Stay Awake

Vincent Rourke told himself he was only stopping by to update the encryption protocols. Twenty minutes, thirty at most. He'd promised Elena he'd be home before the evening news, and after thirty-one years of broken promises, this one actually mattered.

The Lorazepam sat heavy in his bloodstream, prescribed for what his doctor diplomatically called "adjustment anxiety"—the pharmaceutical industry's term for a man whose entire identity had been stripped away by mandatory retirement policies. Three months of forced leisure had taught him that purpose wasn't something you could replace with fishing trips and morning talk shows.

Deputy Director Kai Nakamura looked up from his workstation with barely concealed irritation. At twenty-eight, Nakamura had an MIT doctorate in cybersecurity and the kind of algorithmic thinking that impressed oversight committees. What he lacked was the intuitive paranoia that kept facilities like the Meridian Deep Space Array from becoming smoking craters.

"I thought you were updating the protocols remotely," Nakamura said, not bothering to hide his impatience.

Vincent pulled the authorization tablet from his jacket, his movements feeling underwater-slow thanks to the anti-anxiety medication. "Legacy systems require physical access. Security feature I built into the architecture back when you were learning multiplication tables."

The Meridian Array stretched beyond the facility's windows—a 380-foot dish currently pointed toward Kepler-442b, where it had been receiving structured mathematical signals for the past seven months. Signals that suggested humanity was no longer alone in the universe, though that particular detail remained classified at levels that made Nakamura's security clearance look like a library card.

"The replacement systems analyst arrives at ten-thirty," Nakamura said, consulting his tablet. "Traffic backup on Highway 285. Some kind of chemical spill."

Vincent nodded, fighting to stay focused through the pharmaceutical haze. The irony wasn't lost on him—thirty-one years of staying alert through the loneliest hours of the night, and now he could barely keep his eyes open at nine-fifteen PM. The Lorazepam was supposed to help him adjust to civilian life, but it felt more like being chemically prepared for irrelevance.

"Sarah thinks I should take up astronomy," Vincent said, settling into his old chair out of habit. "Stargazing as a hobby instead of a profession. She doesn't understand that looking up at the stars when you know what's looking back changes everything."

Nakamura's expression shifted slightly. "The signals are still coming in?"

"Every night. Mathematical sequences that would make Fibonacci weep with joy." Vincent entered his access codes into the encryption terminal, muscle memory overriding the medication's interference. "Someone out there is trying very hard to get our attention."

Through the facility's sound system, they could hear the night maintenance crew finishing their rounds. Vincent had worked alongside most of them for over a decade—good people who understood that guarding secrets meant more than just checking boxes on security protocols.

"I can't sleep," Vincent muttered, rubbing his eyes. "That's the strangest part about these pills. They're supposed to calm anxiety, but they replace it with this weird disconnected drowsiness where your mind won't shut off."

Nakamura moved through his evening checklist with the kind of systematic precision that looked impressive on paper but missed the subtle indicators that separated routine nights from disasters waiting to happen. The kid was brilliant at analyzing data patterns but couldn't read human ones.

"Maybe you should head home," Nakamura suggested. "I can handle the protocol updates once the systems analyst—"

The lights died.

Emergency power engaged immediately, flooding the control room with red illumination. Vincent felt decades of crisis training cut through the pharmaceutical fog, his body responding before his mind fully processed the threat. But his movements were sluggish, each action feeling like it was happening through thick glass.

Nakamura was already at the backup systems panel, his fingers flying across touchscreen controls. "Primary grid shows cascading failures across three substations. This isn't equipment malfunction."

Vincent forced himself upright, the familiar weight of crisis management settling on his shoulders despite the chemical lethargy. "Perimeter cameras."

The security monitors flickered to life, displaying feeds from around the facility. Vincent counted fourteen figures in advanced tactical gear moving with the kind of coordinated precision that spoke of military training and unlimited funding. Their equipment was cutting-edge, their formation textbook perfect.

