Q & A

Things have been slow here the past week. And since some of you have been writing in with questions about Area 51, myself, and the general truthfulness of this blog, I thought I’d take a few moments and answer some of them. Here goes:

Do you really work at Area 51?

Yes.

Then how are you posting these things without getting caught?

As I’ve said before, all the names and some of the situations have been changed to maintain anonymity. But as an added protection, I’m not the one who actually posts the entries. The blog is set up and run by a friend of mine, who shall remain confidential in order to avoid a nice vacation to Guantanamo Bay. I send him emails with the postings in code, and he puts them on Blogger. There’s also a time lag of five to eight weeks from when the events actually take place, which keeps the brass from connecting the dots.

Hey d00d! alot of the crap you talk about seems liek bullshit. Explain yourself!

Like it says in the blog title, I’m a janitor, not a scientist. I fully admit that I don’t understand some of these bigger science-y concepts. I try to self-educate via the Internet, but if I get some of my facts/numbers/laws of the universe wrong, oh well. I chose playing “The Legend of Zelda” over doing well in Particle Physics 202.

If you can’t leave the bunker, what do you do for fun?

Well, none of us have that much free time. But when I do, I tend to work out, watch movies, or play games. The bunkers have a great on-demand video service, as well as the latest consoles. It was pretty surreal to play the “Area 51” game while sitting in a shielded bunker a half-mile underneath the real Area 51. Lately, I’ve been playing a lot of Wordscraper on Facebook.

How exactly do you write your blog entries?

There’s plenty of computers in the BP9 bunker (fun fact: Area 51 is entirely PC-based), but since all data is downloaded to central servers, I write most of the entries on my Blackberry. It’s still possible for the tech guys to intercept my outgoing emails, but it’s certainly safer than leaving copies lying around on a hard drive. I wrote a simple app for my phone that immediately converts my entries to look like boring regular emails.

Why are you doing this? Don’t you know you could be jailed without trial for like, the rest of your life if the government finds out?

First off, thanks for being concerned about my safety. But since my blog traffic isn’t quite equal yet to say, YouPorn, I think I’m still flying comfortably under the radar. And secondly, to answer the question, I was tired of living in a bubble. Even though I work with all this top-secret stuff, I don’t really get the chance to share it with anybody. I suppose I wanted to feel a bit more like a real person, like I was having an effect on someone, even if it’s only a couple folks in the Midwest.

So thanks for that. As for work, it’s been quiet. Doc Hotness/Claire has been working away at her new equations, and the scuttlebutt is that we may start up testing in a few days. Which hopefully won’t mean more exploding animals for me to clean up.

I’ll keep you posted.

Date-us Interruptus

Sorry about that. I needed a couple days to process the absurdly bad luck train-wreck that is my romantic life. Here’s what went down:

A couple nights ago, I was cleaning an animal transport cubby after another messy teleportation failure. I was finally starting to get the blood to come off, when Doc Hotness burst into the lab, tears in her eyes.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” She cursed, clearly not realizing I was in the back corner. “Why are you so dumb, you dumb, dumb-ass … DUMMY?!” She knocked a stack of computations to the floor. She was about to do the same with a rack of test tubes, when I cleared my throat.

“You’re welcome to throw all the paper you want. But glass is more of a pain to clean up.”

“Shit,” she said. “I didn’t know anyone was here. Sorry.” She scooped up the papers clumsily. “I should go. I have to … work.”

But instead, she sank to the floor, tears in her eyes.

“So it’s going good, huh?”

She laughed bitterly. “If our goal was to explode cute, furry creatures, I’d be a shoo-in for the Nobel Prize.”

I made my way to her side. “You know, I think there’s something to be said for working too hard. When was the last time you were up top?” She looked confused. “You know, on the surface? With the stars? Outside?”

“Oh. Two weeks, I guess. Maybe three?”

“Well, if you haven’t seen Orion’s Belt from the wing of a stealth jet, you haven’t really lived.”

