JOURNAL ENTRY NO. 907

I am Agent Beard.  You do not know me, and you will never tell anyone about me.  I am Agent Beard.

It was a Monday when they appointed me head of Cell B, the medical research group of Delta Green.  I was chosen, I believe, because my background implies a stability that my predecessor was decidedly lacking.  It is believed that he wired himself with explosives and then waited in an art gallery to try and blow up David Bowie.
 Myself, I had just completed medical school in 1949 when I joined the Army as a surgeon, and went to the Korean War.  I ended up with the state department for a while, and then joined the newborn National Security Agency.  I’d been with it ever since, in a capacity as a logistics expert and consultant.  I joined Delta Green in the early seventies as what we call a ‘Friendly,’ that is, an allied operative who is not a full agent.  I became a full agent after five years, retaining my position at the NSA.  Now I head Cell B, and it is the unspoken hope of the Administration that I do not go mad or surrender to dark powers.  It’s happening with more frequency than you would think.
 
The group of doctors, coroners, and scientists that is known as Cell B has provided medical research and aid to the rest of Delta Green for a long time.  The Administration felt that my particular background was perfect for the leadership of the cell:  a medical doctor, wartime surgeon, and member of the intelligence community.
 I had already seen some of the strangest things life has to throw at you, in war or peace; but nothing had prepared me for the encounters I would have with Cell B.
 The Cell was large, composed of three physicians, five specialists, two pathologists, and eight scientists in the medical field, with a complement of five agents whose specialties lie on the business end of medicine.  I was to add an ingredient of efficiency and practicality.  It seemed that the agents of Cell B had been exposed in the past to some particularly nasty phenomena, and somehow I was supposed to crack it.  It interested me that not a one of the medical personnel of Cell B was a pychologist or other mental health professional.
 Upon my instation as Agent-In-Charge of Cell B, I found that the command records and database were a complete shambles following the tenure of former AIC Benson.  Everything had been subject to a complete reordering.  Files and documentation were spliced and misplaced in seeming random order, when they were not obfuscated or downright altered.  I can only surmise that the extent of missing or destroyed files is even greater than those tampered with.
 The most interesting part is that the hard-copy filing has all been annotated in the most annoying fashion.  Former AIC Benson seemed to have taken a critical turn in the later stages of his madness, adding handwritten notes in blue-black ink into the margins of all the literature.  He has underlined such a large number of passages that it seems moot; emphasis now resides only in the places where he did not underline.
 With the assistance of my colleague Agent Ellspeth I was able to finish correcting the records, after a whirlwind three days.  My next task will be to oversee the daily operations of the cell, and prepare it for the project which is coming.  503B-999K is the code number for this project, and among the Administration, normally a very humorless bunch, it is known as Operation STIFF.  A complete reevaluation of past forensic evidence will be performed, in light of new priorities.  Delta Green has decided to place a new emphasis on the supernatural.  The events in the UK, as well as the loss of Benson, have given our group a bit of perspective.  We are human, and the things we face are not so.  I do not look forward to my first encounter as an agent.
 

JOURNAL ENTRY 907

The gods have thrown a strange thing my way, in my first week as AIC of Cell B.  An alien craft crashed along the Pacific Coast, at the northwesternmost tip of Oregon, practically in the back yard of the Army’s Fort Stevens.  Not only was the pilot recovered from the wreckage, but an over-eager beachcomber fell victim to the still-active point defenses of the ship.  Two fresh cadavers, and both sent to the special facilities in Denver.  The entirety of Cell B has been assigned to the autopsy.  Myself included.  We leave in half an hour for Denver.
 

