Message from Ceti-Alpha 6

By Jeffry Weiss

Since the time of Galileo Galiliei five hundred years ago, man has searched the heavens for an answer to the question, "Are we alone?"

With the start of the SETI Project in 1984, man took the first serious step to find extraterrestrial life.

Finally, in the year 2067 A.D., comes a response.  Planet 6 in the Ceti-Alpha star system, in the Aquarius Constellation of the Milky Way Galaxy has sent a message.  However, it is a symbols-based language.

A team of the most accomplished scientists is assembled by the U.N. to translate the message and conjure a response.

Yet the world is divided.  The military sees an existential threat to their existence.  Warning that any signal sent might be used by an alien intelligence to learn the Earth's level of advancement, or lack thereof, and thereby be at the mercy of a civilization so far advanced as to be beyond the imagination.

The religious evangelicals believe it portends the coming of the beast as described in revelation.  The civilians are cautiously optimistic that the alien race could teach humans how they, the aliens, overcame greed, avarice, war, pestilence and mass extinctions, with the Earth in the last throws of environmental death: the seas dying, the skies polluted, the soil depleted of nutrients. 

As the clock introduced by the aliens counts down toward zero, an unlikely group of people team up to prove the Earth is made up of civilized people not bent on conquest.  But it is a child prodigy, an accomplished gamer, who comprehends the alien's message and leads the team in responding in kind.

Whether it will be the military or civilians who are ascendant comes down to the last few seconds of a ticking clock.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffry Weiss
• Release date: Sep 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393114932

Jeffry Weiss

BIOGRAPHY Mr. Weiss attended Central High School, at the time recognized as the top High School academically in the U.S.  He then attended Drexel University where he gained a BS in History, Temple University where he earned an MA in Economics and the University of Pennsylvania where he received an MA in International Affairs.  Those studies provided him with unique insights in the realm of foreign policy, military capabilities, détente, and trade. He has been a writer for forty plus years and has penned hundreds of articles on social, political, and economic issues.  He has written position papers for the Carter and Clinton Administrations and his work on social issues has received recognition directly from the office of the President of México.  He speaks regularly with Noam Chomsky on political, economic, cultural, and military issues. Mr. Weiss writes political, military, economic and scientific thrillers.  There are now twelve books in the Paul Decker series.  All his stories come right off the front pages of the major magazines and newspapers but none of his plots has ever found their way into novel before.  His characters are ones readers can relate to: flawed, not superheroes.  His stories do not require a leap of faith or use deus ex machina. Finally, he has written a stage play, “Einstein at the Guten Zeiten (good times) Beer Garden, and an urban horror novel: “The Art of Theft”, a modern day version of “The Picture of Dorian Grey” by Oscar Wilde.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

West Bank of the Nile.  Valley of the Kings.  Egypt.  January 12, 2046

The Mortuary Temple of King Djoser of Egypt’s third dynasty was located beneath the cliffs at Deir el Bahari on the west bank of the Nile near the Valley of the Kings.  The temple was dedicated to the sun god Amon-Ra and was next to the temple of Mentuhotep II, considered one of the incomparable monuments of ancient Egypt.

*     *         *

Pickaxes and shovels sang as they reverberated off rock and stone.  Hundreds of Egyptian excavators tore at a wide expanse of desert, working furiously in the searing midday heat.  As far as the eye could see, teams of diggers brought up clouds of dirt almost blotting out the sun. 

Through the wind-whipped dust, a tall, thin, barefoot man rushed across the dig site, almost falling amidst the mounds of dirt, scattered rock, and scaffolding in his haste.

"Sahib, Sahib," Anpur, the lead digger, called out in a voice louder than necessary, as he approached the tent of the expedition leader waving his arm erratically.

Norman Wainwright, startled by the commotion, quickly stood and threw back the flap of the tent that kept out the worst of the heat and blowing sand.

The archeologist was forty-seven years old, a shade under six feet, with the body of a day laborer rather than a scientist.  His wavy black hair rolled over the collar of his shirt and covered his ears when he bent over.  He possessed patient, hazel eyes, a classic Roman nose, and a wide, thin mouth.  Norman was a man who questioned everything in the material world.

Norman Wainwright was a deeply religious man who, at one time, planned on giving his life to the Lord.  Yet the calling of science was even stronger.  And had he not promised to carry on the work of his grandfather Howard and Father Stephen?  He often questioned himself further: had he made the right decision opting to become an archaeologist as opposed to a priest.  Even his sister had pleaded for him to give up what the family called the crazy idea of following the Lord.  At the time, twenty years ago, he had no doubt the Lord was calling him, and that his family just did not understand.  It was the urgings of his mother and father - who saw in him the makings of a first-rate scientist after graduating Cambridge with degrees in geology and archaeology – that swayed him to science.

