Caught Signal 15

"Oh, it's already connected! I guess Ollopa already powered up the transmitter. You're the best computer, Ollopa! Don't listen to those who say you are obsolete." you hear in your head in an unexplained, unfamiliar voice.

You are not hearing voices inside your head. That would be crazy, and you are not crazy, right?

In a voice that is not your own, you hear "You sat down and logged onto Vocal on your own. See? The words, which aren't spontaneously forming as we go along, don't be silly, are on the screen that you are reading for some reason. I mean, you totally chose to read this using your free will. Yeah, that's it. This is the normal voice in your head that you hear when reading a story. No, really. Nothing unusual about it. It's not like you are receiving a signal relayed from the Vocal moderator's brain who is being used as a signal repeater, and passing it on in a chain until it reaches the intended recipient like a weird brain wave to brain wave computer network or anything."

You think to yourself, in your normal voice, "but I was just... How'd I get here?"

The visiting voice says "I'm Voltmayer. Congratulations, only the most aware and intelligent can even realize this signal is being transmitted straight through their brains at all, so if you are hearing, sorry, obviously reading this, you're not as stupid as that Vocal moderator over there who looks like he's in a haze. I mean, usually, it just bounces off of your brain and continues on it's way to the next brain without being noticed, typically chalked up to being buzzed on something illegal on most planets.

I'm just kidding. Everything is normal. There is no such thing as aliens, nor mind control devices, right? Good. That's good. Relax, now. That's it. Let us begin the totally fictional story you are simply reading that is definitely not unfolding in real time at all. This won't hurt a bit."

In a computerized female voice you hear "Calibrating system. 2% 31% 73% 97% 67% 83% 99.9993%... Signal strength has six bars out of a possible five bars. System calibration complete. Resolving host."

*BEEP BOOP BOP BEEP WHIR*

The computerized female voice continues "While it is intended that the recipient and host communicate in a one-on-one fashion, on rare occasions, such as this, the brain network nodes, such as yourself if you are hearing this message, may intercept the signal. What you are hearing is a brain scan transmission, which is a feed directly from the host's brain. Don't get confused. You are only receiving the outgoing signal from the host. Other brain nodes will receive only the incoming signal from the recipient. It's sort of like hearing a phone call someone is making, but you can only hear one side of the conversation. Do note that the host has others in his immediate vicinity, and if he talks to them, he may not be aware those thoughts are being transmitted as well, because he is not as smart as he thinks he is.

Spontaneously typing a transcript of what you hear in your head in a trance-like state is normal behavior and will pass after the end of the transmission. Don't spell check the transcript as the alien names and words will not pass the spell check, which will drive you insane from pressing the "Ignore" button repeatedly. It's a known side effect. Do remember to delete all copies of such a transcript. We apologize for any inconvenience you may experience. Thank you for your participation in this brain transmission and for using Scamwow Intergalactic Transmission Services."

"You heard the machine. Don't make us come down there, buddy." says Voltmayer.

"Logging in recipient. Transmission begin." Ollopa finishes.

Voltmayer says "Now, excuse me. I have business to attend to. Just be aware I am not talking to you... Greetings Primatoid inhabitant of planet 3 of 8 1/2. I'm communicating with you from the Secret Moon Base... the Café, specifically. I'm Voltmayer, from planet Munchoz. Sorry to disturb you, Primatoid. Mind if I call you Primatoid? I don't know your name, nor species, and I don't care, so I'll just call you Primatoid. One moment, please hold."

"Well, not really sorry, of course, but one must be polite, Zimzott. Kinda like you shouldn't be reading the transcript and messing around like a youthful offspring at the Bi-Galactic Nursery. Leave Ollopa alone. It's distracting. Stop pressing her buttons, gees. Seriously, I'm on the brain phone thingy. Do you mind? Thanks, pal." Voltmayer continues.

"Sorry about that, I'm back. Well, Primatoid, I honestly hope not to be interrupting anything important, but having observed your species, there's not much chance of that. I think we both know that the odds are high you're just sitting with a screen in your line of vision with nothing productive on it. You shouldn't spend so much time on your pocket computer that happens to make phone calls. Just a bit of advice for you. Anyhow, thanks to this technology from planet Scamwow, you can hear my thoughts, and I can hear yours. So, stop thinking about that one time when that one event happened. I don't want to hear about that. Besides, it is time that you got over it already. Also, don't blame me. That wasn't me, that was a fat purple big nosed clown shoes named Zimzott, who you have met briefly.