That got a real laugh, and she agreed to take a walk around the airstrip with me. I snagged a bottle of wine from the fridge, met her at the elevator, and we went to the surface.

Area 51 is kind of bleak during the day, but at night, it’s downright pretty. There’s no blazing heat melting the skin off your bones, and the visibility of the stars is amazing.

Doc Hotness (whom I suppose we should now call Claire) and I strolled down the line of parked aircraft, looking up at the stars and taking slugs out of the wine bottle. The night sky was so clear, you could see the spiral arm of the Milky Way.

“I just thought I’d be better at this,” Claire told me. “My whole life, I’ve been able to count on my brain to solve things. If I don’t know the answer, I’ll find out. If I don’t understand, I’ll break it down into manageable chunks. But this … it’s just a complete ...”

“Clusterfuck?” I suggested.

“Exactly,” she laughed. “We’re implementing technology without knowing the full extent of what it can do, or even how it works.”

“What does Plankton say?” I asked, passing her the bottle.

“Oh, he’s too busy trying to keep the general from pulling the plug on the whole show. The military never thought this was a very viable plan, and if we don’t show some results soon, the whole project’ll be scrapped.”

“But BP9’s in one of the biggest labs at Dreamland. I thought we were a priority.”

“Yeah, right. They stuck us down there because they thought something was going to go wrong, and they wanted the option of sealing us off in case some idiot like me screwed the pooch.”

We climbed up on the wing of a dusty Blackbird Stealth, leaning back and looking up at the sky.

“My dad used to take me up in his planes,” I told her. “And once we’d get up high enough, all the stuff on the ground would become really simple. You know, a tree would become a green dot. A house would become a black square. And up there, it was easy to see where things were.

“Maybe that’s what you need to do,” I said, looking into her blue-grey eyes. “Step back from the problem a little bit. Simplify.”

We were staring at each other in that way where everything else drops out. The stars wheeled overhead. My heart pounded on my ribs like a landlord screaming for the rent. And I must’ve had a severe oxygen depletion in my brain, because I leaned in to kiss her.

Claire leapt to her feet. I toppled over, nearly breaking my nose on the wing of the plane.

“Simplicity!” she shouted, jumping up and down.

The metal wing underneath us creaked ominously. “You know, these might not be entirely up to code,” I informed her.

“Joe, you nailed it!” she yelled, whacking me on the shoulder. “I’ve been looking at the particle stabilization all wrong, trying to compensate for everything little thing. I just need to think globally!”

She hopped to the ground, tossing aside the bottle of wine and running back toward the BP9 hangar.

“It’s two in the morning!” I shouted after her.

“I know!” she crowed back. “Thanks!”

Then she was out of earshot, leaving me alone on the wing of the plane. Even though it was dark, anyone looking would have seen my face burning a bright shade of embarrassment red.

God, I hope she doesn’t realize I tried to kiss her.

On Teleportation

According to the Internet, there are three main theories about how to teleport.

1) THE STAR TREK MODEL: The most classic method. Something is scanned down to its atomic components, beamed across a certain distance, then re-assembled at a receiving point. Think of it as traveling via email. The issue with this method is the scanning and re-assembling of something as complex as say, the human body, is so difficult it would take millions of terabytes and incredibly complex machines to process it.

2) THE DIMENSIONAL MODEL: Also nicknamed “A Wrinkle in Time,” it suggests that people could teleport by opening a gate into a higher dimension, hanging around for a bit, then opening another gate once the old dimension reaches your destination point. While there is some “travel time” involved for the teleporter, to everyone else on Earth the journey would appear nearly instantaneous. I’m fuzzy on specifics, but from what I understand, it’s kind of like how planes can get to Europe faster by flying in arc instead of a straight line. While it’s a cool idea, most people think it’s impossible to actually travel and exist in another dimension. Which brings us to:

3) THE WORMHOLE MODEL: Think of it like a shortcut on a universal scale: you open a tunnel from one section of the universe to another, thereby significantly reducing travel time. Until now, this method has been largely ignored because a) the nearest wormhole was light years away, and b) it was assumed it would take the energy equivalent of a couple suns to create one.

