SETI Arctic Research Program; Station 5.


(I'd like to dedicate this to "John 'Taxes'" (see thread below entitled "Tax Payers" and his enlightening comment that was completely relevant to my story.)


Chapter One: A Day in the Life

SETI: The Search for Extra-terrestrial intelegence. Also known as the UFO-nut club. You would think that group

people willing to go to the Arctic to moniter satallite and radio signals would be crazy, wouldn't you. But Adam Black was not crazy, damn it! Or so he claimed. Adam Black had been arrested for carrying a concealed weapon without a permit and for tresspassing on government property. He had been doing Arctic research with SETI for three years now. He was the expert.

It was nine AM on a Thursday, and Adam Black was sitting, bored and sarcastic as ever, in a revolving chair,

his legs propped up on the desk, his customary leather coat on, eating a Snickers candy bar. He tapped the keys on the somewhat dated-looking desktop with one hand, pausing the streaming data to review a spike in radio activity about thirty-five minutes earlier. He ran a hand through his thick, greesy black hair, reviewing the information at his leisure.

Samantha McCain, the enthusiatic new recruit, walking in, standing behind him to examine the computer

screen.

"Looks like a radio anomoly," she said. "Possibly caused by incoming signals on an abnormal frequency."

"No," Adam said disinterestedly. "It's just a spike in communication. Probably Station 2 sent out a message to

station 4 or something."

"Well what did they send the message about? Can't you tap into their communications?"

"'Course I can, but I'm not."

"Well why not?"

"Cause if it's important, they'll talk to us too."

"So what do we do now?"

"You watch this little line go across the screen for a couple hours. I'm gonna have a drink." Adam got up and

walked out of the little monitering room and into his bedroom. There was a miniscule bed, barely large enough, a tiny oak desk with a little black swivel stool, and a tiny urinal in the corner. He sat in the stool and, with difficulty, pulled out a desk drawer in which there was a bottle of whiskey, a few papers, and a snub-nose revolver. He removed the whiskey bottle and took a swig, but there was a knock on the door.

"It's 481516, McCain! I'm not gonna tell you again!" he called. "It's me!" Rickie's voice called from the other side

of the door. "Come in, then. It's unlocked." He turned to the door as it opened, bottle still in hand. "Want a drink?" "No, thanks. We got something messing with our northern satallite." "Okay; I'll come take a look at it. Get me Rodriguez, will you?"

Adam climbed up next to the northern satalite, Paulo Rodrigez, a 6ft. 4in. tall Mexican man with messy, greesy

black hair, climbed up with him and started fiddling with it, his massive hands miraculously not breaking anything and his usually calm face becoming focused and determined. Samantha came jogging up to the northern the building.

"Adam, we had another radio spike, and now I'm getting jumbled readings from this satallite!" she called with

excitement.

"Something is coming through?" Rodrigez called back to her curiously. "Yes," she yelled back. "It's just static, though. It sounds like just jumbled noises."