The Source of All Things—Three chapters from my upcoming novel

I’ve reached the completely arbitrary milestone of 700 subscribers. As promised, I am going to upload chapters of my upcoming novel, The Source of All Things.

This is the first novel I ever wrote, back in 2017-18. It sat in limbo for a while as I pursued other interests. I came back to it in 2022 with some extensive rewrites. The original story largely remains the same.

I never imagined what a great tool Substack would be in connecting me with readers and writers.

I could give a plot synopsis, but I’m choosing not to. I hope that the work speaks for itself and compels you, dear reader, to experience the journey, going in blind, as they say.

I will give comp titles, though, because that’s what literary agents love. When It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia first came out, critics often referred to it as Seinfeld on crack. So, think of The Source of All Things as The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy on crack. I imagine this book would appeal to people who enjoyed My Short Stay in Hell by Steven L. Peck, The Book of Strange New Things by Michel Faber, The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell, and Childhood's End by Arthur C. Clarke.

Below you will find the first three chapters.

The Source of All Things

What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.

― Francisco and Werner Herzog

I

In the beginning, there was fear, and after all senses had long disappeared, only fear remained. Even when clarity returns, and colors regain their meaning, awareness, and recognition bring no comfort.

What sound like screams are waves. It takes a moment to realize this. The sound is carried by the wind. A screaming sea. A sea of blood. The sea encompasses everything. Blood. Yes, it has to be. Massive waves form, larger than any structure and more monstrous than any imagination, desperate to escape the surface and float up toward the heavens. As they grow, the world beneath gets smaller, screams drifting away.

How often do you masturbate?

The room is white, sterile. Unwelcoming. If not for the monitor before me, this place would be a void. What was I just thinking about?

“Three. Um, three times a week,” I answer.

The red beep from the monitor indicates the answer has been recorded. That’s right; there was something red. My answer was a complete fabrication. Anything more than three seems excessive, anything less not believable. Truth was, that number had been surpassed earlier this morning. Jade . . .

Are you sexually active?

I sigh and crane my neck. Did the monitor want to know if I could produce results this very second? What’s the criteria? Did I have sex yesterday? Or in the past month? Because the answer to both is no.

I give my interrogator an answer: “No.”

Having exaggerated, bent the truth, and flat out lied to the previous dozen questions, it’s a relief that my sexual inactivity came through for me.

Religious affiliation?

“Catholic.”

Mother or father?

“Mother.” But what was the question? Mother or father what? Who is more intelligent? Which do I take after? Whom do I love more? In any case, my mother is the answer to each.

How long has it been anyway? Seven minutes? Hours? They didn’t give us any heads-up on how long this would take. Despite the chill, I’m soaked in sweat. The previous tasks were more taxing yet intriguing, including debates, mock trials, physical challenges, escape rooms, and answering essay prompts. Giving answers to a monitor is incredibly straightforward. Yet I am left with a feeling of dread. Months and months of buildup, and this is it? The final task being a simple Q and A didn’t just catch me off guard; it didn’t sit well with me. Somewhere in this all-white room is something or someone lying in wait, poised to strike.

Thoughts on death?

It’s becoming clear what the monitor is trying to do to me. The lack of question words, open-ended sentences inviting vague interpretations. What could I possibly say to this eyeless entity to express my feelings on something as grand and grim as death? The complete truth is that death is ever on my mind. I could have had the most joyful day possible and gone to bed to find my pillow chilled to just the right temperature. I laugh. I can’t believe my luck. With the pillow just right, I don’t even have to toss and turn to find comfort. Right as sleep is about to welcome me into its gentle arms—death. The word doesn’t appear as the word, not written out or vocalized in any way. Nothing in any rational sense. Rather, there is a dim white light in a field of black. It travels to the space between my eyes just above the bridge of my nose. It gets bigger while remaining tiny. When it has nowhere left to go, it flattens into a 2D line. Finally, all blacks and whites fall into nothingness. There’s neither fear nor comfort. Is this feeling . . . awareness? True recognition of nonexistence? Now, my pillow is no longer so chilled. I lie awake. That’s right, I’m going to die. Might not be tomorrow, might not even be in a thousand tomorrows, but that white dot reminds me every night.

“Everyone dies.”

My answer is recorded.

Are you a good friend?

“Yes.”

My answer is immediate.

After the red light flickers into nothingness, everything goes silent. A crease appears in the white void and forms into a door.

The reception area is an ordinary one. Sunbeams from the afternoon sky serve as a reminder that the universe is more than an all-white enclosure.

“Hello, Ronald,” the cute receptionist greets me.

I smile. I accept the envelope with ten one-hundred-dollar bills in it. Somehow it doesn’t feel deserved, or, rather, it feels dirty. All around are ordinary faces. This entire day has been normal.

“Thank you for your participation. We value your time and dedication. If chosen as a finalist, you’ll be notified no later than the twenty-fifth.”

Three weeks from now. Not long in the grand scheme of things, but I can’t wait that long.

