Marcus Jackson walked into his dimly lit office and threw his coat over the nearest pile of books and papers which towered over his buried desk. With very precise steps, he skillfully maneuvered through the maze of an office in which he worked. Dark mahogany wood wrapped the small amount of walls visible behind diplomas and papers he had found especially intriguing. While his floor and desk were a mess, Dr. Marcus Jackson kept his bookcase perfectly ordered and clean. He kept his most choice books of value there. Behind the walls of paper on his desk sat an old 1990s computer in an off position - how it usually sat.
Marcus had never quite been a technology man. There was simply no need for it in the field of exolinguistics - the study of alien languages. Exolinguistics was especially peculiar, as there were not exactly any alien languages to study yet. For newer students and students of other disciplines, it remained a mystery as to why any sane person would occupy themselves with such a hopeless endeavor. As such, many esteemed members of linguistics academia would not associate with Marcus in any form. Luckily, the University of New Mexico had allowed him a position lecturing as part of its Ufology program. The majority of his work centered around how aliens may communicate and what an alien language could potentially sound like. Using grant money, he also spent most of his time researching methods to decode and translate an alien language for the inevitable day that it would happen. Of course, this was all speculation, but Marcus believed beneath all of it there lay some concrete science that was waiting to burst out of the judgmental box that is academia.
Physically, he was an average male. He was not too skinny nor too large. Neither was he particularly muscular nor overweight. On his head sat a trimmed mop of brown that occasionally moved with his eyebrows when he concentrated extremely hard. On this particular day he wore contacts instead of his usual glasses, because he was lecturing over his research as part of a series covering Alien Life in the Universe. In preparation he wore brown khakis and a denim button down shirt. Running over the lecture in his head, Marcus made a mental checklist of topics to touch on. Checking the clock, Marcus saw he had 10 minutes to be at his lecture and began to make his way across the large campus to the auditorium.
Inside of the auditorium sat a mixed crowd of about 100 people. Around half of them wore looks of boredom and frustration. Marcus recognized this type as those who were required to attend for a grade or extra credit. The other half of the audience were the students and professors who were genuinely interested in the subject matter. After a quick scan from his seat, he could see that a couple of students had worn their fandom gear, such as jumpsuits from the franchise Star Trek. The trekkies would always show up at his talks. Marcus listened to the last couple of minutes of the speaker before him. The man speaking was Dr. William Van Horn, a biologist who described the possible physical makeup of an alien species. Dr. Van Horn asserted that we as humans may not even be able to see an alien species, much less comprehend their existence. Life, as he argued, could have evolved and function an entirely different way than the Earth’s carbon and DNA based life forms.
Marcus drifted off into the lands of his own thoughts, running over the possible outcomes of his lecture. How would the students receive it? Will they all leave after the biologist? Why am I not paid enough to do this? Applause filled the room, before the host announced, “And our next speaker, the University of New Mexico’s own, Dr. Marcus Jackson of the Linguistics department!” Queue applause once more. Marcus walked up to the podium. “Today he will be discussing his research in exolinguistics - the field of study dealing with alien languages.”
“T-thank you, thank you. I am truly excited to be here today to share with you all my latest findings in -”
“DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT KLINGON?” A drooling sci fi fan dressed in a mock jumpsuit hastily blurted out. The audience burst into laughter, half of them laughing at the absurdity of the situation, while the other half awkwardly laughed in agreement.
Marcus stood up straight and looked the student straight in the eye, “Klingon as simple and complex as the English language itself. If you wish to discuss that further, I suggest you read on about constructed languages.” The crowd became dead silent. Marcus continued, “I have devoted my educational career to the study of languages that are not known yet. Often I am asked ‘why?’ or ‘what is the use?’. Well, let me tell you, “ His eyes lit up as he began to gain momentum in his speech. “It is about the challenge. Anyone can study a language currently in existence and successfully translate it, but who can claim that they pioneered the study of unknown language? I believe it is important to develop techniques that will allow us to understand and communicate with sentient life as soon as we were to make contact with them.” The audience suddenly became attentive, transfixed by the linguist’s change of pace.