And after having two lovely children, and attaining accolades from his peers, the self doubts grew silent.

Norman had been at the dig three months every year for fourteen years.  And for the last two, he had brought with his young son, Austin, now nine years old with the curiosity of a ferret.

Austin never accepted an abbreviated explanation or a maybe later brush off.  He was already strong enough to swing a pick and he loved working with the men, trying to keep up with the pace, refusing to back down, to the point of fainting more than once in the desert heat.

Yet he was too smart for his age, headstrong and stubborn to a fault.  For him, knowledge was strength and he wanted to be stronger than anyone else.  The boy needed a good example in life so he wouldn’t turn to immature friends looking for a role model, or use drugs for a cheap high that only lasted a few minutes.  That task was better left to a father.

Norman was still strong due to the requisite physical labor, but the hard work, in difficult conditions, was beginning to take its toll.  He had an enlarged heart and high blood pressure, but when his wife or Austin asked how he felt he always told them, Fine and never mentioned the visits to the doctor or the results of tests.

He needed to inspire his son, not show Austin he was weak.  He would be a strength in his son’s life.  Young Austin would grow up smart and tough, for only those men survived in a world filled with sharks.

What is it, Anpur? Norman asked, irritated by the disturbance, having to divert his attention from the site plans covering the large wooden table.  When the Egyptian did not respond.  Norman remembered the man only spoke broken English.  He then asked Anpur again in Arabic.

"Sahib," Anpur began again, his voice struggling against lungs devoid of air. 

What is it? Norman demanded, frustrated by Anpur’s inability to get out his message.

Anpur hesitated.  He took several deep breaths and started again.  They have uncovered something.

Norman looked into the eyes of his lead digger and saw something he had not seen before: fear.  This in a man whose name meant, God of the Dead.

What? Norman asked, rolling up the chart.

"A...sign, Sahib," the man stuttered, tremors in his voice.

Where?

On the fifth level of excavation.

Norman’s head snapped up.  Show me...now!

Anpur ran off with Norman following.

Young Austin took off right behind them.

Norman abruptly stopped and turned to the boy.  He put a stiff arm to his son’s shoulder.  This is on the 5th level.  It hasn’t been shored up yet.  It’s too dangerous for both of us to go down.  If something happens to me, you’re the man of the house.  If something happens to both of us, then your mother and sister would be lost.

But I want to do something, make a contribution.

You will make a contribution, Austin.  However, it'll be more meaningful than swinging a pickaxe or uncovering old fossils.  Countries are at war, the seas, the air, and the soil are polluted and dying.  Those are the things that you need to pay attention to.  Think about how you can help bring about peace, protect the environment.

Austin looked up at his father, the wheel spinning in his head, trying to come up a valid argument for going along.  Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.

Norman spun him around and smacked him on the ass, nudging him toward the tent.

When Norman was sure his son got the message, he caught up to Anpur, almost stepping on the man’s heels in his haste. 

They raced past sections where workers were three and four stories below ground, the more experienced men entrusted with extracting and cleaning priceless relics. 

The breeze picked up suddenly.  It stirred up dust devils that seemed to block their path no matter which way they turned.  Particles of dirt and rock hit their faces like shards of glass driven by the wind.

They made their way around wooden ladders, some as tall as three-story buildings, protruding out of the holes, marking the digs, dozens in number, a few as far as half a mile away.  The two approached the center of the dig where the deepest excavation had gone on.  Masika, the foreman in charge of the site, dressed in clothes barely better than rags, was there to greet them.

Anpur spoke rapidly to Masika. 

Masika replied, but even though Norman could not understand the words, he could sense the apprehension.  Masika dabbed the sweat off his trembling lips and chin with an old soiled rag.  He then pointed vociferously, deeper into the dig. 

What did he say, Anpur? Norman prodded, inadvertently squeezing on the man’s arm hard enough to make him wince.

Masika says stop digging.  Something dangerous found, evil.  The dig must be filled in and abandoned.

Tell Masika it is I who must decide these matters, Norman insisted, pointing an angry finger at the man.  Knowledge of such things is beyond his, or your, understanding.  Now have him show us the find or move aside so we can do so ourselves.

