Read Online Contact Us by Al Macy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Al Macy
Tags: Science-Fiction, Thrillers, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Teen & Young Adult, post apocalyptic, alien invasion, Thrillers & Suspense, Technothrillers, first contact
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manic delivery. “I can only agree that we have insufficient material on which to base a diagnosis. However, if I had a gun to my head, I would have to admit that his behavior was not frankly psychotic. That is not to say that he isn’t dangerous. His general affect most reminds me of—”
“A teenager.” Zaluski interrupted.
“Well, no, Julie. The word I was about to say is ‘curmudgeon.’ I use that word in the sense of an old man who has his definite opinions about the world and is terribly annoyed that there are those who do not share his views.”
“That sounds like a teenager to me,” Zaluski replied. “A know-it-all teenager who has all the answers. One who ridicules anyone who doesn’t agree with his, or her, point of view.”
Hallstrom asked, “Doctor Avraham, are you saying he acts like someone who has Alzheimer’s?”
“That was not my intent. There is some similarity, perhaps, but only in the sense that some Alzheimer’s patients can become angry all of a sudden, with no apparent cause. Cronkite’s mood shifts were rather rapid.”
“Like those of a teenager,” Zaluski said.
“Well, yes, I will admit that both the teenager and old codger analogies work.”
“Let’s say he really has the soul of a teenager, or an old curmudgeon. Does that make him more dangerous?” Charli asked.
“Yes!” Both psychologists said it together.
Zaluski went first. “When you think of a teenager, consider one that doesn’t fit in. Perhaps he doesn’t have any friends, and others make fun of him. Now think of Columbine or one of the other mass school shootings. In this case, Cronkite doesn’t just have automatic weapons, he, and I’m assuming here, has access to much more powerful weapons.”
“And a curmudgeon? Dr. Avraham?” Hallstrom asked.
“Let me tell you a story about one of my patients, Mr. President. This woman, aged seventy-eight, was obsessed with crime. Her next-door neighbor didn’t keep any outside lights on at night and didn’t trim the bushes around his house. Robbers could break in without being seen. She complained to all the other neighbors that he was just asking to be robbed. Couldn’t he see how stupid he was being? Why wouldn’t he listen to her?”
Avraham continued. “One day she cut all of his bushes to the ground. The man initiated legal action, so one night she went to his door and rang the doorbell. When he answered the door, she shot him in the face with a shotgun. And do you know what she did next, as he lay bleeding and dying in his front hall?”
“What?” asked Zaluski and Charli together.
“She reached in and turned on his outside lights.”
“Okay, got it.” The president shook his head, “Would you both agree that the bottom line is that, whether he’s a teenager or a curmudgeon at heart, we need to be concerned that his anger could have some serious consequences for this planet?”
Zaluski spoke first. “Do you know who Justin Briegler is?”
“The teenage pop star who’s always getting arrested and causing car crashes?”
She nodded. “Picture him with his thumb on the nuclear button.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
June 8, 2018
Cronkite’s nanobot spores arrived at the surface of the earth. Like cottonwood seeds, only lighter and invisible, they had drifted until evenly distributed among the unwitting humans going about their daily routines: shopping, talking on phones, working out at the gym, planting crops, driving cars.
Before long, most of the humans on the planet had either breathed in, ingested, or simply contacted at least one spore.
Fanta Okoro, a seamstress in Southern Nigeria had thirteen nanobot spores waiting in her body. Heather Goff, a two-week-old infant in Baltimore, gazed up at her loving parents. Two spores waited in her left lung and two more sat on her back. Amak Koko, an Inuit fisherman in the Alaskan arctic, was spore-free.
Each patient nanobot scanned its environment and counted
“A teenager.” Zaluski interrupted.
“Well, no, Julie. The word I was about to say is ‘curmudgeon.’ I use that word in the sense of an old man who has his definite opinions about the world and is terribly annoyed that there are those who do not share his views.”
“That sounds like a teenager to me,” Zaluski replied. “A know-it-all teenager who has all the answers. One who ridicules anyone who doesn’t agree with his, or her, point of view.”
Hallstrom asked, “Doctor Avraham, are you saying he acts like someone who has Alzheimer’s?”
“That was not my intent. There is some similarity, perhaps, but only in the sense that some Alzheimer’s patients can become angry all of a sudden, with no apparent cause. Cronkite’s mood shifts were rather rapid.”
“Like those of a teenager,” Zaluski said.
“Well, yes, I will admit that both the teenager and old codger analogies work.”
“Let’s say he really has the soul of a teenager, or an old curmudgeon. Does that make him more dangerous?” Charli asked.
“Yes!” Both psychologists said it together.
Zaluski went first. “When you think of a teenager, consider one that doesn’t fit in. Perhaps he doesn’t have any friends, and others make fun of him. Now think of Columbine or one of the other mass school shootings. In this case, Cronkite doesn’t just have automatic weapons, he, and I’m assuming here, has access to much more powerful weapons.”
“And a curmudgeon? Dr. Avraham?” Hallstrom asked.
“Let me tell you a story about one of my patients, Mr. President. This woman, aged seventy-eight, was obsessed with crime. Her next-door neighbor didn’t keep any outside lights on at night and didn’t trim the bushes around his house. Robbers could break in without being seen. She complained to all the other neighbors that he was just asking to be robbed. Couldn’t he see how stupid he was being? Why wouldn’t he listen to her?”
Avraham continued. “One day she cut all of his bushes to the ground. The man initiated legal action, so one night she went to his door and rang the doorbell. When he answered the door, she shot him in the face with a shotgun. And do you know what she did next, as he lay bleeding and dying in his front hall?”
“What?” asked Zaluski and Charli together.
“She reached in and turned on his outside lights.”
“Okay, got it.” The president shook his head, “Would you both agree that the bottom line is that, whether he’s a teenager or a curmudgeon at heart, we need to be concerned that his anger could have some serious consequences for this planet?”
Zaluski spoke first. “Do you know who Justin Briegler is?”
“The teenage pop star who’s always getting arrested and causing car crashes?”
She nodded. “Picture him with his thumb on the nuclear button.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
June 8, 2018
Cronkite’s nanobot spores arrived at the surface of the earth. Like cottonwood seeds, only lighter and invisible, they had drifted until evenly distributed among the unwitting humans going about their daily routines: shopping, talking on phones, working out at the gym, planting crops, driving cars.
Before long, most of the humans on the planet had either breathed in, ingested, or simply contacted at least one spore.
Fanta Okoro, a seamstress in Southern Nigeria had thirteen nanobot spores waiting in her body. Heather Goff, a two-week-old infant in Baltimore, gazed up at her loving parents. Two spores waited in her left lung and two more sat on her back. Amak Koko, an Inuit fisherman in the Alaskan arctic, was spore-free.
Each patient nanobot scanned its environment and counted
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