“You see, my study is obviously not over the languages specifically, as they don’t exist yet. I am working on techniques that will allow me to decipher the code of the alien language. I will cover briefly cover them.”
***
The crowd applauded as Marcus finished his presentation. A couple of students asked the generic questions he usually received at these talks. They were such things as “So what would it sound like?”, “Would they even use sound?”, or his favorite “Something something Star Trek?”. By this point in time, Marcus was well seasoned with most of these answers and answered them smoothly, not missing a beat or fact. With one final applause, he exited the stage and began his descent back to his seat. He figured he may as well listen to the rest of the speakers and see what they have to say. He nodded off to the dull lecture of an anthropologist discussing possible alien cultures.
***
Later that evening Marcus sat at his desk, staring at the silent phone beside him. 10 days and counting since he had last talked to her. 4 years ago, he had fallen madly in love with a woman, a fellow linguist that frequented similar conferences to him. She specialized in constructed languages, so their two fields would occasionally overlap. At first their conversation was strictly professional; discussing the latest advances in language creation, similarities between constructed languages versus real languages, and possibilities for deciphering constructed languages. Marcus had become enamored since day one. Eventually, one encounter led to another and they began a romantic relationship. For the first couple years, there was the ideal honey moon phase; each day was a new adventure and ultimately exciting. Yet as time dragged on, they both began to get caught up in their respective fields and simply did not have the time nor energy to give the attention crucial to a relationship. Marcus had pleaded her to stay and attempted to work out a resolution, but as he found out about a month ago, she had been cheating on him with another man.
It crushed him. His feelings were numb, deadened by the break of trust that he had so furiously attempted to build over the years. He often thought to himself, “Am I inadequate? Was this my fault?”. Marcus knew it was not truly his doing that brought about the end of his relationship, but rather her misdoings. And yet he could never quite erase the demon in his mind, which constantly assured him this was preventable. That perhaps this was not an inevitable event. His first and true love had ripped his heart out and thrown him to the dogs. Life was empty now except for the remnants of his work, which as of late he had begun to see for what it truly was. No one would ever say it to his face, but he knew they snickered behind him in conferences, laughing with the dominance of the academic hierarchy and funding. The other doctors studied Native American languages, lost European languages, Asian languages hidden in the confines of the mountains, and computer programming languages, which often pushed the boundary of technology. And here he sat, at his desk, dragging the stubborn horse of his work through the world day to day attempting to convince people of its legitimacy.
But he must keep on. Too much of Marcus’ life had been focused on this field to abandon it. The work in exolinguistics would be critical to the world one day, and Marcus honestly believed it. Furiously he had honed his methods of deciphering unknown languages for entities with which we may have nothing in common . One day, he will have his time to scoff at those who continuously berated him. Yet he would be kind, allow them to join in his pioneering field of study. Resentment is not the way to deal with issues, but rather one should be kind and accepting. The world has enough assholes as it is.
He pushed back from his desk and took a look out of his window into the Albuquerque skyline. It always took him by surprise, as Marcus had never been particularly fond of the idea of ending up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, but fate had a sneaky way of pushing him into such situations. The midnight light of the city played tricks on his mind as it bounced off of one building to the next, illuminating the mountains behind him in the midnight light. It was a beautiful sight to behold, which was odd as during the day, there was nothing particularly fascinating about the city. Early in the morning men and women traveled to their boring office jobs, later in the evening they continued the commute home. Traffic was never quite too busy, but just enough to give one a slight headache as they attempt to turn right on a major downtown street. It was a dull life that many lived here, but often a safe one.
As well, Marcus had long ago lost interest in the “extraterrestial culture” that surrounded the area. Often misinformed tourists would roll up in their soccer mom vans asking about the Roswell crash, only to make a shameful exit to their truly desired destination some 200 miles away. To Marcus, the alien fad was now more of an annoyance akin to younger generation’s pop music that often stained his radio. The image of “cool aliens” only further alienated the general public from the real, hard work being done by experts in the field. It was a shame.