"Sweet suffering saints," Nakamura whispered, his MIT composure finally cracking.

"Emergency communications," Vincent ordered, his voice steady despite the growing drowsiness. "Priority alert to—"

The entire communications array went dark. Not just offline—physically destroyed. Through the window, Vincent could see flames consuming the backup transmission tower, the fire spreading with the controlled intensity of professional sabotage.

Nakamura tried every frequency, his hands shaking as reality settled in. "Everything's down. Landlines, cellular, satellite uplink, emergency radio—they severed it all."

Vincent studied the tactical formation on the monitors, his trained eye picking up details that thirty-one years of experience had taught him to notice. These weren't mercenaries or domestic terrorists. This was a coordinated assault on one of the most classified facilities in the Southwest, executed by people who understood exactly what they were after.

"The Kepler signals," Vincent said slowly, the medication making complex thoughts feel like swimming through honey. "Someone knows what we've been receiving."

Nakamura's eyes widened. "You think they're after the first contact data?"

"I think," Vincent replied, watching the assault team's methodical approach to the main building, "that information about extraterrestrial intelligence is worth considerably more than government salaries on the private market."

The facility's main security alarm screamed to life, then went silent as someone with professional-grade equipment disabled it. Vincent estimated maybe four minutes before the assault team reached the control room. His mind felt wrapped in cotton batting, but three decades of crisis management still functioned beneath the pharmaceutical interference.

"The archive vault," he said suddenly. "Sub-level C."

Nakamura nodded. "Forty-foot reinforced chamber. Designed to survive electromagnetic pulse and direct kinetic impact."

"Independent air supply. Filtered, pressurized. About six hours worth." Vincent pulled himself upright, fighting against gravity and chemistry both. "Also happens to contain every signal we've received from Kepler-442b."

The security monitors showed the assault team had breached the main building's outer defenses. Fourteen professionals with enough firepower to level a city block, moving through the facility like they'd rehearsed this operation dozens of times.

Vincent stumbled toward the vault access controls, his fingers feeling thick and unresponsive as he entered his authorization sequence. "They want humanity's first conversation with extraterrestrial intelligence, they're going to have to earn it."

"Sir, what are you planning?"

"Transfer protocol," Vincent explained, his words coming slower as the Lorazepam peaked in his system. "I take the primary storage arrays into the vault. You seal me inside. Manual override takes five hours minimum, even with military-grade equipment."

Nakamura's face went pale. "You'll suffocate."

"Maybe." Vincent shrugged, the motion feeling dreamlike. "Or maybe backup arrives first. Or maybe you figure out how to extract me before the air runs out." He met the younger man's eyes. "What I know for certain is that those signals represent the most important discovery in human history. That information doesn't belong to the highest bidder."

The sound of controlled breaching charges echoed through the building. The assault team was through the secondary security barriers, moving with the kind of tactical efficiency that suggested they had detailed facility blueprints.

Vincent began transferring the Kepler archives to portable storage arrays, his movements deliberate despite the medication's interference. "Once I'm sealed inside, you've got maybe three minutes before they reach this level. Use the emergency egress tunnels to reach the communications shed. It's four miles to the ranger station."

"I can't abandon you—"

"You can and you will." Vincent's voice carried the authority of three decades in federal service. "Because if they get those signals, we'll never know who they're working for or what they plan to do with first contact protocols."

Nakamura helped transfer the data arrays into the vault, the cylindrical chamber lined with Faraday shielding and electromagnetic barriers. It resembled the interior of a spacecraft, which Vincent found grimly appropriate given the circumstances.

"There's something else," Vincent said as they completed the data transfer. "The Array's still actively receiving. Real-time communication from Kepler-442b. If these people are sophisticated enough to plan this operation, they probably understand how to operate the transmission equipment."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning they might try to respond. Send signals back to whoever's been trying to contact us." Vincent felt his legs going weak, the combination of medication and adrenaline creating a strange mixture of alertness and exhaustion. "That conversation needs to happen on humanity's terms, not theirs."

