Prelude To Genesis free porn video

Conceived as a prequel to the Great Shift story "Genesis" by Morpheus. Based on characters and events created by Morpheus. This may be archived/posted anywhere: Just give credit where credit is due, thanks! Prelude to Genesis By Pretzelgirl "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." --Arthur C. Clarke "One" calculated the approach vector a second time before shifting from Astrogator to Sensor Operator. The perspective of this bio-drone's expertise confirmed "One's" apprehensions. Direct impact at destructive velocity. Scoutship was too badly damaged to maneuver into a different vector. Why had there been Unifactum vessels in this sector? This was the edge of nowhere, countless time-cycles away from Unifactum territory. Sensor Operator re-confirmed the planets in this zone housed nothing but primitives. Perhaps the Unifactum was simply exploring, just like Scoutship. Irrelevant since the Unifactum ships were now destroyed. Besides, it was not Sensor Operator's purpose to speculate. Calculated impact ... irreversible. "One" became Engineer and began preparations for uncontrolled terrestrial landing. Engineer analyzed the battle damage. Scoutship was crippled. "One" had been caught unprepared by the hostiles. This too would have to be reported. But for the moment, a decision must be made. Scoutship could survive; bio-drones could not. "One" considered self-destruct activation, but shifted to Commander first. The Commander Bio-Drone's perspective nullified Engineer's suggestion. Scoutship's collected data must be preserved. They were very far from home and had learned much about this strange, wondrous, primitive part of space. The collected logs of Scoutship must not be lost. By the time the Masters recovered and reconstructed the information, much of it would doubtless prove obsolete, with entire civilizations of sapient beings having risen and then fallen. However, the Masters are both eternal and intrigued by history. Scoutship would survive. Having confirmed it's final decision, "One" retreated from the Bio- Drones, swallowed all the accumulated logs and sensor data, and retreated peacefully into the power core to await a few dozen millennia of oblivion. * * * July 2, 1947 Corona, New Mexico It was a dark and stormy night. The national weather service had issued a severe thunderstorm watch hours earlier, warning a low pressure system moving into the otherwise dry, hot area was likely to produce atmospheric turbulence. Zeb Drucker peeked out past his window shutters in time to catch a particularly brilliant flash of jagged lightning illuminate the countryside, like the flash bulb of a camera. A second later the windows rumbled with the ensuing thunder. Sighing, Zeb shuffled across the bare, wooden floorboards of the kitchen and begin rummaging through a closet in search of the candles he was certain they'd inevitably need. A tiny blond head poked out from the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms. Without turning to look, Zeb acknowledged the sound of the young girl's nervous breathing. "Scout, get back to bed," he said calmly. "It's just a storm. It'll pass." "I'm scared," she answered with a soft whimper. "Ain't nothing to be afeared of," he replied in a steady voice. "Didn't you learn 'bout Ben Franklin in school? He proved it's just sparks of static 'lectricity, like when you rub your feet on a carpet." The little girl nodded silently but remained firmly fixed in the hall entryway. "All right," Zeb finally said. "You can stay up for a couple minutes. Then it's back to bed." Without warning, another deafening crash shook the house's small wooden frame. Zeb abruptly turned to face the window. "Ain't no lightning that time," he muttered to himself, before catching his daughter's fearful expression. "Sometimes happens that way," he quickly added. "Or coulda been a outbuilding knocked o'er by wind. Mister Brazel and me'll check it tomorrow. I'll..." Suddenly feeling faint, Zeb held a hand to his temple and blinked. For a moment, the world swirled blearily before his eyes. He felt hot and flushed. Blinking again, he suddenly found himself looking up at his own body. Frozen in a momentary paralysis of fear, he stared through the wide, tear-stained eyes of his small daughter. In his weary, worn and wrinkled body, she stared back in horror at him. For a moment, they stood motionlessly contemplating one another. Zeb felt so weak, so helpless, so tiny. His small fingers twitched uncontrollably. His miniature bladder suddenly felt heavy. His tiny heart pounded rapidly beneath his pink, cotton nightgown. His feet were cold. A shiver ran down his thin spine. After an uncounted