JOURNAL ENTRY 908

After we arrived in Denver, the autopsy began, and it seemed as if it would never stop.  I suppose it never will, because there is simply too much work to be done.
 The first autopsy was that of the alien, known colloquially as a ‘Gray.’  The results were surprising.  This alien did not fit the previous anatomical model we had for this type of alien.  It is humanoid in strucure and size, though it is in height 105 centimeters, and weighs an astonishing 181.8 kilograms.  So far this mass has not been accounted for.  The creature is short and stocky, with stubby legs, arms, and phalanges, similar in proportion to our own congenitally deformed dwarves.  The head is even and squarish, with a very rough bone structure.  The face is broad and angular, displaying a large jaw.  The eyes, though reflective black and almond-shaped, are nowhere near the size of the previously observed Grays.  Nervous and circulatory functions were similar, only minor internal differences evincing themselves.  DNA evidence shows similarity, though perhaps not to the degree of varying species.
 It may be too early to conjecture, but I believe that this alien is our first real glimpse of the Gray’s subsects.  These short aliens have been observed before, and always in conjunction with the main variety of Gray.  Further observations of the physiology wll merit more definite conclusions.
 The second autopsy, that of Oregon resident Jason Thompson, thirty-five years old, was less ground-breaking though definitely a step in the right direction.  The corpse showed evidence of no ailment or injury that could be accounted for prior to his encounter with the craft.  Traces of gamma radiation were evident, and the extreme charring and dissolute nature of the cadaver suggested some sort of high-energy weapon.  Following the autopsy, monitoring of the body yielded an astounding discovery.  Energy scans revealed that the atoms of the corpse were undergoing a continual proton decay, at an alarmingly high rate, similar in effect to bombardment with neutrinos.  Agent Erickson has been called in from Houston to assist in the study of this phenomenon, assuming it lasts.  The decay has become noticeable by the naked eye, as the mass of the body has become increasingly light and friable.
 The discoveries of the past 48 hours are amazing.  It will keep the bulk of Delta Green and uncountable friendlies a long time to analyze and catalog this event.  I know that our own research acitvities will be limited to the study of the two corpses for quite a while.
 Tomorrow the wreckage of the craft will be contained, and I will be paying a personal visit.
 

JOURNAL ENTRY 909

 The strangest thing happened today.  Early in the morning I donned an environmental suit and hopped a plane to make a tour of the wreck site.  It was quite amazing.  A kilometer-long swath of molten sand, reformed into swirling strata of glass, was immediately obvious from the beach.  At the end of this swath is an enormous rock, known locally and in guidebooks as Sarley’s Hump.  It juts from the earth halfway in the water and halfway on the shore, forming quite an effective barrier.  It is the engineer’s surmise that the craft’s shields were functioning intermittently, and when it struck the rock it was destroyed by its extreme momentum.  I find it curious that this should fall into our hands in such a perfect condition.  The only way it could have been better would for the Gray to have landed his craft at Fort Meade, handed his keys to the MP, and then gone to report to the Director.
 As I toured the site with Agents Erickson and Wilcox,  it occurred to me again that this was all a little too pat.  I was about to remark on it when I noticed that Adam had arrived.  He was taking in the sights as well, and he strolled down to the far side of the wreckaged, where he seemed to notice something.
 I watched as Erickson and Wilcox moved over to Adam, hailing him.  They conversed for a while, occasionally motioning towards a certain spot in the wreckage.  I couldn’t quite hear, between the noise of the ocean and the heavy machinery that was being brought to the spot.  The pickups on the outside of the environmental suit weren’t that great.  At last they came over and informed that they had all seen a strange glimmer from inside the wreckage that you could only glimpse from the corner of your eye.  Adam and the other two agents returned to Fort Stevens, leaving me there with my thoughts.  A sudden wave of curiosity overcame me and I made my way to the spot they had visited.  I did not need the corner of my eye.
 When I rounded a large standing piece of wreckage, the spot came into view, or almost.  Blinding white light with a tinge of violet burst into my vision.  I could scarcely stand it, and was wincing when all of  a sudden it became tolerable.  The light flared from what appeared to be a rough crystal, of the type I believe is called acicular.  I could not stare very long at the crystal itself, and soon I had a yellowish imprint on my retina in the crystal’s shape.
 My brain wondered why Adam and the agents had missed such an amazing phenomenon, and my gut seemed to insist they were lucky.  I felt strange fear for a moment, and then I was fine.  It seemed as if there were nothing spectacular or strange at all, and I should simply take the crystal and be done with it.  That thought went through my head as if it were the most sensible thing in the world, and I bent down to pick up the crystal removing my environmental suit’s glove as I did so.
 As soon as my hands touched it, I felt for a moment as if I was kicked out of my body.  I can’t explain it in any better terms, no more than a man can explain the feeling of being kicked in the crotch.  I looked down on my body standing there, holding the blinding crystal, and for an instant it seemed as if the crystal was merging with my hand.  Then I was back in my body, and there was no crystal.
 I could not quite understand what had happened.  It must have been only a bizarre hallucination, as there was no evidence of any crystal or other light in the wreckage.  It was fortuitous that the engineers were preparing their containment, and I took a hasty leave.  I made excuses when I returned to Fort Stevens, and rested for the night.  Who knows what strange energy fields are present in an alien craft, and induced hallucinations are probably the least harmful side-effect of them.  For now I will hope that that hastily rationalized explanation is the truth.  For now.
 