Anpur spoke to Masika again.  The foreman took the bandana and wiped himself from his forehead to his chin, dabbed his face, then nodded rapidly to Anpur and Norman.

Yes, yes, he said, wiping at the sweat that was running faster the farther they advanced.  This way.  This way.  He motioned to the ladder extending out of the hole, and the three set off into the depths of the earth, Norman hoping it didn’t lead into the bowels of hell.

They descended through six thousand years of civilization, from finely sculptured silver, to gold relief, to clay pots, to sharpened tools.  As they went deeper the smells changed: from sandy to musky

The three reached the floor of the dig. 

That way, Masika pointed ahead, then pressed his two hands together and looked up, as if offering a prayer.  He then pushed Norman ahead.

Norman gently but firmly took the old man’s hand from his arm, ducked under the rough-hewn lumber shoring up the tunnel, and raced forward.

Danger here! Masika insisted, his pants fluttering as if he were caught in a windstorm.  Bury this!  Bury this! he demanded. 

They entered the space.  Wooden tables surrounded the room.  On many of them were small statues.  At first, they meant little to Norman.  Then he saw a connection. They were all Greek Gods that corresponded to constellations in the Milky Way Galaxy. Andromeda: The Chained Maiden.  Aries: The Ram.  Boötes: The Herdsman.  Cassiopeia: The Queen.  Centaurus: The Centaur.  Cepheus: The King.  Cygnus: The Swan.  Ursa Minor: The Little Bear.  Virgo: The Young Maiden.  Perseus: The Greek Hero.  Sagittarius: The Archer.  Aquarius: The Water Carrier.

The room spun around Norman.  Maybe it was true; maybe they had uncovered something not meant to be disturbed.  Yet he could not draw himself away.  He felt the tugging on his sleeve, the pushing on his back but still he remained.

Please!  Please! Masika cried, veins in his neck pulsating.  Leave!  Leave now!

Norman was mesmerized by the statues, surrounded as they were by artifacts from different cultures and different eras.  Trying to make sense of how such things, from different parts of the world and different times could ever make their way to a single room in the dig.

The things held him captive.  He could not let go.  What was it?

Norman, deep in thought, blocked out the cries from Masika and the pleas from Anpur.  It wasn’t until the two shook him violently that Norman regained his senses.

What else did you find? he demanded, coming out of his contemplations.

Masika seemed confused until Anpur spoke to him in his native language.  The digger looked from Norman to Anpur, eyes pleading, unblinking, trying to drag them away and up the steps. 

When Norman tried to go deeper, Masika blocked the way.

No!  No! he burst out, beads of sweat popping up on lips or forehead.

Anpur, Norman yelled, taking a rigid stance, take this man away!

Anpur acquiesced, tugged on Masika who gripped the table in resistance.

But in their haste, Masika pulled a cloth off a table. 

There, uncovered, were two plaques.  Norman was spellbound by the etching, his reaction in between confusion and fascination.  They were done by a modern society, maybe even more advanced than the present, he thought.  The things held him captive.  He could not let go.  What was it?

––––––––

Then he realized: they were the Pioneer mission plaques that had been placed on board the Voyager 1& II spacecrafts: pictorial messages, in case either craft were intercepted by extraterrestrial life.  On the right side of the plaque, a man and a woman were shown in front of the spacecraft.  The right hand of the man was raised in a way to show the opposable thumb and how the limbs could be moved. 

Behind the figures of the man and woman, the silhouette of the Pioneer spacecraft was seen in the same scale so that the size of Earthlings could be deduced by comparing the figures to the ship.

How was it possible that plaques which should be ten billion miles from Earth could be found buried with relics six thousand years old? Norman asked himself.  That meant they had to go though some type of time warp. 

Norman scratched his head in frustration.  Here?  Now?  Six thousand years before they were launched?  What civilization could have the power to do such a thing?"

An astronomer, or cosmologist might make the connection, yet he was neither.

But one thing was certain, the plaques had meaning and purpose.  They were proof of another civilization’s wish to communicate, at least on some level, with Earthlings. 

Norman felt strongly that the message was one of great importance and thought he must immediately make the discovery known to the world, but then, after further consideration, came to a stark realization.

What if our world was afraid of invasion by this alien civilization?  Would they take preemptive action...the destruction of a civilized, peaceful people who might want nothing more than to share the wisdom accumulated over millennia. 

He had to accept that Earth was comprised of warrior nations who saw other countries as adversaries hoarding precious resources necessary for expansion...or survival.  Worlds were to be conquered, not collaborated with. 