eternity, Zeb spoke. "Scout?" he began in an unsteady, high-pitched squeak. At that moment, the world swam again in a dizzying array of blurred colors and disjointed shapes. Collapsing to the floor half from exhaustion and half from pain, Zeb realized he was himself again. How and why, he never knew. He and Scout would never speak of the event. * * * Dateline: July 8, 1947 "Roswell Daily Record" The intelligence office of the 509th Bombardment group at Roswell Army Air Field (RAAF) announced at noon today they have come into possession of a flying saucer. According to Major Jesse Marcel, RAAF intelligence officer, the disk was recovered on a ranch in nearby Corona, after rancher Mac Brazel first notified Chaves county Sheriff George Wilcox of unusual crash debris found on his premises last Wednesday. Reportedly, Major Marcel and a detail from his department went to the ranch and recovered the disk. After RAAF intelligence officers had inspected the recovered wreckage, it was flown to higher headquarters. No details of the saucer's construction or its appearance have been revealed. * * * Dateline: July 11, 1947 "Roswell Daily Record" Police on Thursday took into custody a Corona man dressed completely in women's clothing. The man, whom authorities have identified as 23-year old drifter Arthur Merchant, was arrested after wealthy widow Mildred Lang reported returning from a shopping trip and discovering the man had broken into her home. He was dressed in one of Mrs. Lang's dresses and wore her shoes, pearls, and even undergarments. Police sergeant Edward Falken said incidents of cross-dressing behavior, including the petty theft of women's clothing, are not unheard of by law enforcement. "The really odd thing is that he [Merchant] claims to actually be Mrs. Lang," Falken said. "When we came in, he asked us to arrest her for stealing his body. Here you have a 20-something kid claiming he's really a 64-year old woman." Mrs. Lang denies Merchant's accusation, and insists she is really herself. Merchant remains in custody pending a psychiatric evaluation before charges are formally levied against him. He is reportedly wearing pants now -- of the prison-issue striped variety. * * * February 20, 1954 Muroc Dry Lake Air Force Facility Edwards, California "Don't worry about the press, Mister President," assured a dark-suited aide. "We've already arranged a perfectly legitimate cover-story." Ike frowned, the creases wrinkling his bald forehead. "I don't like that," he said simply, as he continued to walk through the stark, dimly lit underground corridors of the military base. His heavy footsteps echoed loudly, in stark contrast with the soft footfalls of the bevy of aids following the chief executive. "Uh ... the story is that you've chipped a tooth on some chicken and are undergoing minor dental work right now," the aide continued. "You think anyone would really care?" Ike muttered. "I don't like any of this, Peter. We've become a government of secrets. The people's business should be conducted in public. The people's money should be spent in public." "It ... uh ... can't be helped sir," stammered the aide. "I'm sure you'll agree with the need for continued secrecy after you see the progress they've made here." Ike frowned again, glumly. "I know," he said softly. "But I still don't have to like it. Something just feels far too wrong about this whole project. I've never liked any of this cloak and dagger 'Project Majestic' business. Well, let's get it over with, shall we? Show me this thing quickly, boys. Am I headed in the right direction?" "Through this door, Mister President," answered an another aide crisply, pulling open a simple, metal-frame door. Inside, a trio of white-clad scientists greeted the president in unison: "Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Muroc facility." Silently, Ike glanced at his aide who shrugged but said nothing. "I'm told you've got the remains of a flying disk here," said the president. "And I'm told you've made some significant progress in ... studying it. Care to fill in your chief executive a bit more?" "Certainly, sir," the men replied, in eerie unison again. "Most of the alien technology proved unsalvageable, but..." "Excuse me," interrupted Ike. "Why the devil are you three talking like that?" The three scientists exchanged glances, shrugging. Finally one of them answered solo. "We apologize, sir," he said. "It appears to be a side-effect of closely working with the alien power-core while in its unshielded state. It is fully contained in an electromagnetic field, protected by a special lead casing now, posing no hazard." "Side-effect?" growled Ike. "What're you talking about?" "The three of us were