerxes of Cell X, I did cringe. To my knowledge, there is no Cell X.
They began with innocuous questions about my health and daily activities, soon moving to more pressing questions about my feelings toward my work, always avoiding the subject of Talbot. They continued on this tack for two hours, before switching to the heavy-duty questions about sex, anger, and self-worth. I really had nothing to worry about. The NSA is the most paranoid organization in the world, and they screen regularly for just those things. Something about these agents, however, made the questions I've already answered ten times nerve-wracking. The agents were creepy. I've never seen shrinks with such stamina.
After a total of five hours, Agents Xavier and Xerxes looked at each other and nodded. Then Xavier told me one of the scariest lies of my life.
"Agent Beard, we do not believe you are crazy. We do not believe you had any involvement with Jeff Talbot's accident. We have been reviewing your file and watching you for a long time, and we do not believe you will suffer from any sort of stress-related insanity. We do suggest, however, that you try and relax." They handed me a prescription bottle and walked out without another word. They left the door to the cell wide open.
I looked at the bottle. It was labled 'Alprazolam,' the generic name for xanax, which is an anxiety drug. I shook out the pills. Xanax is always lozenge-shaped and either white, pink, or blue. These pills were tiny, round, and green.
For a moment I looked at the open door, considering. I did not doubt that these pills were poison, and I did not doubt that they knew I would recognize it. It was not very subtle. I considered a moment more. I felt that I was at the end of my rope, and I would prefer death to the coming insanity. Popping the pills dry, I swallowed and realized I was not afraid of death.
Darkness came.
I awoke in my office. I was sitting at my chair, hands on the desk in front of me. The light was dim, coming solely from the green-shaded banker's lamp at my left. The two comfortable chairs in front of the desk were occupied. The one to the left was filled by a portly man in a gray suit, with well-trimmed white hair and an enormous white beard and mustache. He had red cheeks and a twinkle in his eye. He resembled Santa Claus, and was smiling. The other chair had an alien in it.
The alien was very much like the one I had autopsied earlier. Short and stocky, but very much alive. It fairly hummed with nervous energy, and I could hear it tapping its feet against the front of the desk. The man who resembled Santa spoke then, and we had the most confounding conversation of my life. I will try to recount it as best I can here.
"Hello, Charles." No one had used my given name in a long time.
"Who are you?"
"You can call me… Nick." He grinned, and I must have scowled, because he laughed outright, and shook. Like a bowl full of jelly.
"Who are you, I said."
"Nick will do for you, Charles. I suppose you'd like a little explanation. Let me start by saying that my colleague and I are the good guys. I don't suppose that means much to you, being as cynical as you are, but it's the truth."
"Everyone thinks they're the good guys, Nick. That's what makes the bad guys so bad."
"No, no, no… you really do have it all wrong. Well, not all. You believed that the race represented by my colleague here was a subsect of the aliens you call Grays. That is exactly right. The Grays are a most abominable race. They are ruthless and cold, and they collect other beings like you might collect stamps, or butterflies. All those abductees that disappear forever? Well, you could say that they're pinned to a board somewhere."
"How do you know all this?"
"My colleague's race is one of the subject races that have been enslaved by the Grays, and forced to assist in the rape and murder of other races. Quite understandably, they want out. There is a sort of underground railroad on this planet, and my colleague's race- he won't mind if we call them, say, the Browns- needed a contact man. That's me." He bared his wrist, and it had a number tattooed there. "Hitler gave me this treatment when I was a kid. I can recognize the same sort of shit when I see it, and the Grays are far worse than he ever was. So I see that the Browns' cause is right. I help out."
"What do you want from me, then? Why the hallucination, and the crash?"
"The Browns needed to send a weapon to this planet as an aid in the fight."
"Pity it got destroyed in the crash."
"It didn't." He leaned forward swiftly and tapped me on the forehead. "The weapon is you."
"Then it wasn't a hallcuination."
"Not at all, my friend."
"But Talbot, and Cell X, and the poison…"
"That was a hallucination. We had to make sure you were tough stuff. There is no Cell X. The only internally concerned psychiatrists in Delta Green are the Administration. You get a psych examination every time you turn in a report, or talk to another agent. It all comes out."
"So what is this weapon?"
"Your brain, Charles. That crystal opened up the other ninety percent for limited use."
"Why not a ray gun or something?
"That's not very high tech, is it Charles? If you call for a surgical airstrike, you don't send a guy in a glider to drop sticks of dynamite! You send in a tac nuke! You don't quite understand that the level of technology we're talking about isn't gizmos and gadgets. You know that the Grays and many other aliens, or monsters or whatever are telepathic, right?"
"I think so."