But not only has Plankton figured out how to use dark energy to create wormholes, the Black Project 9 team has managed to stabilize them so you can actually send things through.

Like Fred and Barney said, for the last month or so they’ve been teleporting inorganic stuff – clocks, robot cars, even a little camera on wheels. There hasn’t been a lot to learn. From what I’ve heard, the clocks have come through stopped, and the cameras have recorded nothing but static and interference.

So Plankton and his team have been itching to send a human through. That’s what all the military guys have been hanging around for – once they get the method perfected for teleporting organic material, the soldiers are the first ones to make the trip.

But from what I’ve seen, they’re still several weeks away from that. A couple mice and a guinea pig have been sent through, but they’ve come out as little more than smelly puddles of ass-goo. I know this because I’m the one who’s had to clean it up. And folks, it ain’t pretty or aromatic.

The worst is, things are falling behind because of Doc Hotness. She’s in charge of the organic stabilization stuff, and so far it’s been working like a porn star at Sunday mass – i.e., not at all.

I’ve tried to strike up a conversation with her a couple times, but she’s been too stressed out to say more than a couple words. And so it was, I had my first “date” with Doc Hotness purely by accident.

TO BE CONTINUED …

Bombshell!

After two weeks of being stuck a half-mile underground, getting hazed by the jerk-off IT guy, and making no headway with Doc Hotness, I’ve finally discovered what it is we’re doing on Black Project Nine.

Since I was on a “need to know” basis, no one would outright tell me what the project was about, and it’s considered gauche for me to ask. So the usual ploy is to hang around and wait for someone to let something slip. And on most projects (I’ve been told), it takes about three days for that to happen.

But General Hard-Ass has been living up to his name, and he hits the roof any time anyone says anything relating to the nature of what we’re doing. I just hope I never have to play Texas Hold ‘Em with the tight-ass.

In spite of his efforts though, last night I finally got a glimpse of what we’re all working toward. I was in Lab 4 doing my usual nightly wipe-down, and a couple of underling lab coats (let’s call them Fred and Barney) came in to check on some calculations the computer had been crunching.

Realizing this was my chance to finally get some dirt, I ducked behind a gamma ray-emitter. Lab Coat #1 (Fred) checked the finished computations and cursed.

“Looks like Old Man Plankton was right. We’re going to need a much bigger energy burst to send a person.”

Lab Coat #2/Barney was perplexed. “Why? We’ve already ‘ported tons of other stuff.”

“Because, boson, that was all inorganic. If we send something fleshy through without stabilizing the gate, it’ll pop like a plum.” He scanned the figures. “We’ll have to re-configure the machines – maybe two, three weeks.”

“But I’m supposed to meet my S.O. in Phoenix at the end of the month.” Barney whined.

“Look at the upside, pukestain: when we’re done with this, no one’ll have to drive to get sex anymore. You’ll just be able to show up.”

They left the lab, still bickering, while I stayed behind the gamma emitter, wrapping my head around what I’d just heard. All the heightened security, the weird machines, and the huge amounts of dark matter we’re dealing with suddenly made sense.

Black Project 9 isn’t about building a new super-weapon. It’s not attempting to create a better stealth vehicle, or construct artificially intelligent robo-soldiers. It’s not even working on something connected with extra-terrestrial life forms.

No, this project is gunning in a whole different kettle of fish. I gotta hand it to Plankton: dude may be messy, but he shoots for the moon. He’s got this entire team of people trying to accomplish something that has previously only existed in comic books:

BP9 is attempting to achieve teleportation.

Bio-Hazing

Things haven’t been going well.

It’s been about nine days since I got transferred to Black Project #9, and a) I’ve barely had a chance to talk to Doc Hotness, b) I’ve been in the bunker the entire time, and c) being the sole janitor down here is work.

Here’s the problem: because I’m the only clean-up guy, I get called in for everything. And either this team is the clumsiest bunch of eggheads around, or the stuff they’re doing is more accident-prone, because I am getting called constantly. Working above ground might have been boring, but at least it wasn’t physically exhausting.