physicists working on the problem of de- engineering the technology recovered from the crash," he answered. "Close proximity to the flying disk's power generator over the past seven years caused our minds to merge. The three of us ... are now one person. We all share memories, feelings, perceptions, and personalities." "Horrendous!" exclaimed the president. "Not at all," replied the scientist mildly. "It has proven quite useful in increasing our efficiency, sir. However, once we deduced what was happening, we devised the protective shielding to prevent other staff members from being so affected." Ike remained silent but his eyes betrayed distrust and disgust at both what he was being shown and told. "Anyhow," the scientist continued. "As we were saying: most of the technology proved unsalvageable, but we have worked closely with the power generator and believe we now understand the theoretical underpinnings defining its function." The three scientists all paused, awaiting some reply from the president. Clearly unnerved, Ike finally answered, the irritation evident in his voice: "And?" "We believe it's the extra-terrestrial version of what our science calls an 'Einstein-Rosen Bridge,'" answered one of the scientists. "Essentially it's a gateway connecting two distant points in space with one another. In this case, we believe the energy-globe contained in this lead case is a tunnel hooked into an extremely distant source of power - - the heart of a faraway star perhaps, or possibly even another dimension, a plane of existence comprised entirely of raw energy." "And you're trying to tap into that faraway energy?" asked the president. "We know it's possible, but we need to build a 'faucet' to handle the radiation flow first. Also there's some theoretical concern about the gateway core becoming unstable as higher energy states flow through it. These issues must be addressed first, and it may take decades to fully de-engineer the alien technology to a usable point." "I see," replied Ike. "What really concerns me are these ... dammit, these weird side-effects. I don't like it at all." The three scientists flashed identical frowns across their faces. "Are there other side-effects I should know about before authorizing further research?" demanded the president. Reluctantly, one of the scientists answered, "Yes. Observations have indicated even in its shielded state, the Einstein-Rosen core, when activated, induces strong migraines in thirteen out of fourteen persons within one-hundred yards of the device." Ike nodded solemnly and gestured to his aide. The younger man quickly opened the door and followed the president into the sterile corridor. Outside the laboratory, the aide quietly addressed the president. "May I conclude you've made a decision on the project, sir?" he asked with a secretive hush. "Shut it down," said Ike. "I don't want our people monkeying around with this anymore." "Yes sir," the aide replied crisply. "And disposal of the ... artifact?" Ike chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, his forehead creased in a thoughtful frown. "Save it," he answered. "We might need it later." * * * April 17, 1977 Warehouse Building 13 Henley-Malaclypse Laboratory Storage Facility Southwest of Alamogordo, New Mexico Square-chested, stout Rosa Markons plodded heavily through the still, silent corridors of an empty building. With measured, deliberate steps the stooped old woman pushed a wide broom along the dull, waxed floor. For the past thirteen years, she had worked the tranquil desert nights in this place. The lonely evenings brought back memories of her youth. The cool air stripped away the pain in her joints. Alone in the warehouse, Rosa heard no demanding voices telling her to move faster or work harder. Alone, she could work at her own pace and think her thoughts in peace. It was not a glamorous job, but it paid her rent and bought her food. That was all she needed. People ask too much of life these days, she mused. We ought to live simpler lives. What was it the Bible said about birds of the air and lilies of the field? Wild animals don't worry so much -- why should we? A strange humming sound distracted Rosa from her thoughts. She should have been alone in the building this night, just like every other night. Leaning her broom up against the red brick wall, she paused to cock her ear outside a plain wooden door. The door's hinges quietly rattled from the steady vibration within the room. Rosa had heard enough wonder-tales from her grandmother in the old country to know one doesn't peek into strange rooms full of unnatural sounds. Pulling the broom back into her gnarled hands, she prepared to move along, ignoring the buzzing