JOURNAL ENTRY 910
 

If I did not believe in tampering with what I have already written in my journal, I would amend the previous entry’s first line.  It should read "The second strangest thing happened to me today."  That was three days ago, and two days ago I saw a man spontaneously combust when I shook his hand.
 The heads of each cell present at the site had returned to Denver to deliver their preliminary reports to Adam.  So far it was all cautious speculation with the scent of unrestrained excitement.  The craft had delivered- how did former AIC Benson put it- "results for the people who do the budgets"?  A number of friendlies were brought in as well, experts and analysts of every sort, including a crackpot UFOlogist named Jeff Talbot.  He had published a number of trashy books on the subject, and he plugged them constantly during his surprisingly accurate report.  I did not like him.
 The reports finished, and as everyone crowded around the long table provisioned with black-gang coffee, an informal line of handshakes and introductions was set up.  Everyone was very friendly, perhaps all pleased with themselves over the discovery.  Was I the only one who was nervous about it?  Was I the only one who was suspicious of this crash?  Was I the only one who didn’t dismiss the inner voice that screamed ‘Trojan Horse’?  I sensed that the strain was getting to me, and for a moment I was glad there were no psychiatrists in Delta Green.
 At last the handshake line brought me to Talbot, even though I didn’t really want to meet him.  He was a tall, lanky man, with greasy blond hair slicked back on his head.  He was clean-shaven, at least until the bottom of his neck, where long hair sprouted just above his loud necktie.  I definitely did not like him.
I felt obligated to shake his hand, however, and he began babbling at me, nervously perhaps, until I reached out and gave his hand an over-firm shake.
 Then he exploded.
 The first thing he did was to make a high soprano squeal, and then a luminescence showed through his flesh, casting an orange glow on the surroundings.  I had released his hand, of course, and within a second flames had sprouted all over him.  He began running everywhere like a hollywood stuntman whose flame-proof suit isn’t of the best quality.  The crowd had scattered to the corners of the room, out of his reach, and he had barely run in a few circles when his head quite simply exploded, and then the body fell, where it burned for five minutes.  It was too hot for anyone to approach, until at last it died out, leaving only a thick pile of dark ashes.
 Adam’s presence at the site had brought a very high level of security, and I found myself whisked away by two agents and five MP’s.  I was put in a confinement room, basically a cell with no bunk.
 After about an hour of waiting, the interrogation began.  First a duo of agents I did not know took my statement and asked questions without challenging my answers.  Then another pair of agents did the same after another hour, only they did challenge my statement, and attempted to pick it apart.  I didn’t work at the NSA because I cracked under pressure, and the interrogation was no problem.  The second pair of agents left, and I waited for about three hours.  I had begun to daydream when the door opened again, on another pair of agents.  Something in the blank looks on their faces made me cringe.  I had only seen that look on the faces of psychiatrists.  When they introduced themselves as Agent Xavier and Agent Xerxes of Cell X, I did cringe.  To my knowledge, there is no Cell X.
 They began with innocuous questions about my health and daily activities, soon moving to more pressing questions about my feelings toward my work, always avoiding the subject of Talbot.  They continued on this tack for two hours, before switching to the heavy-duty questions about sex, anger, and self-worth.  I really had nothing to worry about.  The NSA is the most paranoid organization in the world, and they screen regularly for just those things.  Something about these agents, however, made the questions I’ve already answered ten times nerve-wracking.  The agents were creepy.  I’ve never seen shrinks with such stamina.