A car is waiting for me. The driver isn’t any of the previous ones. We embark on the nearly six-hour journey back to Oxnard. The place is not good for the imagination. Oxnard is where the universe begins and ends and dreams go to die. It was only once I ventured outside the universe that I was able to make money via lying to a monitor. What was it all for? Why had I written any of those essays with banal prompts and led idiots out of escape rooms? Why was it my number they called all those months ago? And if I were to become a semi-finalist in a competition I didn’t even know the outcome or goal of, did that make me a winner or a loser?

II

A white dot buzzes toward the bridge of my nose before flattening into an indefinitely long 2D line. I proceed to toss and turn and chalk up that night as a lost cause.

The feeling of empty awareness lasts throughout the early morning. After an underwhelming coffee and a shower, I hop into my mother’s car to go and see the man I’m in love with.

Santa Clara Church is one of the older buildings in the city of Oxnard, predating the city itself. While the edifice is remarkably beautiful, the surrounding environment leaves a lot to be desired. Dog hair from my mom’s car seat sticks to my clothes, likely to be ingrained into the fabric forever.

It’s empty inside, but the sound of silence within church walls is my favorite sound in the world. I make my way over to the rack of votive candles. As the rules of my life dictate, I put my right hand in the flame of the candles.

“You need to stop stinking up the place. Tired of that burned bacon smell.”

Father Marcello is an ageless man. Thirty-five was just as good a guess as fifty-five. It didn’t matter; he had a timeless beauty to him. Every woman was not so secretly in love with him, and so was I. It was the first time I’d ever experienced being enamored with another man—nay, another human being—in a non-sexual way.

We sit down on the bench nearest the nave. “How’s the hand?” he asks.

I stare at it, half expecting to find new revelations. “It’s fine,” I say, putting it back at my side. “I finally sold the guitar.”

“Wasn’t that a gift?”

“It was, but with my hand the way it is, I’ll never play again. No more guitar, no more tennis.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“Holding the money felt dirty, but when you’re forty grand in debt, you take what you can get. Besides, seeing it just made me sad.”

“How are you doing otherwise?”

“Yeah, good. Well, no. Haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Still seeing death in your sleep?”

“No beating around the bush then, I see.”

“You must have been about fourteen. Fourteen or fifteen is how old most tend to be when they start having these thoughts. You came in completely flustered, pacing about the place.”

He points to the corners I paced to and from.

“I took the day off from school. When my dad asked if I was sick and I told him no, he asked what was wrong then. I told him I was scared to die. I thought he was going to kill me right then and there. I mean, I don’t exactly remember when I first became aware of it as a kid. It didn’t really bother me. It was something that happened to others. But one night, it wasn’t that anymore.”

“What you said was, and I quote, ‘Father, the idea of heaven terrifies me.’ It wasn’t death, but heaven that had you riled up. You kept going on about the rules. ‘What are the rules? Is it really just endless clouds as far as the eye can see? And why clouds? Is it only populated by people you personally know? Is it one and the same for each soul, or is it personalized for every individual? I mean, billions of people have died, and we can only assume a good number of them have gone up to heaven.’ Remember, these are your words,” he says with a smile.

How he can be smiling while such ideas flow through his head, I’ll never know, but it’s why I love him.

“If there are billions of people up there among endless clouds, isn’t it possible I might never find my loved ones? I could be searching for millions of years in one direction looking for them while they are searching for me in the opposite direction, or, what if once up there, my dad decides he’s sick of us and doesn’t want to spend eternity with us? Is it possible to hide in heaven? If you’re a celebrity, wouldn’t it just be an eternity of harassment? What if an ex-wife is still madly in love with her ex-husband who abandoned her for a second family? Who gets to decide which happiness is greater there and who’s entitled to what?”

A door creaks open, but no sound follows.

“While on the subject, Father, I have some new thoughts.”

“OK.”

“Let’s touch back on whether people have individual heavens. Let’s say in the heaven catering to me, my mom is there, but if it’s my heaven, is it actually my mom, or is it just a projection of her, whereas she’s in her own heaven with projections of me and my sister? What if suicide bombers had it right all along, and they’re rewarded with seventy-two virgins? First off, an arbitrary number, and secondly, what say do the virgins get in all this? Or were they never real people to begin with and merely projections of virgins created in heaven as rewards? Do we see what is happening on Earth in real time? Or is time irrelevant? Maybe everyone who has ever lived or died and ever will is already there. If everyone is up in heaven just loitering, doesn’t that make everything that ever happened on Earth pointless? Every epic story ever told, every conflict, every sporting event, all for naught. If God created the universe, not just Earth, will we see aliens in heaven? What if reincarnation is real? Just souls going from body to body willy-nilly. Living again might be comforting for some, but not for me because the me I used to be isn’t the me in this body now, so I wouldn’t know, would I? But even if I don’t remember my past lives, the me now is thinking about it and doesn’t like it and doesn’t like not remembering. Eternity. That’s the real kicker. Eternity, Father. How is every conscious adult not perpetually on the verge of a nervous breakdown?”

“Ron”—he’s still smiling—“I’ll say now what I told you then. You’re fourteen.”