The first week here, I was busy for at least 18 hours a day. Disinfecting the new lab equipment, making sure the anti-radiation chamber was working properly, getting the incinerator and waste recycler on-line.

On top of that, I had the usual labcoat messes to deal with. Professor Plankton might be an okay guy, but he’s messier than Oscar the Grouch after a bad break-up. Soda cans, half-eaten sandwiches, office supplies – the dude doesn’t know how to pick up anything.

And as the icing on the cake, everyone on BP9 has basically been treating me like a sentient mop. I know labcoats and worker bees aren’t supposed to mix, but a little politeness would be nice. Maybe a “how’s it going, Joe?” or a “I heard it’s 105 on the surface” before you tell me to clean up the piss you sprayed all over the toilet seat.

But the shit didn’t really hit the coolant condenser until last night. I’d finally gotten all my projects under control, and was just settling in to watch a movie. (Upside to working for a top-secret government facility: the video on demand selection is choice.)

Right as Will Smith’s starting to kick alien ass in Independence Day, the sanitation alarm beeped. I checked my computer to see – God dammit – there’s been a dark energy leak in the control room.

Let me tell you something about dark energy. Nobody really knows what it is or how it works, even though it makes up 73% of the universe. But does that stop the military geniuses from fiddling around with it? Does a B-21 Bomber corner like a cement truck?

I’m not up on the specifics, but suffice it to say the nerds figured out how to use dark energy as a power source. An extremely volatile, toxic, unpredictable power source. If the shit comes in contact with regular matter, you basically get annihilation from a sub-atomic level on up. It’s so Darth Vader-scary, most projects at Groom Lake don’t even bother hassling with it. Except, natch, the black projects.

Even though I still have no clue exactly what everyone is doing on BP9 (I’m one of those on a “need to know” basis), I found out the first day that we had the biggest supply of dark energy in the entirety of Paradise Ranch. Which means if there’s a spill, I have that much more chance of having my sub-atomic ass handed to me.

So when I saw the words “dark energy” on my screen, I went into four-alarm overdrive. I pulled on every last bit of my protective gear, filled a push-cart with decontamination devices, and hauled ass through the maze of corridors.

The door of the control room was closed, but I knew that was standard procedure during a leak. I didn’t even bother to try the thumbprint scanner, I just ripped off the scanning plate and used the manual release to open the doors.

I busted inside, finding the entire team sitting calmly at their computers. Thinking they must not know about the leak, I started spraying everyone in reach with sterilizing foam and screaming like a crackhead who’s just broken his only pipe.

I had foamed down one or two underlings before General Hard-Ass took me down with a knee to the kidneys.

“What is your major malfunction, fuckwit?” He yelled, ripping the foam sprayer out of my hands. “We were just about to start our first project test!”

“But … there’s was a dark energy spill,” I stammered. Some of the labcoats started to titter, the soldiers were struggling to hold back smiles, and even Hotness had to cover her mouth.

“You moron,” he spat. “The only dark stuff in here is the shit sliding inside your brains. The DM supply’s behind three feet of steel on the other side of the facility!”

Looking toward the back of the room, I saw Phildo the Dildo smirking triumphantly. Everything fell into place – he must have posted a fake alarm to my computer, purely to get me to make an ass of myself in front of everyone.

“Sorry, sir,” I muttered. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s right. Because if it does, I’ll pink slip your ass and get some other mop jockey to take over. Now how ‘bout you go scrub some toilets so we can do our work?”

I slunk back to my room, unable to even finish watching the movie because I was so depressed. I avoided the cafeteria for breakfast and lunch today, but sooner or later I’m going to have to see Hotness and explain myself.

I’d love to get out of here for a couple days, but I can’t leave the complex for the next two months unless it’s a medical emergency. It might be worth cutting off a finger just to avoid the embarrassment. Or maybe I could drink bleach and put myself in a coma.

I’ll have to think about it and let you know.