 After a total of five hours, Agents Xavier and Xerxes looked at each other and nodded.  Then Xavier told me one of the scariest lies of my life.
 "Agent Beard, we do not believe you are crazy.  We do not believe you had any involvement with Jeff Talbot’s accident.  We have been reviewing your file and watching you for a long time, and we do not believe you will suffer from any sort of stress-related insanity.  We do suggest, however, that you try and relax."  They handed me a prescription bottle and walked out without another word.  They left the door to the cell wide open.
 I looked at the bottle.  It was labled ‘Alprazolam,’ the generic name for xanax, which is an anxiety drug.  I shook out the pills.  Xanax is always lozenge-shaped and either white, pink, or blue.  These pills were tiny, round, and green.
 For a moment I looked at the open door, considering.  I did not doubt that these pills were poison, and I did not doubt that they knew I would recognize it.  It was not very subtle.  I considered a moment more.  I felt that I was at the end of my rope, and I would prefer death to the coming insanity.  Popping the pills dry, I swallowed and realized I was not afraid of death.
 Darkness came.
 I awoke in my office.  I was sitting at my chair, hands on the desk in front of me.  The light was dim, coming solely from the green-shaded banker’s lamp at my left.  The two comfortable chairs in front of the desk were occupied.  The one to the left was filled by a portly man in a gray suit, with well-trimmed white hair and an enormous white beard and mustache.  He had red cheeks and a twinkle in his eye.  He resembled Santa Claus, and was smiling.  The other chair had an alien in it.
 The alien was very much like the one I had autopsied earlier.  Short and stocky, but very much alive.  It fairly hummed with nervous energy, and I could hear it tapping its feet against the front of the desk.  The man who resembled Santa spoke then, and we had the most confounding conversation of my life.  I will try to recount it as best I can here.
 "Hello, Charles."  No one had used my given name in a long time.
 "Who are you?"
 "You can call me… Nick." He grinned, and I must have scowled, because he laughed outright, and shook.  Like a bowl full of jelly.
 "Who are you, I said."
 "Nick will do for you, Charles.  I suppose you’d like a little explanation.  Let me start by saying that my colleague and I are the good guys.  I don’t suppose that means much to you, being as cynical as you are, but it’s the truth."
 "Everyone thinks they’re the good guys, Nick.  That’s what makes the bad guys so bad."
 "No, no, no… you really do have it all wrong.  Well, not all.  You believed that the race represented by my colleague here was a subsect of the aliens you call Grays.  That is exactly right.  The Grays are a most abominable race. They are ruthless and cold, and they collect other beings like you might collect stamps, or butterflies.  All those abductees that disappear forever?  Well, you could say that they’re pinned to a board somewhere."
 "How do you know all this?"
 "My colleague’s race is one of the subject races that have been enslaved by the Grays, and forced to assist in the rape and murder of other races.  Quite understandably, they want out.  There is a sort of underground railroad on this planet, and my colleague’s race- he won’t mind if we call them, say, the Browns- needed a contact man.  That’s me."  He bared his wrist, and it had a number tattooed there.  "Hitler gave me this treatment when I was a kid.  I can recognize the same sort of shit when I see it, and the Grays are far worse than he ever was.   So I see that the Browns’ cause is right.  I help out."
 "What do you want from me, then?  Why the hallucination, and the crash?"
 "The Browns needed to send a weapon to this planet as an aid in the fight."
 "Pity it got destroyed in the crash."
 "It didn’t."  He leaned forward swiftly and tapped me on the forehead.  "The weapon is you."