“Twenty-three.”

“Twelve. Every person ever has had the same thoughts as you. What you’re telling me isn’t all that original. I’d recommend not wasting these precious sleep hours trying to wrap your head around heaven and the mysteries of the universe. You won’t find a rational answer. In fact, you’ll go mad. We’re mortal beings, you and I. Part of our mortal experience is that everything we comprehend about the universe is limited by said mortal experience. Ron, we don’t know if endless clouds are what awaits us or unlimited chocolate that doesn’t make us fat or sick. Heaven is beyond the scope of mortal understanding. But I can tell you what it is. It’s right. Eternity seems scary to mortals, but not to the immortal soul. Do you twelve-year-olds still collect Pokémon cards? Worry about that. Worry about how you’ll ever pay that student loan back. Let us old geezers worry about heaven.”

“How old are you, Father Marcello?”

He laughs and gently places his large hand on my shoulder before heading off.

* * *

“I’m moving to Australia,” Rudy says.

“Did you listen to a single word I said?” I ask.

“Yeah, I just feel the confines of Oxnard are too small for my ambitions,” he says. “Aussies seem more my tempo. I even have a plan worked out. Get a gig in a restaurant as a busboy or dishwasher. You can make, like, thirty an hour for that work over there. In the meantime, I can save up as much as possible. After several months, I’ll be promoted to supervisor; then I can devote my time to my projects.”

His head is perfectly round. Like an orange with ears.

“Looks like Professor Lee is dead,” says Chris. “Died. Dead. Has died?”

“What?”

“Yup. Says here dead. Found yesterday morning.”

“Found? What? How? How did he die?” I ask.

Chris mimes putting a gun in his mouth, pulling the trigger, and brains spraying out the back.

“What’s the capital of Australia?” I ask.

“Sydney,” says Rudy. “Nice try, guy.”

“I don’t feel bad for him,” says Martin.

“For Rudy?” I ask.

“For Professor Lee. He took the coward’s way out.”

“You don’t feel the least bit bad? I saw him just last week,” asks Chris.

“Not one bit.”

“This place doesn’t even have Australian beer,” says Rudy. “Of course, they call it ’Strayan. ’Strayan beer.”

“You don’t even drink,” I say.

That last part is only partially true. Today marks the sixth time in recent memory Rudy has decided to quit drinking. Morally, he is above it. That’s OK by me as I decided to treat the guys to drinks tonight, and that’s one less to worry about. Only a month earlier, my card was declined trying to buy McDonald’s breakfast.

“Why would I drink an inferior product?” asks Rudy.

“You’ve never even had the beer there,” I say.

“They call McDonald’s ‘Maccas,” he says.

“I don’t think that’s right,” says Martin.

“It is,” says Rudy.

“You gestured that Lee shot himself in the mouth, but this article says he put a bullet in his temple,” says Martin.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Chris.

“That doesn’t make him just a coward, but stupid as well. One is way more likely to accidentally survive a shot to the temple than through the mouth.”

“But he didn’t survive,” I say.

“But he was more likely to.”

“Yes, but he didn’t, so it doesn’t really matter, now, does it?” says Chris.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Lee,” says Chris.

“No, Rudy. The reason you’re moving to Australia. Who did you meet?”

“What? No. You know, Australia, like . . . just like . . . I think it’s, like, I get it. No, I mean. They have, like, cool scenes. Music. Local muh-jizz-shins.”

“Local magicians?” I ask.

“Musicians,” he says.

“There’s no music in America?” I ask.

Rudy is visibly distressed. When this happens, he turns his back to others and faces the nearest wall. One time, when we chose the movie I wanted to watch over his choice, he sat with his back to the TV the entire duration. He also gets distressed when people ask such questions as “Why?” and “How?”

Rudy’s animosity toward me is legendary. Typically, when Rudy says something like “I’m getting my cicerone certificate,” others let it slide. I’m the only one who ever asks why. Truth be told, the others sometimes see me as equally as childish as Rudy simply because I hold him to adult standards. Even more childish was the way everyone blew past our professor’s death. How are any of them able to stomach their drinks?

“Ron, answer me this,” says Martin. “How is it you’re OK with consuming alcohol but still abide by the no-eating-meat-on-Friday thing?”

“Catholicism doesn’t outlaw alcohol,” I say.

“Really?”

If only Father Marcello were here. The only soul in all of Oxnard with anything insightful to say. I spend an awful lot of time thinking about another man. It’s concerning, but what’s the issue if said man is the epitome of a good Catholic?

“I don’t see why anyone would ever want to leave Oxnard,” says Chris.

“Because there’s fuck all to do here,” says Martin.

“There’s mountains, beaches,” says Chris.

“You hate the beach,” says Martin.

“Yeah, but it’s there, isn’t it?”

“You really want to stay in a place where every single girl we went to high school with is pregnant by seventeen? The rare girl without kids has still been with every one of your friends. This place is a black hole,” says Martin.

A black hole is too generous. Yes, there are beaches, but really, this place is a desolate strip mall of a town masquerading as a city, sometimes covered in sand.

