Our technologies permit us to manipulate time and space

[yuppa]

My understanding is there is never 'nothing' so "massless" may be a misleading word. IMO

Ok,as massive as a light particle.

[quintessentone]

Ok,as massive as a light particle.

What is mass vs. massless if light particles' or photons' elements/energies can be manipulated?

[yuppa]

What is mass vs. massless if light particles' or photons' elements/energies can be manipulated?

Light apparently has mass

[pianopraze]

That brings to mind that the craft are seamless, so growing them in a vat would make sense.

What also peaks my imagination is that if their technology can interact with atoms on a superficial level (craft body) why not imagine it can also interact within atoms' so as to redirect atoms' elemental path or energy levels as well? Which may explain craft blinking in and out and inexplicable maneuvers and speed (?)

 

It was a joke…

but I will probably write a book about aliens being grown in big underwater UFOs. Play up all the current memes… maybe I’ll even break even…

 

I don't know if you ever read the 4chan anon whistleblower who claimed that there were aliens under the ocean and where ufos were manufactured...

I found a transcript of the thread... it was pretty wild. I think even The Why Files covered it, probably in-depth in their podcasts instead of the weekly YT show.

https://www.scribd.com/document/69100095...ed=English

[Image: https://denyignorance.com//images/addsmilies/beer.gif]

Just finished my last book a couple weeks ago, finished editing it yesterday…

So time for this new book! Here’s the prolog, let me know what ya’ll think:
 Prologue: The Signal
 
July 20, 1969. The world held its breath, eyes fixed on fuzzy black-and-white screens as Neil Armstrong’s boot touched the moon’s gray dust, a triumph carved in static and static. But in the steaming jungle heart of Puerto Rico, where the Arecibo Observatory’s massive dish lay cradled in a limestone sinkhole, Miguel Rivera didn’t care about mankind’s giant leap. He was twenty-two, a night-shift technician with a high school diploma, a pack-a-day habit, and a chip on his shoulder the size of the island. The observatory’s control room was a concrete bunker, its air thick with the sour tang of burnt wiring, stale coffee, and the faint mildew that clung to everything in the tropics. Rain battered the corrugated roof like machine-gun fire, a tropical storm ripping through the island, turning the jungle outside into a churning sea of green and black. Miguel sat alone, his bloodshot eyes locked on the green flicker of a CRT screen, where waveforms danced—a cryptic language of numbers and pulses he was paid to log, not decipher.
 
Five years into its existence, the Arecibo dish was a marvel, a 1,000-foot-wide ear tuned to the cosmos, drinking in signals from stars and voids. To the scientists in their pressed shirts and horn-rimmed glasses, it was a temple of reason, a tool to map pulsars and probe the universe’s secrets. To Miguel, it was a prison. The dials, switches, and blinking lights mocked him with promises of discovery that never came. He was a cog, not a dreamer, stuck on the graveyard shift because he was too young, too uneducated, too local to matter. His fingers, stained yellow from nicotine, twitched as he adjusted the foam-cushioned headphones biting into his ears. Static hissed, a white-noise wall he’d trained himself to ignore, but tonight it felt heavier, like the air before a scream.
 
His job was to monitor the telescope’s sweep for anomalies—radio bursts, pulsar ticks, or, in the reckless corners of his mind, something alive. The scientists whispered about SETI, the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence, but to them, it was equations on chalkboards, not ghosts in the static. Miguel knew better. His abuela’s stories had rooted deep in his bones, tales told over flickering candles in their clapboard house in Arecibo. Lights in the sky, she’d said, hovering over the jungle, flickering where the sea swallowed the stars. “El luz del abismo,” she called them, the lights of the abyss, her voice trembling as she crossed herself. As a kid, Miguel had laughed, picturing flying saucers from comic books. Now, at 3:14 a.m., alone in the control room with the storm howling and the jungle drowned in rain, those stories felt like knives pressed to his throat.
 
The static shattered. A pulse, low and deliberate, tore through the noise—a heartbeat, but wrong, too slow, too heavy, like something massive stirring in its sleep. Miguel’s pen froze over his logbook, the cheap ballpoint leaking ink into the paper, a black stain spreading like a bruise. His breath caught, sharp and shallow, as he twisted a dial, isolating the signal. It wasn’t random noise. It cycled, a pattern of tones that slithered into his chest, cold and slick, like eels coiling around his ribs. He scribbled the frequency—430 MHz, a band no satellite, no military rig, no human tech should touch. His hands, slick with sweat, fumbled across the console’s buttons and switches, redirecting the dish toward the source. The pulse grew louder, filling his headphones with a sound that wasn’t sound—a wet, guttural chant, like voices choking in oil, rising from a throat that wasn’t a throat. Not words, not human, but knowing, curling around his thoughts like fingers probing a wound.
 
“Jesús, María, y José,” he whispered, his voice barely a rasp. The clock’s red digits glared: 3:15 a.m. The other techs—older, smug, with their college degrees and mainland accents—had ditched hours ago, piling into Jeeps to chase moon-landing parties in San Juan, toasting to Armstrong and Aldrin in smoky bars. Miguel was alone, just him, the machines, and the storm’s relentless roar. He jabbed the record button, and the reel-to-reel tape deck groaned to life, its reels spinning, the red light winking like a predator’s eye. The chant poured through the speakers, flooding the room, a tide of sound that seemed to pulse from the southeast, over the Atlantic, where the ocean plunged into a trench no one dared map—a black scar in the earth, deeper than reason, older than fear. Abuela’s warning clawed at his mind: “The sea hides things, Miguel. Things that see you first.”
 