"Well, think of that as their step up from telegraph to cell phone. Technology in the Renaissance was considered magic, and if you take something simple like a pair of scissors to some primitive island, they'll think it's sorcery. Now I'm not saying that there's no magic or anything, just that the Brown's sent the best they could."
"To tell you the truth, I don't particularly want to be their foot soldier."
"You're not. They won't be sending you on missions, and they won't command you to do anything. They can't, anyway. One of the powers you've been given is complete immunity to your mind being controlled. They can't even talk to you telepathically."
"But-"
"That's what I'm for. If they need to get a message to you, I'll let you know."
"What else can I do? Like Talbot?"
"Talbot was a minion of the Grays, and the crystal recognized that. 'If looks could kill…' Well, they did. You can do that any time you want, and a hundred other things besides. You just have to know that you can do it. And use your will." He thought for a moment. "Move your lamp. It's easier than you think, if you just believe it."
I thought about it for a second, and looked at the lamp. It moved.
"So..."
"All you need to do is continue what you're doing. Delta Green's program is accomplishing a lot of things the Browns want to get done. Taking down the Grays, and their allies the Mi-Gos, is one of them. We don't expect you to be a one man crusade. Don't get me wrong- you're not invincible. If you stumble onto Great Cthulhu, you'll still get consumed. A Polyp can still tear your head off, but you'll have a greater chance of surviving. You might even be able to fight back indirectly. We want you to grow into your new power, and just do what you feel is right. That's why we've given you a free hand."
"What if I go insane, or decide I want to help the Grays?"
"We know you won't, for one thing. You're a good man, and a strong one. For another, some crude methods still work. A sniper on the roof can still take you down. The crystal won't do any good if you're head is blown off. So be careful." He looked far-off for a moment. "My colleague here says we have to go. Don't kill any Browns, and be on the lookout for any other slave races. Be careful."
After that they left, and I sat all night at my desk thinking. Every now and then I would move the lamp back and forth across the table, or levitate my fountain pen. After a while I decided to write this journal entry. It's good to write your thoughts down, because it helps make them clearer, but I don't think there will be any more journal entries. I find I can remember every word I've written. Ever written. That sort of makes pen and paper obsolete, doesn't it?
Nick and his colleague left a strange taste in my mouth. I don't suppose I can disobey, because they ordered me to be myself, and do what I do. Not much I can do to change that. If this thing can give me the power to make some good, then so be it. I'll fight. When I'm done writing this, I think I'll turn out the lamp without touching it, close the book, and take a walk.
Good night.
You have just been awoken from a terrible dream.
You see the floating orange numbers of the alarm clock, and in your confusion and grogginess they seem to sway in your vision. At last they settle directly before you. It is 4 in the morning. Time for work.
The room never quite comes into focus, but you manage to find your cleanest dirty shirt and pants, and what is probably one of your less loud ties. You're through the doorway in five minutes, without breakfast or coffee or even a smoke. Halfway down the stairs you're stilling pulling on a loafer.
It's still dark on the street, and you start the short walk to your office. The hint of gray light in the sky goes unnoticed by the dozens of sleeping bums you pass, but you look into the sky for something. It could snow.
"Hey man, you got some change?"
The young man in front of you has a shaved head and wears the uniform of the hundreds of street kids who are just like him, ripped and dirty clothing, leather and spikes. Words are visible as patches all over him, like tattoos: Cramps, DK, Sick of it All, Accused. Gibberish, perhaps, or bands. You feel the latter is most likely.
"What are you going to spend it on, kid?"
"Food, mister, I'm so hungry."
"You're not gonna buy drugs are you? Heroin or something?"
"No way, I just need a bite to eat."
"Bullshit. If you're not going to buy scag, I won't give you any money."
You know it's cruel. You can't help it. That kid is probably from a rich family in Falls Church. He'll go home to his own wing of the mansion.
A tug on your sleeve almost pulls you around, but you break free easily and keep walking.
"Hey, you fuck! Get back here! Just 'cause you're all high and mighty, you can't tell me what to do!"
You continue ignoring him, but he won't give up.
"Fuck you, man! You'll get what's coming to you when the time comes! Your soul will burn under the lamp of Alhazred! Die wesenner fremdes kommen! Die ein, unt zwei, unt ein tausend! Fich dich! Deine seele ausgaben deinen Korper! Dread lord of the deep, you will rot, pawn of Askra-herti!"
The youth spits, and you feel it hit the back of your trench coat. He has said too much, and you almost lash out, but manage to keep walking.