“Where else are you going to get Mexican food? Besides, if I went somewhere else, I would have to figure out where everything is all over again, wouldn’t I? Here, I don’t have to worry about finding where McDonald’s is,” says Chris.

One of the questions the monitor asked me was whether I’d ever traveled abroad. I’ve never even left the state. Rudy, you silly man. I’m envious of you.

***

Going to university was the happiest moment of my life. Leaving the confines of Oxnard was indeed possible. After an eternity at community college, I went to real college. When I told my father I’d chosen international relations as my major, he responded with, “That’s so stupid. Your sister is a lawyer.”

When I grew my hair out, he told me, “You look so stupid. What is wrong with you?”

I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I was pretty good at tennis, but my dad said, “Tennis is gay; you should play hockey.” He played hockey and soccer. My sister also played soccer; therefore, I was doing sports wrong.

No, I don’t envy Rudy. I resent him. Able to just up and go to Australia as he pleases.

I get home around eleven p.m. Without undressing, I plant myself on my bed. As I close my eyes, Professor Lee’s face materializes. He always had a smile. He’d been teaching philosophy for the better part of thirteen years. In addition to teaching, he was a renowned athlete and professional martial artist. Mr. Payton, a physics teacher who knew Lee in his prime, described him as a “weapon.” I can only assume what we saw of him in our time was not prime Lee. His final days consisted of teaching ungrateful adult babies at a community college who decided on day one they weren’t going to respect the man. Yet he always came to work smiling, never letting their talking over him stop him from giving his lectures. That’s how his final days were spent, surrounded by abhorrent people. One shouldn’t have to die with only indifference for company.

III

My dad is awake when the car arrives to take me to Mountain View. It’s a quarter past four in the morning. The dog rests lazily by the front door. I scratch behind his ear. He won’t be mobile for another couple of hours. Though he’s Mom’s dog, his schedule is my father’s. His fur is soft, more pleasant to the touch than any other canine’s. My dad neither asks nor is interested in where I am going at this hour. It would have been nice to share a coffee with him.

Fifteen others sit at reception. A female cover of “Fly Me to the Moon” is playing. Some of the words sound odd, suggesting English isn’t the singer’s first language. None of the faces around me are familiar. But I can only assume the same chain of events led them here. The staff have set out coffee, bagels, and other bland, scone-type things. Despite the niceties, something about the air is sinister. I eye my cup, looking for any out-of-place markings or objects. No one attempts to strike up any conversation; I am grateful.

Somehow, the scones go quickly. I don’t get how anyone can stomach those stale dog turds, so instead, I start on my fourth cup of coffee.

The door opens, and a young man, possibly my age, dressed in business casual and holding a clipboard, indicates for us to follow him. His Ralph Macchio–esque face gives him a boyish quality.

As we take our seats, he hesitates before talking.

“Good morning,” he says. “My name is Jimmy. I hope everyone is doing well. A little anxious, I imagine.”

He pauses and nervously fiddles with his tie.

“Well, I, for one, am excited. You’ve spent considerable time these past months answering strange, difficult, probably tedious questions. You’ve participated in arduous tasks, but most importantly, you’ve been incredibly patient. Before we go any further, does anyone have any comments or questions?”

“What is this?” comes a gruff voice.

“OK, just a moment, but if anyone needs more coffee or anything, please don’t hesitate. I can grab more.”

“I could take more coffee,” says a second gruff voice.

“Cream and sugar?” asks Jimmy.

“You bet.”

Jimmy returns with coffee and hands it to the heavily -tatted man behind me.

“OK, let’s get on with it then,” says Jimmy. “You’re all here because you want to know what this has all been leading up to, but there is one final task.”

We wait.

“The final task is incredibly straightforward. I’ll explain everything. But I’m not allowed to tell you anything until you sign this waiver.”

He holds a hefty document in his hand.

“Signing this waiver means you give full consent to take part in what we require of you. Once you sign, you’re privy to everything. You’re under our employment and obliged to abide by a strict set of rules and regulations. I implore you to read this contract thoroughly, as breach of contract will not be tolerated and the resulting punishment swift. Great, take one and pass them back.”

The document feels like a brick in my hand. Each word weighs the paper down more. Within seconds, there are groans and murmuring.

“Excuse me,” comes a voice behind me. “You’re expecting us to sign our lives away before you even tell us what it is we’re signing?”

“Yes,” says Jimmy. “Anyone need another cup of coffee?”

“That’s madness,” the guy responds. “How do I know I’m not signing away my rights? Or signing my approval to let you sleep with my wife or harvest my organs?”

“Nobody is going to harvest your wife, sir.”

A woman speaks up next: “I mean, you’d have to be out of your mind to sign this. You really can’t give us any more info?”

“OK, OK. Let’s back up a minute,” says Jimmy, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar. “Maybe I should have opened with ‘You’ll be paid.’”

“How much?” she asks.

“I mean, I wish you’d read the contract. It’s all in there. I worked really hard typing it up. Regardless, I can’t tell you how much until you sign.”

More groans.