poltergeist. Unfortunately, the poltergeist wasn't about to ignore her. With an abrupt explosion of bright, golden light, the wooden door flew apart into a thousand smoldering splinters. Smoke billowed out from the open gash in the wall. Rosa's unharmed body stood slack-jawed eying the carnage with dull, vacant eyes. Once still silence had returned to the building, she slowly lowered her body into a crouch on all fours. Cautiously she sniffed the air. As her nervousness abated, she relaxed her bladder and felt a puddle of warmth trickle out through her threadbare, cotton underwear and down along her legs. Her body no longer moved the same way, yet she knew humans frequented this place. Knowing she'd be safer outside, she bolted down the hall and headed out the building's fire escape doors into the cool, wild night air. Rosa was free. * * * July 16, 1977 The White House Washington, D.C. A smiling man in a red cardigan sweater rose from his desk and gestured a friendly greeting to the visitors entering the oval office. "Please, have a seat," he said. "I've just been catching up on a little paperwork." "Mister president," began a stocky young, red-faced man. "It's a real pleasure to meet you. We understand your time is important, and we're just overjoyed you've actually agreed to meet with us." "Well, Bob," began the president. "You don't mind if I call you 'Bob' do you?" The young man shook his head. "And you, Sarah," the president said, turning to the thin, stern-faced woman hidden behind thick, horned-rim glasses. "It's nice to have a young, pretty face in this stuffy, old place. Please, both of you sit down. I have to confess an ulterior motive in agreeing to meet with you." With cautious silence, Bob and Sarah seated themselves on a vinyl yellow couch and looked up at the president, now standing above them smiling. "We're not interested in your proposal," he finally said. "It's a good long-term theory, I'm told. But my advisers all say the research would cost too much and wouldn't pay off for more than a half-century. Now, I'm not a technical man, so I won't pretend to understand your theories. I'm sure they're quite good, but if my people say we can't do it, I've got to trust them. It's what we pay them for." "Sir," interrupted Bob. "If you're not interested in our project, then why are we here?" "Now I'm glad you asked me that," the president replied. "It seems we had a similar energy-production project in the early stages of development some thirty years ago." "But mister president," said Sarah. "That's impossible. The technology simply didn't exist then. The theory was in its infancy. The tools to construct even a prototype just weren't available until recently." The president nodded. "That's likely why it never bore any fruit. But I'd like to re-open that project. We had a recent incident that brought the project back to mind. It's too dangerous to just leave lying around, yet it's too valuable to scrap. The initial investment has already been made: you'll have a power core, similar to the one you've outlined in your proposal. A few of our top people can fill you in on all the specifics, but it'll have to be quite hush-hush. If you agree to work on this program, it's all got to be strictly top secret." "Sir," said Bob, running an exasperated hand through his thick black hair. "I just don't understand what you're proposing. There's NO way they could've built an Einstein-Rosen power core thirty years ago. I'm sorry if your experts have told you otherwise, but it's patently impossible. That's the main expense in our theory. If you already have the core -- the bridge to a distant energy source -- well, then you're ninety percent of the way to drawing limitless energy." "I'm sorry," answered the president. "But I can't go into where the core came from, how it was built, or how closely it resembles your so-called Einstein-Rosen device. That's part of the program that, regrettably, must remain secretive. What I am offering you is the chance to study the object we already have and try to find a way to use it for the practical purposes of generating power. The energy crisis in this country is getting worse day by day, and the nation needs to make long-term investments in new energy sources. Bob, Sarah -- I'm hoping this won't prove to be a wild goose chase." "Mister president, I can't speak for my colleague," answered Sarah. "But I for one would love the opportunity to work on any such project -- wild goose chase or not. I promise, you'll have my best efforts." * * * December 29, 1981 Secret Government Laboratory Southwest of Alamogordo, New Mexico "I'm telling you Bob -- the core was unstable," said Sarah March. "It isn't now, but momentarily