Father Hastur damn you. Get a hold of yourself, man. They're just playing with you, you tell yourself. It's true. You reach your office without being molested further, and you flash your badge at the security officer, and speak a code phrase. The voice reader flashes a green light, and you pass the armored turnstile into a short hallway. Taking the left hand door, you enter another corridor, which to a visitor would be surprisingly dirty. It is poorly lit by a handful of flourescent lamps, two of which flash with a dim violet light as they reach the last hours of their life. They may or may not be replaced this month.
The third door on the left is your office. You handle a great deal of sensitive information, so you are placed for safety in what is known as the Assholes' Asshole, referring to the enormous government bureaucracy. This is where projects are buried, and where yours is hidden.
The door is blank. It is metal and reinforced, with a complicated card lock and voice reader. You say your phrase, and after a few moments are admitted to your office. It reeks of mildew, and is very spartan. A desk in the middle of the room, surrounded by a phalanx of file cabinets. A computer sits unused, dust on the screen. The fax machine next to it has been busy, and its flimsy thermal paper has curled off the desk and onto the floor, where it has piled up and resembles some ancient scroll. A small red light flashes on the machine, and you ignore it to pick up the phone and dial a memorized number.
"Terence, can you patch me through to the NSA? Yeah, Washington office, not Fort Meade. I'll hold. Hello, this is Agent Lucas from the Defense Department. I'd like-" you pause and look at a paper on the desk "-Captain Charles Brixt's office please. Yes, I'll hold. Yes, Captain Brixt's secretary? Hello. I'm Agent Lucas from the National Reconnaisance Office. I need to meet Captain Brixt ASAP. I have some recon information for Brixt, Klaxon Traffic, Eyes Only. Can I make an appointment for later this morning? Fine, ten is fine. Thank you."
After hanging up, you find a new manila envelope and stuff it with random papers. You put a red security label that reads EYES ONLY over the mouth, and write KLAXON over it in black magic marker. Now you wait until ten, because Captain Charles Brixt of the NSA is Agent Beard of Delta Green, and you are going to kill him.
Thoughts churn in your brain for hours, aching and never coalescing into anything solid. Nine o'clock arrives and you set off through a ghetto neighborhood into the Capitol Mall, and then out again to an office building that houses some of the NSA departments that are centered in Washington. It hums from activity and life, and you get a headache, which will pass.
Inside the building you go through a long security drill. Frisking, metal detectors, eye and voiceprints. Your envelope is fondled and x-rayed, and at last you are cleared to go, and enter the main lobby. An MP directs you to the third floor, Suite 350, and you climb the stairs. You begin to sweat. By the first landing you feel as if what you are thinking must show. Did that person look at you wrong? The second landing comes and you twitch nervously. Two secretaries are gossiping and as you mount the stairs again you hear their conversation.
"Miriam, I am telling you, he is so cute! You should go for it. Let him take you to the movies, or coffee, or Kadath in the Cold Waste. No man knoweth Kadath in the Cold Waste."
"Sherri, you are such a tease. You know for a fact Cthulhu is not dead, but only dreams in his house at R'lyeh. The stars are not right. And besides, I don't have anything to wear."
You must have imagined that.
The third landing comes, and a very fat man in a suit jogs past you. You open the door onto a hallway, and see Suite 350. Father Hastur, grant me strength. Let me walk these yards. Let the pain end.
You walk miles and miles to cross the thirty feet to the door, and you are exhausted, sweating and drooping as you turn the handle. The secretary looks up. You show her your identification and her eyes roll back up into her head. She bares needle-like fangs, and makes a sibliant sound before waving you to the door. It opens on its own in a blur of heat haze.
Brixt, or Beard, sits behind his desk in a well-appointed office that is light years away from your hole in the wall. He is a middle-aged man with short gray hair. He wears a conservative suit and has his hands folded in front of him. You throw the envelope at him from across the room, and it lands on the desk. For a moment he appears alarmed, then his face tightens. You feel a stabbing pain in your leg and look down.
A blue flame has sprouted from your thigh, and after a moment it blossoms. You are burning.
A moment of agony passes and you are extinguished as quickly as you are ignited. Your reflexes kick in, and with a silent prayer to Hastur, you unfold and begin flowing to Beard with amazing swiftness, but it is not enough. Before the first tendril of your substance touches him, you feel the pain again, and are frozen. Like a movie reel played backwards, you flow into yourself and fold up again. Frozen as Agent Lucas, you cannot do anything.
"You were Agent Lucas at one point, weren't you? Or is he just an occasional form? Don't answer. I know you were sent to kill me. Who was it this time? What dread being this week? A creature of fire surprised me last week in my garage. The week before that it was one of the damned Mi-Go. Who do you answer to?"
You can't do anything, even squirm. Some force is pressing against your mind, probing the headache, and the force has Beard's voice. Another presence is growing, and it must be Father Hastur.
