Hosein Kouros-Mehr - Extinction 6

“You think so? How can you prove it?”

“I have an idea.” He opens an audio analyzer software and loads the radio signal. As “Johnny B. Goode” plays, the sound converts to spikes and waves on the screen.

Prisha shakes her head. “That looks like random noise. How can you possibly work with that?”

Anil stares at the data and sees a pattern with each repetition of the track. He hits “record” and saves the waveform as it plays.

Prisha points. “I wonder how that compares to the actual ‘Johnny B. Goode ’ ? ”

“Good question.” He downloads the original version and loads it into the audio analyzer, converting the music into lines and waves. He places the images of the songs next to each other.

“They look the same,” she says.

“By eye they do. Let’s see if the A.I. thinks so.” He runs an analysis. “I can subtract one wave from the other. If they’re identical, the result should be a flat line.” He loads the files into the tool and runs a function. The waves suddenly disappear and three spikes show up on the screen.

She leans forward. “What is that?”

“Whoa…” Anil looks closely. “It looks like the song from space is different from the Earth version.”

“You think there’s a message in those blips?”

Anil peers at the screen. “It seems unlikely.”

“Maybe it’s an error in your software.”

“There’s one way to find out. Bear with me.” He runs the live radio transmission from Barnard’s Star and records twenty plays of “Johnny B. Goode, ” saving separate wave files and loading them in the spectrum analyzer. He then compares each audio file to the original one from Earth.

A pattern of spikes emerges.

Prisha’s jaw drops. “Wow, look at that!”

He points. “These three nodes show up at the same position in the track.”

“But they’re different from loop to loop…”

​He gasps. “You’re right, Prisha. Good eye! The blips get smaller with each transmission.”

“…there’s a code in there.”

“You think so?” He stares. “It almost looks like there’s a unique three-letter signature in each cycle. If you look at the first 14 files, the first two blips remain constant but the third one changes.”

“I see,” Prisha says. “But look at the 15 thfile. Suddenly the second blip changes and remains the same for the rest of the sequence.”

“What does it mean?” Anil asks.

“Why don’t you create a letter for each blip?”

Anil’s brow relaxes. “Great idea.” He finds fourteen distinct spikes differing in size and ranks them from largest to smallest, designating them with a letter from A to N. He then writes out the code for the twenty consecutive loops.

ACA

ACB

ACC

ACD

ACE

ACF

ACG

ACH

ACI

ACJ

ACK

ACL

ACM

ACN

ADA

ADB

ADC

ADD

ADE

ADF

Shivers run down Anil’s back. “There’s a pattern in the noise.”

Prisha gasps. “Oh my God…”

“This is a countdown!”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, but I have to tell Dr. Sanders.”

AUSTIN EXITSthe Nob Hill Hyperloop station and shields himself from a strong wind. He paces down an outdoor walkway anchored to forty-fifth floor of the St. Francis skyscraper. As he walks, messages stream into his smartglasses.

“Austin, your Project Titan meeting is in ten minutes.”

“Cancel it, Isaac. I don’t feel like working.”

“Are you depressed? Your psychiatrist appointment is overdue.”

“Leave me alone.”

“There are other remedies for depression.”

“Be quiet! Disable my notifications for the rest of the day.”

A seagull glides overhead and dives below the overpass. Austin peers over the ledge and spots the streets of Nob Hill, a ten-block island district surrounded by the San Francisco Bay.

“Zoom in,” he tells his A.I. In his magnified view, he sees tents up and down California Street. A police drone hovers above a group of wandering vagrants and a pack of dogs scavenges in the distance.

“Isaac, navigate to 111 Polk Street.”

“Where are you going, Austin?”

“Never mind. Just take me there.”

A blue line appears in his field of view and highlights the passage, guiding him to his destination. He follows it into an elevator and takes it to the ground floor.

I need to escape.

A foul stench greets him in the lobby, growing as he walks toward the street. Outside, throngs of homeless people idle in encampments spanning the island. Needles and drug paraphernalia cover the sidewalk.

He follows the route past a pile of garbage and across a fractured concrete road, once a thoroughfare for motorized vehicles. He pauses in front of the Mark Hopkins hotel and glances at the remnants of a top-floor restaurant.

I had dinner with Olivia there years ago.

A police drone flies overhead. He lowers his head and walks a few blocks towards San Francisco Bay. Trash stretches from the shore to the neighboring island of Russian Hill. As winds pick up, he covers his nose with his sleeve and paces briskly along Polk Street, where he sees his destination—an abandoned three-story building.

Is that the pharmacy?

He approaches the complex; a homeless man sleeps near its entrance. A rat crawls from the rain gutter and darts into a wild lawn. Austin sneaks past the man to the front gate and finds it open.

Then he receives a phone call from unknown . “Reject the call,” Austin whispers, looking back to see if he awoke the homeless man. Seconds later, another call arrives.

It must be the CIA.

He switches his smartglasses to “do not disturb” mode. Immediately, a text message flashes in his field of view. “Dr. Sanders, it has been five days. We need the communications decoded ASAP.”

Ignoring the government, Austin quietly opens the door and peers inside a pitch-black hallway, his blue path leading into darkness. He hears water drops falling onto carpet and smells mold.

“Turn on light,” he whispers. A beam from his smartglasses illuminates the damp corridor. He follows the line up a creaky staircase to the second floor, tiptoeing past someone lying on the ground. The navigation ends at a door—Apartment 202.

His heart racing, he softly taps and waits for a response. He knocks louder and whispers, “Hello?”

“Who’s there?” someone yells from inside.

Austin grows pale. “…I want to place an order.”

The door opens and a flashlight shines in his face. He finds a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway, her face covered with sunglasses and a bandana. “What do you want?”

Austin hesitates. “…something that will let me escape. What’s popular?”

“DMT, heroine, 2CC…”

“What’s 2CC?”

“A psychedelic. Everyone loves it, and it will definitely take you to another world.”

“I’ll try that.”

He hands her money and takes a bag from her, then quickly heads back to the top of the staircase. He stops and inspects the plastic pouch, and then he opens it and tastes the white powder.

It’s so bitter.

He smells the narcotic and gags.

How can I take this? It smells like shit.

Breathing deeply, he mentally prepares himself for the ingestion. He stretches his left index finger and pours the powder onto it, then counts down as he exhales deeply.

3, 2, 1…

He snorts the powder in one quick inhalation and a sharp pain blasts through his skull. He falls to the floor and grimaces in torment, gagging and coughing violently as the bitter particles clot the back of his throat.