it was. There was a very small explosion ... and then this." Sarah March and Bob Jensen frowned at the young woman sitting at their feet. A thin, gangly girl with short, greasy, dark hair, thick glasses and a freckled, fish-belly complexion stared angrily up at them. A nylon rope tightly secured her hands and ankles together. "It couldn't have just 'gone unstable,'" Jensen declared with an angry, red face. "Things don't happen all by themselves! Someone's been tampering with the timers... either that or the conductivity switches ... or the connector circuits. It could've been any number of things." "Bob, it doesn't matter HOW this happen," Sarah argued. "What concerns me is WHAT happened. Your intern suddenly thinks she's a Mexican migrant worker named 'Miguel.' Now what could cause an Einstein-Rosen bridge to do that? Did we spontaneously open a bridge between her mind and the brain of someone else, miles away?" The angry girl spat on the floor and muttered a string of obscenities in Spanish. Doctor Jensen sighed. "I'm not a shrink, Sarah," he answered wearily. "And you're not a parapsychologist. We're physicists and deal with real world events. Clearly this girl had a pre-existing ... schizophrenic ... condition of some kind. I don't know! My only concern is getting the damaged equipment online again." "Hmmm," frowned Sarah. "I still don't like it. But you're right, we need to repair the damage. The explosion could've been a cumulative error from a minor glitch. Something that went unchecked and slowly grew out of proportion." The tied-up girl cursed again and struggled vainly against her bonds. The scientists ignored her. "Now we're getting somewhere," nodded Jensen approvingly. "I'll call the authorities to take her to Kirtland for psychiatric observation. In the meantime, we'd best get busy fixing the damage or we'll never get back on schedule." "And don't forget," Sarah muttered cynically, as she bent low and began picking glass and metal shards from the floor, "you'll need a new intern now." * * * August 15, 1982 Alamogordo, New Mexico "Really, Doctor Crebitz," said Bob Jensen, his voice dripping with disdain. "How can you expect to be part of this project if you cannot accept it's most basic tenets?" Sam Crebitz ignored the older scientist's unkind tone, rubbing a meaty hand along the underside of one of his chins. The hefty man shifted his weight from one leg to the next for a moment in thought before replying cautiously. "Well, sir," he began. "I certainly mean no disrespect. I just happen to know a little about the theory of an Einstein-Rosen bridge. Back at MIT, my professor in general relativity was a big fan of the idea -- that space can be curved into a shortcut connecting two distant locations. But he always told us the things must be dynamically unstable, winking out of reality too swiftly to send even an electron stream through. Unless of course the bridge was a wormhole with the mass of a black hole ... in theory, that is." Jensen sighed loudly, yet thought to himself: this slug isn't a complete loss. He really does know his physics, even if he's only here by virtue of having a U.S. Senator for an uncle. "You should have spent more time reading journals and less time talking pet theories with your professors," retorted Jensen. "A group at Cal Tech is working right now towards proving you wrong. Look up Kip Thorne when you get a chance. He feels a long-term energy bridge can be established with a Casimir-effect stabilizer. And as for mass, an Einstein-Rosen wormhole can be anything from a microgram upward. In the future, I expect you to keep more up-to-date on current events in high- energy physics, Doctor Crebitz." "Y-y-yes sir," stammered Crebitz before the ramifications of Jensen's last comment sunk in. He swallowed hard. "Does that mean I'm hired?" Jensen sighed patiently again. He couldn't well refuse the well- educated, eager, competent nephew of a powerful politician. Besides, they were suffering a drought of good assistants in this place. "Of course you're hired," he answered with a forced smile. "There couldn't be a project without you." * * * T-Minus Two Weeks Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico "I appreciate your concern, doctor," said Sarah March. "But this is all so very unnecessary." The psychiatrist smiled at his patient, a middle-aged woman with the scars of age branded into hard wrinkles around her tired, gray eyes. "Doctor March, your colleagues have been concerned about you," said the psychiatrist. "My colleagues are tampering with powers they don't understand," Sarah replied evenly. "I can't discuss it, even with a military psychologist. But they refuse to see the proof before