No, it would have to wait for the right time, when either he was more certain of the meaning, or the world was less violent.

Maybe by the time his son became a man, he would know better than the father what to do with the plaques.  Maybe science, or humans, or both would come far enough to interpret the message and respond as an enlightened race, rather than as warmongers and heathens.

CHAPTER TWO

St. Petersburg, Russia.  March 11, 2052

The girl had been walking for some uncounted days.  She had not left home as much as it left her.  A father dying from lung cancer contracted working in the coal mines, while other countries had been independent of fossil fuels for decades; a mother driven mad by standing in the hours long food queues, yet still never bringing home enough to eat.

The mother had lost her mind chewing on a leather shoe sole, after having given the children what was left of the provisions.

And so the girl, all of thirteen years old, put on her clothes that had once fit but now hung on her like a tent on a toothpick, her body so emaciated.

Leaving in the middle of winter, with no food or money was an act of suicide, but so was remaining in a house where madness had taken hold.

She had no destination in mind.  Her only thought was to leave, not where to go.

She had to keep moving.  To stop was to die.  Not only of the cold, which whipped at her like a rider urging on his horse, but from the hopelessness that reminded her of how foolish she was to fight against the inevitable.

Somehow, she found food; or rather food came to her.  People with almost as little as she had stopped to slip a piece of bread in her ragged jacket pocket.

The brutal Russian winter stabbed her like a thousand needles into a pincushion.  The wind beat her back at every corner and made dust devils dance around her like some Native Indian ritual.

During her journey, she met many travelers like herself: enduring hardships, fleeing circumstances so bad they were unable to share what had happened to them.  They were all on a journey, but few knew where to.  Elena questioned them and herself each time they met to share what little they had in the way of food, or information regarding police checkpoints or businesses offering handouts.  She was starving for more than sustenance, but for the love and safety she once had as a child.  Yet was that just a dream?  Maybe it was what she fantasized she had had, rather than what really had been. 

The great majority of people could not be troubled by the needs of someone they saw as a vagrant.  Why should they, who worked so hard, give what little they had to a slacker?

Elena saw a world she thought would be different than what she had at home.  However, this world was just as cruel and uncaring in its own way.

When she found a grate expelling hot air, she was able to sleep...although fitfully.  She dreamed she was a baby again lying in a mother’s warm lap.  Yet it wasn’t her biological mother.  The glow of light coming off the face was so strong that Elena could not tell who the woman was.

In her imagination, the universe became very small and everything that was fit in the space just over her head.  And just for a moment, she was safe and warm and had a future.

That ended abruptly with the kick of a boot from a policeman.  She was told to get on her way.  And with that, her dream evaporated.

Elena got up quickly, prodded by the police officer’s nightstick.  She walked as fast as she could, trying to stay ahead of the cop who followed her, the man wanting to make sure she left the territory he was responsible for.

Finally, the policeman turned and started back the way he came.

At last, her energy left her and she sat down on a door stoop to die, for that was preferable to starving and freezing.

Somewhere between the real world and the netherworld, a hand reached out and touched her shoulder.

What is your name, child?

She had to struggle for a moment to remember.  Elena...I think.

Yet, at that moment, whether it was God above or the Devil below, she could not discern.

CHAPTER THREE

Earth.  2053

After decades of abuse, the oceans were in the last stages of a painful death, overcome by human waste and chemical spills that made the world’s seas acidic, and damaged the ability of sea creatures to make shells.  Their loss threatened the food-producing potential of the oceans.

The air the seas produced – 50% of all the oxygen on the planet – came to an end, leading the world to the brink of the greatest mass extinction in human history.

The emissions from coal-fired power plants, cattle farms and chemical factories filled the atmosphere with toxins which formed clouds that trapped heat, which would normally radiate back into space.  The heat melted the polar ice caps and freed the ice fields.  Ninety percent of the world’s glaciers had disappeared.  Greenland turned green again.

Global sea levels rose four feet.  The Marshall Islands, Tonga, Micronesia, Cook Islands, Antigua and Maldives were consumed by the rising seas.  Thousands of stubborn islanders, who refused to leave, disappeared as if they had never existed.  Bangkok, Guangzhou, Miami, New York, Mumbai, Nagoya, Shenzhen and Osaka flooded despite the building of massive sea walls.

Global warming caused desertification of vast swaths of land in Africa, resulting in levels of starvation not seen since the Cultural Revolution in China in the 20th century.  Millions died, tens of millions displaced, living in camps with no medical facilities and lack of potable water.