“I can tell you it will be extremely generous,” says Jimmy. “No harm will come to wives or pets. While I can’t tell you how much money it is, it’ll be worth your while.”

“No, no, no, nope.” The guy behind speaks up again. “You’ve got to at least give some sort of hint. Otherwise, we’re signing our lives away. You know what, you’re a sick son of a bitch.”

A chair screeches against the floor, heavy footsteps walk into the distance, and a door opens. Several shuffling chairs and footsteps follow suit.

Glancing at the contract, the word disclosed jumps out no fewer than three hundred times: “not to be disclosed,” “upon disclosure will be punished.” This is followed by the phrases “failure to comply” and “severe consequences” in several places. All the legalese one finds in a contract, just with an extreme accent on the consequences of violating the terms and conditions.

Why the secrecy? And what could a person in this room possibly do to receive a severe punishment? We’ve already received large sums of money for answering banal questions. Would an organization go through all that effort for the sake of a con? Pyramid schemes, multi-level marketing—this didn’t feel like that.

“The choice is yours,” says Jimmy, fastening his tie once more. “We’ll tell you everything. We’ll tell you the moment we have all willing signatures. Don’t sign. You’re free to leave.”

“Yeah, with no cash in hand and an overactive imagination running wild,” says the tatted guy.

“Do we get paid for being here today?” asks an elderly gentleman who put in the time and effort to dress up for the occasion.

“Of course,” says Jimmy.

That is enough to convince the old boy to get up and collect his money from reception.

Nine remain. Sitting next to me is a tall and handsome guy. Handsome in a goofy way that suits his comical Australian accent. He flicks the document several times.

“I’ve been to a lot of weird places, seen weird things, eaten dog more than once,” he says. “But this—this here takes it. All right, you got me curious.”

He signs his name and hands the contract to Jimmy. Not that I make a habit out of it, but I notice the Aussie is wearing two different-colored socks. He sits back down and nods as if assuring himself he did the right thing.

A woman with bloodshot eyes stands up.

“I know I’ll probably hate myself for not signing, but I have kids. Can’t take the risk. This has been fun. You’ll have to enjoy it for me.” She eyes the Australian, smiles, and leaves.

The heaviest material in the universe rests in my hand. Isn’t the Aussie afraid? He isn’t showing it. I close my eyes and take a deep, controlled breath. Three years ago, I’d embarked on university, convinced my life would change forever. Instead, returning home only revealed that everyone was right where I’d left them. Friends, acquaintances, living static lives. The homeless time traveler who built villages out of popsicle sticks hadn’t left his spot at the Barnes & Noble café. He never bothered me in all my time there except for one brief moment:

“A traveler may encounter inferior beings called barbarians or superior beings—gods!”

For my efforts and constant appearance on the dean’s list, I was gifted with forty thousand dollars to pay back. My journey to university appeared frivolous in the extreme.

“Get a job,” my father had said.

“Thanks, Dad, that’s the idea.”

“Show them your international relations degree.”

That degree got me a minimum-wage job in retail, where I discovered my incredible talent for taking abuse. As luck would have it, I was involved in a four-car pile-up in which both my car and my right hand were demolished. No car, rising debt, and an endless cycle of abuse from fat, red-faced women with or without receipts. Whatever punishment was promised for breaching the contract couldn’t be worse than that. Mock Rudy as I might, the week after he declared he was going to Australia, he up and did it. I stop myself from crunching the contract. My eyes only close for a second, but the ocean of blood appears. I can smell iron in the air. Jade, then there’s Jade. Sweet, sweet Jade. Rudy, he and I met Jade together. We grew up together, laughed together, planned together. Why was I so bitter that he was out there fulfilling his dreams? How often do people actually get to do what they want? I was rooting for him to fail. What did I have to show for my life? Just another two-dimensional Oxnard cartoon character. Ron the Hand. Retail Ron. Perhaps signing the document means shortening my life by thirty years. But if I could have one amazing year to make up for all the abuse . . . The unknown. Rudy. Jade. An ocean of blood. Hands, Jimmy sweating. What had motivated me to pick up the phone on that unusually hot October evening? I never answer my phone. Not for friends, not for family.

“Would you be interested in receiving two hundred dollars for your time just by answering some simple questions?”

The ink bleeds into the paper, smearing my fingers. Did I really just sign my name?

In total, eight of us sign. The others leave, gone for all eternity. I say a silent prayer, wishing them nice lives to return to and not regret their decisions. What about the version of me who hadn’t signed? Would he ever come to a day ten years down the line when he found pleasure ringing up customers?

The long-limbed, multicolored-sock-wearing Australian is named Tyler. He has a pronounced chin and nice hair. Anne, likely the youngest, is admiring said socks. Seemingly, people are still able to think about other things and enjoy life, the weight of their signatures not torturing them. Meanwhile, my knees are shaking. Next to Anne is Michael, whom I take a dislike to before he utters a word. I like him even less once he does. Something about his affectation, the way the voice rises at the end of each statement as if it’s a question. That curly auburn hair. Always smiling. Never have I seen such an insincere and condescending smile. In comparison, the Aussie’s smile reminds one of an excitable golden retriever. Michael stands about five feet six inches but has the confidence of one with those numbers inverted. No fewer than forty-seven times has he told Anne about how he’s from the East Coast. Somehow, the others are all engaged in conversation. Katy, the woman with the resting bitch face caked in far too much make-up, is chatting with Jimmy in such a way that looks like she’s complaining to a poor waiter that her well-done steak is overcooked.