their eyes. We have a technology that proves the Bible. We have a device capable of tapping into a purely spiritual realm -- a place where the souls of men and women undergo profound changes. They think they've reached a faraway star, when instead they've touched entirely different plane of reality." The psychiatrist nodded, jotting down notes on a yellow legal pad. "We've discovered either Heaven or Hell!" shouted Sarah. The psychiatrist said nothing. "You think I'm crazy as well," continued Sarah more calmly. "But we'll all be proven wrong when the time comes. The day of ultimate reckoning is upon us ... soon we will all be judged. I'm not concerned with my professional reputation at this point. My colleagues have been duped into what may prove the greatest folly in human history. We'll all be changed forever in a few days. You've been warned." "Mmm-hmmm," said the psychiatrist. "Talk a little about why you are continuing to work with these people who ... erm ... have been so duped? Why are you willingly continuing to work on this project, if it's so dangerous?" Sarah smiled, her crows feet suddenly acquiring a youthful, albeit distant look. "The sins of Faust," she said quietly. "I'd walk naked into the very inferno of hell itself, if I thought I could learn something brand-new. And believe me, we may literally be doing that in the coming days. The simple fact is I'm curious, and it may be a sin. I may destroy my soul in the process, but I have to see what happens when we throw that switch. I've spent too many decades on this project to simply walk away." "And what does your husband think about this?" asked the psychiatrist. "Odd," Sarah answered with a frown. "He's changed as well. When I met him, Jerry was a born-again Christian, eager to convert the world. Somehow he wound up falling in love with an introverted, atheistic physics student -- a skinny, plain-looking girl, angry at the imaginary god who'd given her huge bulging glasses instead of breasts. I guess opposites attract." "And things have changed more recently?" said the psychiatrist. "Some," nodded Sarah. "He's the introspective, uncertain one these days. Maybe you should be speaking with him, doctor? I understand men hit the mid-life crisis harder than women. Myself, I feel more content ... more certain of myself and my spiritual place in the universe than ever before. I'm centered now. My soul is balanced and in harmony with the cosmos." "Yet your colleagues feel this new-found spirituality has compromised your scientific perspective," said the psychiatrist. "Corrupted your objective integrity, so to speak." "Ridiculous drivel," replied Sarah. "There's plenty of room for the mystical and religious experience to enter into science. Einstein himself said, 'God does not play dice with the universe.' We are not random collections of mass statistics. We are luminous beings who will soon discover a psionic plane -- an otherworldly realm of dreams linking the spiritual to the material. That's the true missing link of science, doctor: connecting mystery to the ego. Soon the spirits of heaven shall touch our souls and change us forever! The whole world will be impacted." "Mmm-hmmm," answered the psychiatrist. "And what has brought about this sudden blossoming of faith? When did you first come to these new conclusions about life?" "When ... well, when ... you see," stammered Sarah. "I can't really discuss exactly when. It was at a key point in the development of the project, though. We reached a breakthrough after several late, stressful nights of non-stop work. I beheld a vision of heaven -- a dream, to be sure. But in this waking vision, I touched the face of God: beautiful, soft, brilliant, warm ... and forgiving of my decades of atheism. He chose to love me in spite of my lack of faith ... in spite of my weak and frail, unflattering body ... in spite of my thickheaded ugliness. The beauty and unconditional acceptance of it all overwhelmed me, and I've been changed ever since." "I see," answered the psychiatrist, again jotting in his notebook. "And was this before or after you and your husband started wearing each others' underwear?" * * * T-Minus Two Days Sandia National Labs Albuquerque, New Mexico "Doctor Jensen, I mean no disrespect," said the young woman. "And I'd never dream of questioning your professional or scientific judgment. But in matters of personal relationships, I have to speak out. You've been inexcusably rude to Doctor March in front of the rest of the staff." Bob Jensen sighed impatiently and ran a hand absently across his balding forehead. Good help was so hard to come by. "Doctor Phelps, how long have you been with us?" he asked curtly. "Six months," answered