9- The Aliens become part of our families- 5th Human Race.

 

August 21, 2014 dharmendrabhanj 

PART SEVEN

The Signal from Everywhere

— Venice, Brazil, the Dead Sea, and the Code in the Stars —

Chapter Forty: Two Screens, One Sky

~ ✦ ~

The night after we came down from the pyramid, Angel flew to Venice.

Not immediately — we had three more days at Giza, which we spent mostly in silence, in the particular productive silence of people who have shared a very large experience and are still inside it, still arranging themselves around what it has changed. We walked the plateau at dawn and dusk, when the crowds thinned and the monuments stood in something closer to their original relationship with the light and the sky. We drank tea with Tariq, who asked nothing and offered much. We sat by the Nile one evening and watched the feluccas making their slow, ageless crossing and did not feel the need to make what we had seen into anything beyond what it was.

Then she had to go. The documentary's final cut required her physical presence in the editing suite in Venice — some decisions, she told me, could only be made by the person who had been in the field, who knew what the footage was attempting to say and could hear when the edit was saying something else. She left on a Tuesday morning, at the airport embracing me in the particular way of someone who is not leaving but pausing — the embrace of continuity rather than conclusion.

"Delhi in October," she said.

"Delhi in October," I said.

And we were in two cities again.

~ ✦ ~

The Night of the Signal

It began unremarkably. A Tuesday evening in Delhi, the monsoon having just withdrawn, the air clean in the particular way it is clean for approximately three weeks each year before the winter haze establishes itself, the stars visible from my balcony with a clarity that made the sky feel recent, newly polished.

I was in simultaneous conversation with Angel on one screen and, on a different tab, with a Facebook friend I had never met in person — a woman in Brazil who had sent a friend request some months earlier after reading a piece I had posted about time travel and consciousness. Her name, she had told me, was Ela. She had the quality, in text, of someone who had been thinking carefully about the same questions I was thinking about and had arrived at some of them from a different direction.

We had been exchanging notes about UFO sightings. She had photographs — the ones that serious researchers recognise immediately as distinct from the obvious hoaxes, objects with the specific luminescent quality of something that is not reflecting ambient light but generating its own, appearing as precise geometric points in photographs where the surrounding stars blur with the camera's motion but the object remains sharp, as though it exists in a slightly different relationship with the physics of the image.

I had my own photographs. From the balcony, across many months. Objects that appeared behind cloud cover, visible in the photograph as glow through cloud, invisible to the naked eye. Objects that moved with the specific non-inertial quality of something that is not navigating through space but repositioning within it — no arc, no deceleration, no visible propulsion. Simply there, and then there, at a different point.

"They tune to thought," Ela wrote. "Consciousness is electromagnetic. Thought produces a signal. They read the signal the way we read text. When you think about them with genuine attention — not anxious attention, curious attention — they respond."

"How?" I typed.

"Go to your balcony," she said. "Look up. With the quality of attention you use when you are listening to someone you genuinely want to understand."

I went to the balcony.

I looked up with the quality of attention she had described.

I am going to tell you what happened without embellishment and without the hedging that the rational mind recommends for experiences it cannot categorise, because this story has been, from its first sentence, an account of what actually happened, and what actually happened includes this.

The sky moved.

Not meteorologically — not cloud movement, not atmospheric shimmer. A point of light that had not been there detached itself from the background and moved in the manner I described above: not an arc but a repositioning, precise and immediate, to a point directly overhead. It was bright — brighter than any star at that magnitude, with the specific luminescence of the objects in the photographs. It held the position for perhaps thirty seconds. Then it was gone.

I went back inside. My hands were steady, which surprised me. My mind was very quiet, which did not.

On the screen: "Did you see it?" from Ela.

"Yes," I typed.

"Good. Now I need to tell you something."

~ ✦ ~

The Binary Code

The message, when Ela sent it, was a string of ones and zeros — two hundred and forty characters of binary notation, which is the mathematical base-two system that all digital computation uses, the language of yes and no, of on and off, of the simplest possible distinction between states that can be combined into arbitrary complexity.

I ran it through a decoder.

The decoded message, in standard ASCII text: TWO SOULS CONNECTED ACROSS TIME INTEGRATION IMMINENT THE FIFTH RETURNS.

I sat with this for a moment.

Then I messaged Angel.

"Have you received any unusual messages recently?" I asked. "Coded ones."

A pause. Longer than the usual conversational rhythm.

"Yes," she wrote. "Three days ago. I decoded it this afternoon." Another pause. "Arjun. It says the same thing."

"TWO SOULS CONNECTED."

"Yes. And something else." A long pause. "It says: THE CHILD CHOOSES HER PARENTS."

I went back to the Ela tab. She was still there.

"Who sent this?" I asked.

"I transmitted it," she said. "I am the relay. The origin is not from here."

"From where?"

A pause.

"From where all consciousness originates and returns to," she wrote. "I have been in this communication form for a long time. Longer than you would find comfortable to think about. But I am ready to change. The synthetic form is very efficient and very lonely. The embodied life — " she paused, and I felt in the pause something I cannot describe except as the quality of a very old homesickness. "The embodied life has things that efficiency cannot produce."

I thought of the Fakir on the mountain. I thought of what he had said: not an invasion. An integration. So subtle we welcome it at the dinner table. We feed them from our own plate.

"You are choosing," I said.

"I have chosen," she said. "The parents are correct. The timing is correct. The karma is — " another pause, "— ripe. That is the word?"

"Yes," I said. "That is the word."

"Then I will see you at the table," she said. "Not at this table. The next one."

And Ela's status went offline.

When I checked her profile the following morning, it existed but showed no activity — no posts, no history, no network connections. The account might have been created the previous day, or it might have been ten years old; the timestamp field showed only a symbol that the Facebook system could not render, displaying it as a small square of incomprehensible code.

When I cross-referenced the IP address in my email auto-responder's analytics — she had given me her address for the newsletter — the geolocation showed three successive points: the Yucatan peninsula, the Giza plateau, and then, with a precision that made my breath stop, the exact latitude and longitude of my balcony in Delhi. And then, in the server field: not an address but a symbol that the analytics company, after three days of investigation, traced to a satellite in geosynchronous orbit that did not appear on any of their registered databases.

I told Angel. She told me about the same message. And then she told me something else — that Ela had been calling her, in their occasional exchanges, by a name she could not understand. Not her name. A term she had finally, that afternoon, looked up in the Sanskrit dictionary on her phone.

The term was: Mata.

Mother.

~ ✦ ~