The guy with the gravelly voice is among the signatories. Rob is in his thirties with full sleeves and several neck tattoos. Francisco stands next to Rob. Slender yet broad shouldered, his jet-black hair contrasts with his icy blue eyes. One could get lost in those eyes. Almost as striking as his eyes are his prominent cheekbones. What an interesting face.

Finally, the only other person not engaged in conversation is all skin and bone. Brian has an unfortunate friendless appearance about him. His thick-rimmed glasses and two-sizes-too-large untucked purple dress shirt do him no favors.

Rob cuts Katy off mid-sentence with a loud, “Get on with it.”

“Yes, let’s,” says Jimmy.

Everyone shuffles back to their seats. I place a hand on my right knee to stop the shaking. Jimmy, fiddling with his tie, sits down at the desk before standing right back up.

“Who’s excited?” he asks.

“Get on with it!”

“Too true. I owe it to you to explain everything, but just in case, does anyone need any refreshments while I’m up?”

Rob stands up. Jimmy sits down, then stands up once more.

“Look, I haven’t really done this before. I had notes prepared, but I don’t know any natural way to get through this next part. Like, I don’t know if I’m going about it too willy-nillily or not willily-nillily enough. I’m just an intern, you know. I’m not even being paid for this. How ’bout we ease into it? Why don’t you throw out ideas on what you think this is about?”

“This is—” Rob breaks out into a fit of coughing.

“Ronald?” asks Jimmy.

Before I can answer, Anne inserts herself.

“How much money is involved?” Anne asks.

“Right,” says Jimmy. “The money. You’ll be pleased. This project is a joint operation with funding from both the US government and a private donor. One can even say this project is the brainchild of that donor, who enabled all of this to be possible. Well, I suppose brainchild isn’t the right word as it just kind of fell into his lap. Well, it didn’t just fall into his lap; it’s more complicated than that. Anyway, the secrecy isn’t just for the sake of cheap intrigue. It’s an absolute necessity. I am going to play a recording for you. No one outside this room can know of its existence. Once we’ve listened to it, please tell me your thoughts.”

Jimmy attaches two old speakers to the laptop on his desk and hits play. There’s only silence. What follows is possibly breathing, but it’s odd and faint. Before any distinct sounds register with me, there’s a foul stench, like burning wires. Or perhaps burning isn’t accurate, but the smell of something intruding. Then I feel something coarse in my throat, almost what I imagine a hairball to feel like. I put my fingers in to pull it out, but they come up empty. The feeling remains. Waves, thick gelatinous red waves crash. They eclipse the entire sky. It’s most definitely breathing on the recording. Vowel. There’s a vowel. Vowel. Vowel. Consonant. Vowel. What . . . what is that? There are two. One higher in pitch than the other, but two. Vowel, vowel, consonant, unknown. It’s not Russian nor Arabic. It’s neither German nor Korean. The speed of the sounds picks up. I can’t make out any of it, but the further along it goes, the more desperate I am to remove the hair from my throat. More sounds. I’m reminded of cicadas and a rockslide. Like rocks embracing one another. The recording finishes. The sensation of hair in my throat subsides, but the foul stench lingers.

Nobody speaks. Jimmy plays the recording again. On cue, the hair returns to my throat. I’m desperate for Jimmy to shut it off. The second time, there’s ringing inside my skull, and I nearly pass out. After finishing for a second time, Jimmy speaks.

“What language was that?”

The room is unusually bright. My eyes sting and struggle to remain open. I’m indeed awake, and there’s no hair in my mouth.

“Play it again,” says Katy.

“No!” I blurt out.

“Ron, you don’t look well,” says Jimmy. “That’s OK. I felt similar the first time I heard it. You’re hearing sounds humans have never heard before, and your body doesn’t quite know how to respond.”

“I don’t believe this is what you’re insinuating it is,” says Anne.

“Come again?” asks Jimmy.

“This isn’t amusing,” says Anne.

“What you just heard,” says Jimmy, “is the first ever recorded message of extraterrestrial speech. Pretty neat, right?”

“That recording is?” asks Francisco.

“That very one,” says Jimmy. “Four years ago, planet Earth received radio signals. After an initial silence, those same signals kept coming back at regular intervals. Planet Earth sent a reply. Instead of sending another radio signal, we got what was just played for you. Speech. Not accidental. Not random. A message. Sent deliberately to us.”

“Who is the ‘they’ in all this?” asks Rob.

Jimmy scans his clipboard notes.