the young woman quietly. "And in six months, you think you have the right and responsibility to question an interpersonal relationship of mine extending back decades?" demanded Jensen. Choosing her words with caution, Doctor Rhonda Phelps carefully answered Jensen. "Sir, I apologize if I've overextended my role as your new intern," she said. "But in good conscience, I felt and still feel you had no right to question, in public, Doctor March's sanity. Revealing her psychological profile to the project staff was... inappropriate. Your misgivings ought to have been discussed with her privately. After decades of professional work together, Doctor March deserved as much. Respectfully sir, I still feel this way." Jensen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The short young redhead was a firebrand, certainly. Soft-voiced, but outspoken, she'd been a Fulbright scholar and already published extensively in the field prior to earning her Ph.D. A dozen times over, she'd proven her worth, quickly absorbing the complexities of several decades worth of classified research. But the temerity of the young woman! Interns did not publicly berate their superiors in his day, Jensen mused. And why have so many of the women in this project been so emotionally unstable to begin with? Was there something about bringing women into the program that induced these frustratingly stressful outbursts in so many interns, not to mention Doctor March? "Very well," answered Jensen quietly. "I respect your opinion. And since you're so concerned about Doctor March's fate, I will reassure you she is doing much better now and will remain a valued member of this project." Rhonda Phelps stood tall, but said nothing. "Now, on an utterly unrelated note," continued Doctor Jensen. "We have a budget meeting in two days at Sandia. I'm going to be busy with final preparations over at the lab that day and won't be able to attend. I'm hoping you'll go as my proxy?" Rhonda frowned but bit her tongue. Attending a routine budget meeting at Sandia National Labs meant not being present during the historic initial activation of the generator. This was her punishment for daring to speak out of turn. Nothing to do but bite the bullet. Someday, Jensen's heavy- handed methods would catch up with him. "Yes sir," she replied stiffly. "I'd be happy to." "Excellent," said Doctor Jensen. "Everything is falling into place neatly." * * * The Day Secret Government Laboratory Southwest of Alamogordo, New Mexico "Allow me to run through the formal introductions," said Doctor Jensen. "I think I'm the only one who actually knows everyone present. And possibly, I'm the only one who actually knows all about the machinery present as well." A few people politely smirked at Jensen's comment. "I think we're all familiar with Sarah March," Jensen continued. "She's been with 'Project Powerhouse' as long as I have, and though the strain has caused some personal problems we needn't go into, I can vouch for her continuing professionalism." Ignoring Sarah's icy, piercing gaze, Jensen plodded forward. "Doctor Samuel Crebitz is my other colleague present today," he said. "The remaining workers are merely technicians who must remain anonymous for security purposes. They are inconsequential, though of course we appreciate the necessary function they serve." Jensen gestured condescendingly towards the half-dozen other scientists in the room. "We're very grateful to have with us today many distinguished guests," Jensen said, gesturing to the VIPs in the gallery. "I'd particularly like to extend a warm welcome to the representatives from the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency's office for advanced technology -- our oversight agency." Jensen internally winced at the final introduction. These spooks were an open secret, spies for the pentagon. Staff scuttlebutt had long held that these characters had plans for developing the generator as a weapon of some sort, a monstrous new atomic bomb based on unknown science the international community hadn't gotten around to banning yet. Science was too important to be left to the generals. One step at a time though. We'll get through the test, then we'll deal with the inevitable ramifications of this momentous day. Jensen gazed fiercely at the tall, steel columns before him. A line of LEDs along them blinked madly at him. He rubbed a tired hand across the smooth surface of his scalp and heaved a weary sigh. This was the moment. The time had finally come, and he was forced to share the triumph with a room full of insignificant insects with neither the understanding nor appreciation for the decades of toil leading up to this day. They'd all have to wait