The vault door represented forty years of engineering evolution—eighteen inches of hardened steel mounted in a titanium frame designed to protect the facility's most sensitive archives from everything short of direct nuclear assault. Vincent stepped inside, surrounded by server banks containing seven months of extraterrestrial mathematics.

"Nakamura?" Vincent's voice echoed in the confined space.

"Sir?"

"The Array's primary transmission coupling is accessible through the maintenance shaft on sub-level B. If everything goes completely sideways, you know what needs to happen."

Understanding passed between them. Disable the Array's transmission capabilities, prevent any unauthorized communication with whatever intelligence had been sending structured signals from forty-seven light-years away.

Through the facility's intercom system, they could hear voices in the corridor outside. Professional, measured, the kind of tactical communication that indicated serious operational capability.

"Time to close the door," Vincent said. "And Nakamura? Your algorithms are impressive, but sometimes security comes down to human judgment. Trust your instincts, not just your training."

Nakamura's hand hesitated over the vault controls. "What if the manual override fails? What if we can't get you out?"

"Then I'll have six hours to review thirty-one years of service reports," Vincent replied, feeling the medication pulling him toward unconsciousness. "Could be worse ways to spend a final shift."

The vault door began its pneumatic descent, sealing Vincent inside with humanity's first evidence of extraterrestrial intelligence. As the chamber pressurized, he could hear the assault team breach the control room level, their movements swift and purposeful.

Through the vault's internal monitoring system, he watched Nakamura disappear into the emergency access tunnel, moving with surprising agility for someone whose experience was primarily theoretical. The kid was scared, but he was adapting. That counted for more than Vincent had initially credited.

The assault team leader—a woman whose bearing suggested extensive special operations background—examined the vault door with professional interest. She spoke into her communication device, words that Vincent couldn't decipher through the steel and concrete barrier separating them.

Vincent settled back against the server arrays, feeling the Lorazepam drag him toward sleep. Six hours of air, five hours for manual override, and enough anti-anxiety medication in his system to keep him unconscious for most of the duration. He'd wake up either to rescue or to a very different kind of final countdown.

But for now, surrounded by the digital whispers of an alien civilization trying to bridge the cosmic void, Vincent Rourke closed his eyes and let the chemical tide carry him toward dreams of distant stars and conversations that might reshape everything humanity understood about its place in the universe.

Outside the vault, Nakamura was discovering that sometimes the most important battles weren't fought with advanced degrees or sophisticated algorithms, but with the simple refusal to surrender what mattered most to people who confused price with value.

The signals from Kepler-442b continued their mathematical progression, patient as starlight, waiting for someone to complete the conversation that had been seven months in the making.

As consciousness faded, Vincent's last thought was of Elena, probably checking the clock and wondering why a simple protocol update was taking so long. She'd understand eventually. Some conversations were worth staying up for, even when staying awake required fighting chemistry, age, and the well-meaning assumption that thirty-one years of service meant it was time to step aside.

The dog days of summer had become something considerably more significant than weather.

In the control room above, the assault team was learning that sometimes the most effective resistance came not from force or technology, but from an old man's willingness to take a very long nap in a very secure box, trusting that morning would bring answers they couldn't steal, purchase, or decode.

Outside, under a sky perfect for stargazing, Kai Nakamura began the longest four-mile run of his life, carrying the weight of conversations that spanned light-years and the growing understanding that some things were worth protecting regardless of the personal cost.

The stars had been trying to tell them something for seven months. Whatever happened next, Vincent was determined that the reply would be written by humanity, not by whoever was willing to kill for the privilege of controlling first contact.

Sometimes retirement meant stepping aside. Sometimes it meant stepping up when no one else could reach high enough to matter.