“I’m getting there. Please, let me keep things in order. So what does Earth do? Earth sends a message back. They send another. The elephant in the room is the language barrier. What is one to do? How are two species separated by the vastness of space who have never had physical contact nor any semblance of familiar cultural heritage even meant to communicate? Well, with patience. Trial and error. Extremely slow going. Transmitting simple imagery: rocks, water, stars, the words attached to them in both text and audio.”

“English?” asks Francisco.

“Well, yes,” says Jimmy.

“All right.”

“Eventually moving on to more complex sentences and sentence structure. Verbs, pronouns. They have trouble with adjectives. But four years later, it seems they have the basic gist of our language.”

“Do we have a basic gist of theirs?” Brian speaks up for the first time. His voice sounds like his face looks.

“Not so much. As it stands, their language contains all the sounds of English plus an additional sixteen detected consonants. Then there is an extensive use of nasal vowels, clicks, and the fun part: the sounds that don’t exist in any human languages, so our linguists refer to them as radicals. The problem is there’s debate as to whether putting these sounds into one category is correct, as some believe lumping them together is detrimental and wrong. Even the most basic greetings and phrases are an uphill battle.”

“What do they look like?” asks Francisco.

“Don’t know. No pictures of them nor their world.”

“Do we at least know where they’re from?” asks Katy.

“Well, we don’t entirely not know who they are. According to the audio we listened to, they call themselves Khal’vars.”

Jimmy writes the word on the whiteboard behind him.

“Obviously, that’s our best approximation of what we believe they call themselves. The apostrophe in the middle there is a sound we frankly don’t know how else to represent. Their V isn’t quite a V, and obviously they don’t use S to form plurals, but this is the best the linguists have come up with thus far. The message we listened to featured two voices. To the best of our knowledge, voice number one states who they are. Voice number two poses the question, ‘Who are you to us?’”

“‘Who are you to us?’” Katy repeats.

Jimmy nods.

“What do you want with us?” Anne asks.

“What do they want with us?” I ask.

Footsteps can be heard outside in the corridors. Just people going about their daily lives. That’s right; people exist outside this room. The world isn’t normally a place with conversations about Khal’vars in which their desires are a commonality. I only have to await the ringing of my alarm clock.

“Shockingly little is known. There’s only so much they can interpret from messages. They here meaning our linguists and top minds. I’d say we, but it doesn’t feel right.”

“For all we know, there’s stuff they’re deliberately not telling us,” says Rob.

“Here’s what is known for sure,” says Jimmy. “Their home is in the constellation of Scorpius on the planet designated Gliese 667 Cc.”

“Oh, Gliese 667 Cc, that clears things up, sweet as,” says Tyler.

“No need to remember that name. Thanks to our Khal’varian friends, we know their name for the planet is Khal’vardey. Mind the K sound. Mind the R too. In fact, be wary of all consonants. Are you sure none of you need coffee? Fetching coffee is typically what I do.”

For minutes (hours!), we’d been talking about aliens and their vowels and consonants and preferred pronouns as if this was a daily, mundane conversation among friends grabbing coffee.

“None of this makes any sense to me,” says Francisco. “Why are we here, you know? Me and this guy?” He points to Rob. “I’m a salesman at T-Mobile.”

“Yeah, I don’t really see too many Nobel Prize winners here either,” says Rob.

“Speak for yourself,” says Michael, checking to see that everyone heard his comment.

There’s an earthquake! No, it’s just my knees. They’re shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly, my teeth begin clacking. My heartbeat is irregular. I shouldn’t be here. I should go see a doctor.

“I’m right there with you. I too am interested in what the Khal’vars from Khal’vardey are interested in. For one, where are they observing us from? They can see us while we can’t see them. Surely they’ve sent probes in orbit around our planet, but we’re unable to detect them. They . . . they want to make contact. Formal contact. Face to face.”

He stands up with his hands in his pockets and paces sluggishly. The past ten minutes have aged him.

“They’ve been adamant that first contact must be on their terms. They’ve sent explicit instructions. We are to send volunteers . . . uh, participants—a small group of humans, if you will—to live on their planet. Ambassadors of Earth. For their part, they’ve promised not to enter Earth’s atmosphere or make their presence known. They will continue to observe from . . . well, wherever it is they’re observing us from. In their list of demands, they stated that any Earthlings entering Khal’vardey absolutely cannot be scientists, government employees, or military or come from wealth. So when we were told they wanted to make contact, everyone from the Pentagon and those funding this project wanted to be chosen. Our astronauts were suited up and ready. But the Khal’vars insisted on their demands. Average Earthlings, according to the criteria they gave us—what they considered average. People of no importance or relevance.”

“There must be a mistake then,” says Katy. “I have a pretty popular YouTube channel. I’d call it a little more than a big deal. I’m a polyglot.”

“Polyglot?” says Jimmy. He returns to his seat and takes a breath. Some of the youth returns to his face, but he remains the personification of exhaustion.

From my stomach, a sharp pain arises. Any second now, my innards will explode, and Jimmy will be forced to clean the contents of my bowels off the floor.