until he was good and ready to start, though! He might have to share the spotlight with flakes like March and Crebitz, but he still ran the show. No one would order the final activation but he, himself. Glancing over at Doctor March, Jensen suppressed an immediate wave of disgust. She was rapidly becoming the poster child for the new age, vibrating crystal, neo-hippie nonsense movement. He should have forced her from the project weeks ago, but simple sentimentality precluded him from stealing this moment from her. Maybe she's gone senile early or perhaps she's just lost her edge and begun growing soft ... still, Phelps was right: she'd been his colleague for decades and deserved something. She'd earned some small degree of thunder from this big moment. Then she can retire into obscurity. Swinging his gaze back to the observation booth and the bureaucratic ignoramuses spying from above, he formally announced the activation. "Doctor Crebitz, if you please, engage Project Powerhouse." With the flip of a switch, the generator began to glow with a soft amber light. A barely audible buzzing sound began to slowly grow to crescendo. Jensen immediately frowned. Intuition was the refuge of illogical fools, yet suddenly he had a very bad feeling about this. He was about to quietly direct Crebitz to decrease the electron-flow when a shower of sparks erupted from one of the generator's columns, quickly cascading across the rest of the machine. "Shut it down!" he shouted urgently at Crebitz, who stood helplessly at a nearby control station, struggling to deactivate the out-of-control generator. Within seconds, the amber glow had swollen into blistering radiance. Soundlessly, the laboratory exploded in a fierce wave of pure, golden, cleansing energy. * * * T-Plus Two Minutes Exosphere of Earth 600 Kilometers above Sea Level "Bob? ... Bobby? ... Bob-Rob? ... Robert? ... Bobert? ... Doctor Jensen, you've got to pull yourself together. My mind is spread too thin. I have no body, and I must scream." "Where am I? It's illogical that I can 'feel' the dark, cold emptiness around me, yet here it is. I remember the explosion, the force that shatters and scatters my consciousness to the wind. Everything else is lost. There was a woman, and a man, and a machine. Something went wrong. Something always goes wrong." "I am the Big Bang. As a tiny spigot tapping into an otherworldly dimension of raw energy explodes, it radiates forth in all directions, forcing intelligence, awareness, and identity to rapidly expand into space-time. My god, I'm going to drift apart, bodiless, and dissolve in the immense infinity of the universe! I don't want to die. I am Doctor Bobby Jensen, and I will not dissolve in the eternal void. Identity is power. Awareness is creation. Intelligence counters entropy. Check-and- mate, Mister Einstein." "I can reverse the flow. Pull myself to Earth. I can feel thoughts nearby. I can sense a world of emotional confusion. I can bring order to that. But more importantly, I can restore my form. I can regain my self. I can be Professor Rob Jensen again. Pull ... self ... down ... deep ... to ... Earth ... and ... into ..." Glancing curiously around the room, Robert Jensen absorbed her new surroundings. The spartan classroom struck a familiar chord in the back of her mind, yet something felt different. She was smaller. Had she always been so young? Her white blouse seemed right. But shouldn't it have been a white coat - - a labcoat? "And I don't think I ought to be wearing a skirt. Or these loose knee socks. Yet all the other girls are dressed the same. Hmm ... they seemed confused by their appearances also. Everyone is looking at their clothes, touching their bodies, gasping as they look into pink, plastic compact mirrors. I have one also, but it's buried in the back of my 'Hello Kitty' book-bag. I remember what I shouldn't remember. I have merged my mind into this classroom and become an amalgam of myself and ... another person. My thoughts have become scientifically girlish. But why are the other girls lost and confused?" "Of course! The others -- the man and the woman, March and Crebitz. There were others also, a room full of people. Are they all here? They must be fused into the psyches of all my classmates! Someone has to break the ice and admit our bodies and minds aren't right. I'll be the strong one." Approximately three minutes after the explosion, twenty-three Japanese schoolgirls simultaneously turned and spoke to one another: "Hello. My name is Bob Jensen." A heartbeat later, all twenty-three screamed. - The End - If you liked this or hated this, please leave a comment. If you enjoyed this, please read and comment on my other stories. Thanks!