Temperatures above 140⁰ Fahrenheit were recorded in the Middle East and Equatorial Africa.

Rising temperatures pushed staple crops, such as rice, north into once cooler areas.  Corn and wheat were grown only above latitude 50⁰ north.

The production of rice, the staple food of more than one third of the world’s population, declined ten percent with every one degree Celsius increase in temperature and was now only twenty percent of levels from fifty years previous.

Even major advances in farming technology and ever larger applications of fertilizer only slowed the decline in food production.  When population levels reached twelve billion, even those in once prosperous nations began starving.

Rising temperatures led to escalating levels of diseases.  Illnesses once found only in tropical areas became endemic in northern climates.

In Southeast Asia, malaria was rampant.  Dengue fever, West Nile virus and Zika virus, once largely confined to tropical areas, became widespread by 2050

Higher temperatures increased reproduction of microbes and insects, speeding up the rate at which they developed resistance to control measures and drugs.

The melting of the tundra in the arctic released millions of tons of methane gas trapped in vegetation frozen since the Ice Age tens of thousands of years previous.  The methane release led to even faster temperature increases.

Chaos arose as millions of refugees stormed the borders of neighboring countries seeking protection from the elements, searching for food and shelter.  Many countries saw rioting and looting in epidemic proportions. 

Even as men and countries plotted against each other, the planet conspired against them all.

CHAPTER FOUR

School of Earth Sciences.  Cambridge University.  Cambridge, UK.  July 19, 2054

Encompassing five hundred acres and one-hundred ninety buildings, the school was a universe unto itself. 

As one of the most prestigious universities in the world, Cambridge had graduated Nobel Prize winners, Field’s Medal recipients, inventors, diplomats, even presidents. 

While the path to acceptance was arduous for some, Austin Wainwright’s road was free of obstacles.  His great grandfather, the famous Howard Wainwright, discovered the tomb of King Djoser, the man who constructed at Saqqara the first Pyramid.  Howard was the first white man, indeed, the first man, who ever found an Egyptian tomb untouched before him.

His grandfather was knighted, and had written many books and earned fantastic sums as a desired speaker all over the world.  He left a great endowment to Cambridge, from where he had graduated in 1914.  With the death at an early age of his son, Michael, Howard left the other portion of his fortune to Michael’s son, Norman, who in turn placed it in a trust for Austin.  Having his great grandfather, grandfather, and father graduate from the university, all of whom contributed generously to the endowment of the school, a seat was waiting for Austin before he even finished high school.

All his life, Austin wanted only to earn his own reputation, his own place in school and in society, not dependent on the fame or fortune of his family.  To date, his efforts had been trivial and his contributions minimal.  For him, time was running out even though he was only twenty-four years old.

Austin was of medium height, with sandy brown hair, the build of a football halfback, which he was in high school, the flattened nose of a boxer, a leftover attribute from a single foray into that arena, the eyes of a Hawk, which kept him alive during initial interactions with people who had never seen a White man before.  During all those reincarnations, he took advantage of every post offered to him by the church: stationing him in Africa, South America and Southeast Asia, where was able to interact with the indigenous people between other assignments.  He lived and worked amidst some of the most primitive people on earth.  There he honed his skills as an interpreter, and his reputation as a translator of old dialects.  Through a backdoor process, he had risen to the pinnacle in his field, no small task for a kid from the public schools of London, England.

Yet he suffered some of the same angst as his father before him: dedicate a life to God or to science.  In his hubris, he believed he could do both.  That challenge would raise its head up many times in the years to come.

The men and women at the college were insulated from the world and all its problems.  And while the Earth and its most vulnerable people suffered, his fellow classmates argued philosophy and existentialism.  Their discussions were more tête-à-tête than real discourse of vital issues, profound issues.  To suggest solutions, a huge step beyond that, was never even broached.

As time and opportunity passed by, Austin fell silent, nodded knowingly and offered little, remaining aloof during such discourse.

With each passing semester, he found himself further from the center of such debates.  The frivolity, the categorizing of people and their trouble irked him.  He subconsciously balled his fingers into a white-knuckled fist, stifling his feelings to keep from lashing out at people who didn’t even see their trivializing the everyday problems of people as the problem itself.

He hadn’t thought much about his place after graduation, but Cambridge decided for him by offering Austin a postdoc, associate professor’s position in archaeology and ancient languages.  Yet was there also a place for God in his new position?  Could he influence young minds spiritually or only intellectually?