He closed the curtains and walked into his modestly small kitchen where he began the preparation of a classic bachelor’s dinner. As soon as he had come home a couple hours ago, Marcus had pulled out a steak to begin thawing so that he could have dinner at his regular ungodly hour. Work left no time for regular meal times during the day. He listened to the soft sizzling of the meat as he went to sit on his worn, red recliner. The red recliner was one of the last remnants of his parents. Next to it was a cheap wooden coffee table with a random assortment of magazines strewn about. On the opposite side of the table lay another, empty red recliner. A remnant not only of his parents, but of his latest personal struggles. Her mark was everywhere; her presence still lingering in his apartment like the finely seasoned smell of the steak he was searing.
Marcus could not stand it and had to stand back up and walk back to the kitchen where his food was cooking. He pulled out another pan and began to saute the mushrooms he found in his refrigerator. He glanced at the picture of his parents, his brother, and him sitting on the shelf above his stove. They had both passed away due to serious illness that was incurable. His mother of breast cancer, his father of an extremely deadly case of the flu.
He flipped his steak; it had slowly begun to brown a little more than he preferred. He promptly finished cooking his mushrooms, and placed everything on the green ceramic plate he had. He walked back to his red recliner and sat down. Flipping on his slightly outdated flat screen TV, he moved through the channels until he landed on a a national news channel. He listened as the female anchor read the latest stock market developments.
“In an unsuspected surge, The Heart Foundation has dramatically risen 20%. There is no press release information currently available, but we have received a statement from the director of the facility, James Kiehl, that they have finished prototypes on a new smart phone tablet to be released in the coming months. But it still remains a mystery why their stock rose at such an exponential level, rather than the usual, smaller increase that is often accompanied by companies revealing a new product. We will have an investigative report in the morning news. Stay tuned, America.”
Marcus turned the TV off. As not exciting as he found the stock market, he would much rather be doing something of value to him. He put his hand in his pocket, holding onto the lighter hidden in there. Smoking was a nasty habit of his, which as of late had become even nastier as the stress of daily life caught up with him. The lighter had become the embodiment of the “I need a break from this” routine that to which he had prescribed. Standing up, he glared at the empty chair. He barely managed to pick it up and slowly pushed it out of the door to his apartment. Being on the second floor, all he had to do next was push it over the edge of the stairs and down onto the cool concrete of the New Mexican night. He barely hoisted it into the back of his red pickup truck, and closed the back.
Marcus wasn’t sure how long he drove, but it felt like hours. He needed to get out of the city, away from any potential law enforcement that may give him troubles. He was in the middle of a desert like area, where he found a suitable spot to pull off of the highway. He forcefully pushed the chair out of the back of his truck and let it sit in the dirt for a couple of minutes. Wanting to say his goodbyes to his parents, he said a couple words of acknowledgment before pulling the lighter out of his pocket and setting the recliner ablaze. Away did his troubles burn, into the starry night sky of the desert. He sat in his truck bed and listened to the popping of the fabric, the movement of small animals in the brush, and the quietly humming wind sweeping over the tall desert mountains. He felt a certain peace in his situation. For the first time in 10 days, Marcus was content.
***
Marcus awoke to his alarm screeching at 6:00AM. He began his daily routine of pruning himself to an appropriate professional level so that he did not appear as a homeless man wandering the University of New Mexico’s campus. Putting a couple slices of bacon on the skillet, he started playing the voice mail on his cell phone on speaker as he continued about his morning routine.
“You have three unheard messages. Message one, Wednesday, October 30th, 5:35PM: ‘Hello Mr. Jackson, this is Brenda with the apartment office calling to remind you that rent is due on the 3rd, which is a Monday. If you have and questions, feel free to con - “ *BEEP*
“Next missed message. Thursday, October 31st, 12:19AM: ‘Hey Marcus, I really need to talk to you.’” *BEEP* He immediately froze in his place, that voice raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The world seemed to pause at the sound of it. It was the sound of a voice he had not heard in about 10 days, and had since tried everything he could to forget.
“Last missed message. Thursday, October 31st, 9:35AM: ‘Hello, Dr. Markus. My name is Mr. Kiehl and I am a part of the Heart Foundation Research Firm. I believe we may be mutually beneficial to each other. I would like you to call me back at this number as soon as you receive this message. Thank you and have a nice day.’”