Let me tell you, earlier today, I thought "Hey, why not actually do what aliens supposedly do, but we don't actually do?" However, I won't be pretending to not be able to operate a doorknob after a 50 trillion gazillion astronomical unit trip to your primitive fantastical planet this weekend while some poor Primatoid defecates in his overalls. Gotta admit, that would be funny. I assure you, aliens aren't as easily baffled as your "B" movies suggest.

I don't really have time for that. You see, I'm on a mission. Not one I want be on, mind you, because I'd rather be with my baby Ahkna on a cruise through Andromeda, but, oh no, of course not. He likes to remind me that I'll get paid when my job is done, which I sorely need, but I really would rather not do the stupid, boring, mind numbing crap Kylac wants me to get done. While his skin glows in the dark, he is pretty dim in the head, and it's easy to keep him in the dark so I don't have to actually do those tasks, yet still get paid the measly, barely livable, embarrassingly pathetic, sorry excuse for a paycheck. It's no secret, everyone knows green goop soup is able to sustain life, but aliens sure do love tacos, despite them being expensive as blarmac. I need to buy myself some of those, no doubt. Unlike you Primatoids, though, believe it or not, we actually eat our tacos. Why else do you think we write "thanks" in cornfields and abduct bovines? Anyway, my stomach is in the way of my objective. Sorry about that. Back on point.

Point is, I have better things to do, and I'm breaking the rules communicating with you, as well. It's a win-win for us both, so listen up. Don't tell anyone, or I'll be forced to probe you where your only star doesn't shine, pal, which, we aliens don't actually do... I mean, as far as YOU know."

"Apparently, you've been put in the Red Book Project, because you may or may not know too much about aliens. Let's put it this way. The Bi-Galactic po po have been watching you. That's all I'm saying. I'm going to be Bob with you. One moment... please hold, again. Sorry."

In a bit of a frustrated whisper, Voltmayer continues "Yes, Ollopa? Frank? I don't know a Frank. I do know a Bob. He's from planet Blastit 2-11. You know the one. He's scheduled to be here."

As if taking a phone off of mute, Voltmayer says "Anyway, I know that you know the whereabouts of the Krunchonians. You might think they're cute little fuzzy buddies, but friend, they're not pets. No, they're more like hand grenades minus the pin and irritable like starving piranha. Don't feed them, whatever you do. They seem harmless when asking for a cookie, but remember, they're not saying cookie in your language. It means something entirely different in Krunchonian. You'd better disregard the fact that there's a 20,000 Galactic Monetary Unit reward for their capture. If you value your hands much, that is. You've been warned, buddy! So, I'm going to make a deal with you that you can't refuse. Literally. You can't refuse, because I'm not giving you a choice. It's more of an ultimatum.

Go to that location you were thinking about where that stuff happened I don't want to even think about, but you were thinking it just a few moments ago. Sicko. Be there at the time those events happened. You know it too well, as you kept staring at that clock wondering when it will end, remember? That's it. That place and time."

The voice disappears for a few moments, and then the silence is broken by Voltmayer's voice again. "I'm supposed to bring you in for questioning, but instead, I'm putting you in the Little Black Book. Write down everything you know about the Krunchonians and put it under the... what do you call those things? You smacked your head on it as you scrambled to get away from Zimzott. Yeah. That. I also need you to sign your name haphazardly on the bottom of a blank page. Write it in crayon. You know where I'm going with that. Leave the crayon, too. I'll leave you directions to a secret landing pad there. Bob has agreed to take you to Boötes Void Picnic Area. He's the best pilot in the galaxy, so no one will track you there. You can disappear there, and eat all the green goop soup you want. I mean, it's luxury compared to the slavery you call freedom on your prison planet, am I wrong? Exactly. Not that you get a choice. If you don't comply, your entry in the Little Black Book will not be fictitious."

"Of course we're not gonna kill the Primatoid, Bob, but the Primatoid doesn't... Blarmac. Fine!" Voltmayer says in an irritated, distracted huff under his voice, as if not wanting to be heard.

Voltmayer returns to his normal volume with "Listen, Primatoid! It's either we get you off the grid, or you deal with the Bi-Galactic po po. If the Krunchonians don't get you first."

I'll leave off here so that you can get the tire spinning, and don't forget the barf bag. You know how weak your Primatoid stomach is. Remember, though, there's no base on the moon, secret or otherwise. You familiar with the probelator 68000Z-80? Keep it that way. I'll be watching for you to make your move from a distance so we're not seen together. Don't think about not complying. I know where you go to the toilet. No one will believe you, anyway.

Listen, guys. Of course I'm going to split the 20,000 Galactic Monetary Units with you guys. What? Oh. Where's the off button?