At the very least, through his teaching, he would repay the school for its support.  But by his field work he would preserve the customs, language and behaviors of indigenous populations on the verge of extinction and bring Jesus Christ into their lives...if they would accept him, or even need him.

CHAPTER FIVE

The home of Diane Collins.  Oakland, CA. April 9, 2056

Danny Collins, age six, had been in his room for twenty straight hours.  It was the weekend, and his mother, Diane, had told Danny that he could do whatever he wanted during that time...if he finished his homework.  But this was different; it was extreme and dangerous, she thought to herself.

*     *         *

Her son had been home from the hospital less than a month and already she could see changes in his behavior and attitude.  The doctors said surgery was the only way to control the epilepsy that had made Danny a pariah in the neighborhood and at school.  His so-called friends thought the epilepsy was contagious and avoided Danny like the plague.  With the illness gone, he had suddenly become a brilliant student, answering questions before his teachers even finished asking them.  However, that only drew the ire of his classmates and frustration of his instructors. 

And he paid the price at recess where he was confronted by bullies who picked on him...sometimes with words, other times knocking off his hat or tripping him.  That stopped when he used karate to kick the shit out of three boys at once.  When the principal asked him where he learned martial arts, Danny told him it was from watching TV.  The woman would have tossed Danny out of school for unnecessary violence, but the cameras in the schoolyard clearly showed the bigger boys attacking Danny. 

His mother asked Danny the same question...when and where he picked up martial arts and her son gave Diane the same answer....From TV.

The doctors told Diane to expect some changes, but she thought that meant trivial habits like cleaning his room incessantly or washing his hands more frequently.

She was not prepared for the fighting and other things that now manifested themselves.  Her frustration turned, at first, to apprehension, then fear of what would transpire next.

Diane had struggled with the idea of an operation.  She spoke with mothers who had guided their sons through the process.  Those women praised the doctors and marveled at their child’s progress after the procedure; others warned of odd, even dangerous changes the surgery brought on.

She thought she had asked all the right questions, prepared herself for the aftermath; now she realized her efforts fell short and it was Danny who would pay for her hubris.

Diane wondered where all those helpful mothers were now, basking in the glow of a child made whole again, dismissing the behavioral changes as a minor issue easily swept under the rug.

For his part, Danny just laughed and spun his ball cap around.  It’s cool, mom.  Everything’s copacetic.

*     *         *

Danny was playing Politics 1.0, an interactive video game, against opponents in Europe, Asia and Africa.  He had elevated himself to the 7th and highest level of competition.  While some kids played for money, Danny craved the challenge, pitting himself against the brightest minds on the planet.  He didn’t waste money on pot or clothes.  He considered the games he purchased an investment that paid off with acquired skills.

All this he considered while waiting for a kid in Estonia to counter his move in Gaia 2.0.

He heard a voice, which at first he thought was from the game announcing a successful move.  But then it became clearer.  It was a voice within his own head.  He figured it was because of the operation and it was just something he’d have to get used to.

Play Diplomacy 1.0.

Huh? he asked himself.

Play Diplomacy 1.0.

He stuck a finger in his ear and scratched around.  He couldn’t figure whose voice it was or where it came from.  But just as quickly as it came, it was gone.

*     *         *

Diane rinsed her hands of the soap she was using to clean the dishes and wiped them on a towel, all the while thinking about what she would say to her son who had developed such a passion for video games that it affected his schoolwork and social interactions.

She walked upstairs slowly, gathering her thoughts and suppressing her emotions.

She knocked quietly, respectfully on the door.  When that got no response, she knocked louder, then still louder still, each time losing a bit more of her cool.

Only when she kicked on the door, did she get a response.

What mom, I’m busy! Danny shouted, his words rushed.

Open the door, Danny, she yelled, louder than she planned.

I’m in the middle of something, mom.  Can we talk later? he said, frustrated that his mother couldn’t grasp the importance of his undertaking.

If you don’t stop what you’re doing and open the door, I’m going to shut off the electricity to your room, Diane replied, seething.

Diane heard Danny talking, but wasn’t certain whether it was to her or someone else.  Finally, he came to the door, stamping his feet as he did, to show his annoyance, and opened it...just a bit.

You’ve been in your room for over twenty-four hours and as far as I know you’ve had nothing to eat or drink in all that time, she said, throwing up her hands in an I give up gesture.

I snuck downstairs while you were sleeping; I didn’t want to wake you up.

Thank you for being so considerate, Diane snipped.

You’re wel—,

I was being facetious.

Oh, Danny said.

Yeah, oh,