Marcus pulled on a pair of gray slacks and walked back into his kitchen, where his bacon was beginning to pop. He flipped it over and continued with picking out a shirt today. Feeling especially daring, Marcus picked a neon green, pastel shirt. He quickly attempted to tame his hair and gave his teeth a quick but thorough brush before heading back into the kitchen to monitor the progress of his food. Checking his watch, he saw that he still had an hour and a half left. He picked up his phone and scrolled through the numbers. He was not ready to call her back yet, because he was still just bitter enough that the conversation would not turn into a productive one, but rather one of him criticizing her. Instead he scrolled to the number of Mr. James Kiehl, the man who called on behalf of the Heart Foundation. He did not know much about the company, except that they produced high end smart phones that were not accessible to the average consumer due to their high price. He pressed call.
The phone rang for a couple of times before a stern, low voice answered, “Dr. Jackson, I am pleased you decided to return my phone call.”
“The pleasure is mine.” The words smoothly rolled out of his mouth. “How can I help you?”
The voice on the other end of the phone continued the conversation without missing a beat, as though he had premeditated what Marcus would say. “Well, I am Director James Kiehl of the Heart Foundation and I believe we have a position that requires your expertise.”
Marcus perked up a little bit, his bacon began to burn. He quickly flipped it onto a plate. “Yes?”
Director Kiehl once more jumped straight into talking as Marcus ended. “I can unfortunately give you no further information until you sign our confidentiality agreement. Our firm is prepared to fly you out here within the day for a prolonged research study at out facility. The pay will be 100,000 dollars after the conclusion and write up of our project.”
Nearly dropping the phone, Marcus answered, “And you expect me to drop all of my current lectures and come do research for a private corporation?”
“Dr. Jackson, the research I am wanting to hire you for has the potential to change the human race forever. There is no other suitable applicant. If successful, we may take you on as a full time employee.” The director’s voice had a very manipulative quality to it. Marcus could tell this man often got what he wanted, simply by telling the person to give it to him.
“Ok, I will come.” The words escaped him before allowed the thought or prospect of the situation to fully hit him. This mysterious man had him intrigued. Either he was about to experience the world’s greatest scam and the breakout of his dead end career for which he had been looking.
“Excellent. A black car will be at your apartment building at 5:00 PM today to pick you up. Please adequately pack.” The director hung up before Marcus could say his goodbyes.
Marcus sent out a mass email to his classes and canceled them for the following week. He had no idea how long he would be gone, but he figured he may as well be on the safe side and plan for at least a week. Taking a last look at his phone, Marcus decided that he would call her back after this is done. After he had cleared his mind with new material.
The hardest part of packing for Marcus was picking which books to put in his bag. He had multiple to choose from and had no clue what he would need. Unfortunately, Marcus did not use a personal computer and almost exclusively used hard copy reference books for his work. After weighing the pros and cons of many of them, he settled on The Universal Grammar Theory Reference Book and his personal favorite The Cryptologist’s Handbook. Between the two of them, most of his expertise would be available. He hoped this man had in fact called the right person for this job.
He anxiously awaited in his apartment, pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the living room. No longer did he have an appetite for the food he cooked himself this morning. The thought of what was about to happen was fully consuming him. He hardly knew who these people were and he agreed to go with them on a whim. For all he knew they could be coming to murder him because he knows too much. Or it could be an elaborate prank by some of the more bitter linguists in the field. Or it could be exactly what James Kiehl said it would be: A chance to participate in research that is ground breaking. A small part in the back of Marcus’ mind hoped that this phone company had somehow acquired an actual extra terrestial and they needed a true professional to help communicate with it. Or perhaps they had found a meteorite with strange markings that needed to be discovered. Or they needed him for a boring desk job and the University of New Mexico offered him up as sacrifice.
He heard three exact knocks on his door. He warily looked through to see a man in a drivers cap standing there patiently with his hands clasped in front of them. He opened the door slightly. The man standing outside smiled “Are you ready to go, Dr. Jackson?”
“Yes, just let me grab my suit case.”