"Well, who is it? Or will you kill yourself before you talk?"
You wish you could.
"That's right, talk. I would like to talk to you. I'm not going to let you have failed your mission just to die. Saving people like you is my thing."
A human part of you notices that Beard looks and sounds like the actor Gene Hackman. He seems to have read it from your mind, and smiles.
"That's good," he says, reading your badge, "Agent Lucas. You can still think like a normal person. I do look like Gene Hackman. No, I didn't read your mind. I just get that all the time."
This is the most bizarre nightmare. It is far worse than any dreams you've had of the Lake of Hali, where you can see nothing but the lake and a shadowy form that is Father Hastur. And this is real. Bruce keeps talking, and you don't really hear. You've drawn off into some muffled, dark realm of the mind where you're safe. For now.
Time comes and goes, like it always does, and the pressure in your head builds. You're afraid to open your eyes, even though you know something is being done to you. It doesn't matter. You remember a day in March. You were a child.
It's a late snow. Flakes fly by with the wind. Your father is holding your hand, but your father has died since. You were only three, and all you can remember is him holding your hand. You're in front of the county home your parents have, an antebellum farmhouse wedged in the woods. The driveway stretches back a half mile from the main road, and it is filling up with snow. Your father is taking you ice fishing on the pond by the woods.
You fish for a little while, because it's just too cold. Your father tells you that it's time to go in for hot cocoa, and he walks out to the ice hole to pull his hook and line out. He falls in, and you run away, back to the farmhouse and get mom.
The rest is confused. Mom runs out and meets you half way, throwing you over her shoulder. She was watching from the house. She's screaming, and your father has disappeared under the ice.
They told you, when you were a little older, that your father drowned. As an adult you looked into it, and the truth was different. Your mother, who was institutionalized for a time after that, made curious statements. She claimed to have seen a dark thing grab your father and pull him in, and that it was killing him. Though the pond was dredged, no body was ever found. That was all very strange. You don't remember any dark thing. Your father slipped on the ice, and fell in the hole.
"…took cellular samples. It's incredible. You remember in school, the demonstration in school where they poured oil into a jar of marbles to demonstrate space, or density or some such? It's like that. Only, the marbles are his cells, and the oil is… god knows what."
Why is a Frenchman talking?
"Any further analysis?"
"None that I can make, Sir. We'll be sending Berry along with Ellspeth and Ennio to the Smithsonian Institution, to use the electron microscope. I'll tag along if you wish."
"I defer to your professional opinion, Agent Billette. What about his EEG?"
"Very strange, sir. Earlier he slipped into deep Theta, and then began REM like I've never seen. He's in alpha, now, and from the monitor I'd say he's responding to our talking. He's all yours, sir."
"Well, Lucas, you'll be staying with us for a while. The only thing we can do is to keep you contained for your own good. I plan to have a long conversation with you."
"Father Hastur save me, father…"
"What?" You hear him rustling papers. You refuse to open your eyes, but in a moment they are pried open and taped. Beard is holding something in front of your face. "Does this mean anything to you?"
It is a paper, with scribbled markings all over it, and stains.
"What I'm holding was taken from someone who called it an 'Unspeakable Oath.' It obviously wasn't unwritable, though it certainly is illegible." Beard laughs, and you shiver involuntarily. Within a moment his voice is hard again, and you feel his pressure bearing down on you harder than ever. "They called on Hastur when they died, called on Hastur to save them. Hastur killed them, or maybe they killed themselves with fear. I'm not going to let that happen to you."
The headache is building, increasing alongside the pressure of Beard's mind grinding at yours. Beard removes the paper from your sight, and then he is blotting your forehead with a tissue.
"You never signed an oath like that. You didn't have to. You were born and bred to it, weren't you?"
Beard is sitting next to you now, and his hand rests on your brow still. "You lost your father. I lost my son. Let that be some common ground." His voice is heavy, and you're crying amid the sweat. "I've already been told to kill you when I'm done, if not sooner. They say you're a danger, and not worth the risk. I'm not sure yet if I disagree, but I'm going to do my damnedest."
Time speeds up. Beard's words are indecipherable. The pressure and headache increase to the point where you feel incapable of even hallucinating. All that remains is oblivion.
You're in another place, a bare room. The walls are padded. A slit in the door opens, and somehow you drag yourself over. Beard's eyes show through.
"Lucas, you're going to be here for a long while. I'll see what I can do for you."
He begins to leave.
"Captain Brixt"
You hear him gasp. The eyes don't reappear at the slot.
"Captain Brixt, I would still kill you if I could. But I don't have to."
His voice takes a long time to come through the door.
"Why is that, Lucas?"
"Because you're already dead. You're worse off than I am."
The slit in the door slams shut.