 "Then it wasn’t a hallcuination."
 "Not at all, my friend."
 "But Talbot, and Cell X, and the poison…"
 "That was a hallucination.  We had to make sure you were tough stuff.  There is no Cell X.  The only internally concerned psychiatrists in Delta Green are the Administration.  You get a psych examination every time you turn in a report, or talk to another agent.  It all comes out."
 "So what is this weapon?"
 "Your brain, Charles.  That crystal opened up the other ninety percent for limited use."
 "Why not a ray gun or something?
 "That’s not very high tech, is it Charles?  If you call for a surgical airstrike, you don’t send a guy in a glider to drop sticks of dynamite!  You send in a tac nuke!  You don’t quite understand that the level of technology we’re talking about isn’t gizmos and gadgets.  You know that the Grays and many other aliens, or monsters or whatever are telepathic, right?"
 "I think so."
 "Well, think of that as their step up from telegraph to cell phone.  Technology in the Renaissance was considered magic, and if you take something simple like a pair of scissors to some primitive island, they’ll think it’s sorcery.  Now I’m not saying that there’s no magic or anything, just that the Brown’s sent the best they could."
 "To tell you the truth, I don’t particularly want to be their foot soldier."
 "You’re not.  They won’t be sending you on missions, and they won’t command you to do anything.  They can’t, anyway.  One of the powers you’ve been given is complete immunity to your mind being controlled.  They can’t even talk to you telepathically."
 "But-"
 "That’s what I’m for.  If they need to get a message to you, I’ll let you know."
 "What else can I do?   Like Talbot?"
 "Talbot was a minion of the Grays, and the crystal recognized that.  "If looks could kill…" Well, they did.  You can do that any time you want, and a hundred other things besides.  You just have to know that you can do it.  And use your will."  He thought for a moment.  "Move your lamp.  It’s easier than you think, if you just believe it."
 I thought about it for a second, and looked at the lamp.  It moved.
 "So.."
 "All you need to do is continue what you’re doing.  Delta Green’s program is accomplishing a lot of things the Browns want to get done.  Taking down the Grays, and their allies the Mi-Gos, is one of them.  We don’t expect you to be a one man crusade.  Don’t get me wrong- you’re not invincible.  If you stumble onto Great Cthulu, you’ll still get consumed.  A Polyp can still tear your head off, but you’ll have a greater chance of surviving.  You might even be able to fight back indirectly.  We want you to grow into your new power, and just do what you feel is right.  That’s why we’ve given you a free hand."
 "What if I go insane, or decide I want to help the Grays?"
 "We know you won’t, for one thing.  You’re a good man, and a strong one.  For another, some crude methods still work.  A sniper on the roof can still take you down.  The crystal won’t do any good if you’re head is blown off.  So be careful."  He looked far-off for a moment.  "My colleague here says we have to go.  Don’t kill any Browns, and be on the lookout for any other  slave races.  Be careful."
 After that they left, and I sat all night at my desk thinking.  Every now and then I would move the lamp back and forth across the table, or levitate my fountain pen.  After a while I decided to write this journal entry.  It’s good to write your thoughts down, because it helps make them clearer, but I don’t think there will be any more journal entries.  I find I can remember every word I’ve written.  Ever written.  That sort of makes pen and paper obsolete, doesn’t it?
 Nick and his colleague left a strange taste in my mouth.  I don’t suppose I can disobey, because they ordered me to be myself, and do what I do.  Not much I can do to change that.  If this thing can give me the power to make some good, then so be it.  I’ll fight.  When I’m done writing this, I think I’ll turn out the lamp without touching it, close the book, and take a walk.
 Good night.