Just yesterday, I’d been behind the cash register. A red-faced whale of a woman was threatening to kill me because I, ever loyal to store policy, wouldn’t give her a refund for her receiptless item. Now, an intern is telling me aliens exist, they have a name, they have consonants, and I’m of no relevance. On top of that, I’m supposed to live on their planet. Me, who’s never even been to New York. At what point between the receipt incident and now did the course of my future spin so far beyond my control? When was it decided that the simple act of putting pen to paper gave someone the right to send me halfway across the universe?

There’s fresh coffee in my hand. How did it get there? Jimmy must have brewed some and brought it to us.

“How are you feeling?” he asks nobody in particular.

The coffee refuses to go down my throat.

“Right,” he says.

“When?” Katy starts but pauses to gulp. “When is this meant to go down?”

“Let’s see,” he says.

He runs his thumb up and down his phone.

“Oh! Well that’s good news. You’ll leave Earth exactly one month from today and be taken by the Khal’vars to their planet.”

“We signed the document; we agreed,” Katy says to herself.

“Hypothetically,” says Rob, “if this all sounded a bit too outlandish, and we decided to just run out of here, what would happen then?”

“I hope you’re not planning on spilling the beans,” says Jimmy. “Do you really think planet Earth is ready for this information?”

“Do you really think I am?” asks Rob.

“This isn’t legal,” says Anne.

“According to who?” asks Jimmy.

He scans the room to find where that is written.

“It’s illegal to force people to sign a contract without telling them what it is and then punish them for breaking rules they’ve only just learned.”

“Technically, they can,” says Michael.

“Please, please keep in mind, you weren’t forced,” says Jimmy. “Your own free will enabled you to sign or not sign. Its legality has been decided by those running the program. The punishment for failure to comply with the contract is very real. As stated in the document.”

He stands and folds his arms, then unfolds them, unsure where to put them.

“This isn’t just first contact,” he says. “You’ll be the first humans ever, to live not just on another planet, but an inhabited one. The plan for your stay on Khal’vardey is three hundred and sixty-five Earth days.”

He taps on his clipboard.

“Oh! It completely slipped my mind, the money. It’s not like you’re doing all this without compensation. Only I work for free. Anyway, as of the beginning of this conversation, five hundred thousand dollars was placed into each of your bank accounts. That sum is just for being here today. Upon completion of your task and returning home, you will receive an additional five million.”

“And say we’re horribly maimed or there’s an accident along the way,” says Rob.

“Naturally, the money goes to your family. The nature of your maiming, for obvious reasons, will be kept under wraps.”

“How do we know these things won’t harm us the minute we step foot on their planet? How do we know they won’t eat us, skin us alive, cut us into bits?” asks Anne.

“We don’t,” says Jimmy. “But doesn’t it seem like a lot of effort to come all the way here, learn our language, and share correspondence with us just to eat seven twenty-something Earthlings and Rob? If that was their goal, I feel like they’d just come down and take you. We shouldn’t presume to know what an alien thinks or how it thinks.”

“Only five mil?” asks Rob.

“Only?” asks Jimmy.

“All things considered,” says Rob. “The average teenage Instagram influencer makes more doing less. Lebron James gets fifty million to put a ball in a basket. You’re sending us to live in a fucking alien world for twelve months, and five million is all you can dish out?”

“Well, if Lebron James wanted to go to space, perhaps they could offer him more. But the Khal’vars mentioned Lebron by name; he can’t come. No offense meant, but I don’t see any Lebron James types here. Anyone else object to five million? No? Fantastic. It’s doubtful you’ll be able to fully absorb what’s in store these coming weeks, so let’s end things here for today. Obviously you’re thinking, ‘How are they going to ensure we don’t run away and run our mouths off and ruin it for everyone?’ Well, I’m happy you asked.”

The door opens, and a team in scrubs and surgical masks walks in. They spread out, each one at the side of a contract signer.

“Just stick out your right arms, palms facing the ceiling.”

I comply, and the woman near me inserts a thick needle into my arm. There is a sharp, cold pain, and I make a sound I’ve never heard myself make before.

“OK, hon, we’re finished,” she says, applying gauze to my arm and folding it to keep pressure. “The chip is in place.”

One by one, chips are inserted. Before they reach her, Anne leaps from her chair towards the door we entered from. She pulls at the handle to no avail. She pounds her fists against the door.

“Help! Help!” she screams.

“Please sit,” says Jimmy.

“Help! You’re not sticking that fucking thing in me!”

“Please, relax.”

Anne slaps Jimmy in the face and grabs a chair, launching it at the window, shattering it to pieces.

“Help!” she shouts to whoever is listening down below. “For the love of God, help!”

“Somebody take care of this,” Jimmy says, still not quite raising his voice.

A security guard enters; approaches Anne; and, in a swift move, places a pistol to her temple. Brain and skull emerge from the other side, and Anne’s body falls to the floor.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Jimmy, before vomiting all over his clipboard. “You—” He vomits more before getting the words out. “You didn’t have to kill her. You could have just taken her into custody.”

The security guard shrugs and exits.

“Oh Jesus, oh my God.” Jimmy has sick all over his shirt. “Well, I hope nobody else objects to having chips inserted into their arms or complying with the terms of the contract.”