The lights flickered—not just the console’s dials but every bulb in the room. They buzzed, a low, insectile hum, and shadows jerked across the concrete walls, twisting like spider legs skittering in the dark. Miguel’s skin crawled, a cold sweat beading on his neck, his pulse hammering so hard he felt it in his teeth. A prickle ran down his spine, sharp and certain, as if someone stood behind him, breathing. He spun, chair squeaking, heart lurching, but the control room was empty, the steel door locked tight, its bolt rusted from the humidity. Outside, through the rain-smeared window, the jungle was a wall of black, its palms and ferns thrashing in the wind, swallowing the world. Then he saw it: a green glow, faint but razor-sharp, pulsing in time with the chant. It bled through the trees, not lightning, not a flare, but something alive, its light crawling over the wet leaves like a disease, staring back from the dark with a weight that crushed his chest.
 
His heartbeat roared, drowning out the storm. He ripped off the headphones, the foam cups hitting the desk with a thud, but the chant didn’t stop—it was in his head, burrowing like a worm, whispering his name: Miguel, Miguel, Miguel. The tape deck spun, devouring the signal, but keeping it felt like trapping a viper in a jar. His mind flashed with images, unbidden, obscene—spirals twisting into voids, endless and hungry; eyes opening in the dark, too many, too wrong, their pupils spiraling inward like the light outside. He lurched to his feet, his chair scraping the floor, and knocked over his coffee mug. The black liquid spilled, pooling on the concrete, rippling like the sea, its surface catching the green glow from the window and holding it, a mirror to something he couldn’t name. The signal wasn’t sound; it was a thing, alive, ravenous, peeling back his thoughts to show him truths no one should see: a void where stars screamed, their light bleeding into shapes that weren’t shapes; a machine that wasn’t a machine, its metal flesh pulsing, birthing discs that flew and watched and waited, their eyes like the ones in his head.
 
He staggered, his breath hitching, and grabbed the tape from the deck. Its plastic case burned his palm, hot as if it had sat in an oven, the reels inside still spinning faintly, as if alive. He had to hide it, bury it, make it someone else’s curse. His keys jangled in his shaking hands, slipping twice as he stumbled across the room to the row of metal lockers where techs stashed their junk—lunchboxes, raincoats, dog-eared Playboys. The air felt thick, pressing against his lungs, and the chant in his head grew louder, his name now a command, a hook dragging him toward the window, toward the glow. He fumbled the lock open, the key scraping metal, and shoved the tape into the locker’s depths, behind a crumpled denim jacket and a half-empty pack of Marlboros, their paper damp from the humid air. The locker door slammed shut, the clang swallowed by the storm’s howl, but the chant didn’t stop, screaming from the speakers, louder, insistent, a chorus of drowned things calling him to join them. He lunged for the console, fingers clawing at the power cord, and yanked it free. The speakers died, the room plunging into a silence that wasn’t silence—thick, heavy, like the pause before a guillotine falls. The lights steadied, their buzz fading, but the green glow outside sank, slipping below the tree line, leaving a hole in the night that felt like a wound.
 
He couldn’t stay. Whatever was out there knew him now, had seen him, had spoken his name. Miguel snatched his raincoat from a hook by the door, the fabric cold and clammy, like skin left too long in water. He fumbled with the door’s bolt, his fingers numb, and burst into the storm. The rain hit like a fist, stinging his face, soaking his clothes in seconds. He slipped on the gravel path, boots sinking into mud, and scrambled toward his motorcycle, a beat-up Yamaha parked under a tarp that flapped like a trapped bird. He didn’t look back, couldn’t, terrified he’d see the glow chasing him, or worse, eyes—those eyes from his visions, spiraling, watching. The bike roared to life, its engine a weak snarl against the storm’s fury, and he tore down the winding road toward Arecibo, tires skidding, headlights cutting through sheets of rain. The chant followed, not in his ears but his bones, a pulse that matched his heartbeat, a promise he’d never unhear. He’d quit, burn his logbook, tell no one, not his mother, not his priest, not the barflies at La Perla who’d laugh and call him loco. But the tape stayed behind, hidden in the locker, a seed of the abyss waiting for the next fool to pluck it.
 
***
 
Twenty miles offshore, where the Atlantic churned like a living beast, old man Vargas clung to the wheel of his fishing boat, La Perla. The storm had driven the other fishermen to shore, their boats tethered in Arecibo’s harbor, but Vargas, fifty-eight and stubborn as rust, chased rumors of snapper schools near the trench—a place no sane captain sailed. His nets hung empty, their ropes frayed as if chewed, and the fuel gauge’s needle kissed red, glowing like a warning in the dim cabin. The waves slammed the hull, each crash a fist trying to crack the boat open, and the air tasted of salt and something older, sharper, like blood. Vargas muttered a prayer to La Virgen, his calloused hands steady despite the ice crawling through his veins, his rosary beads swinging from a nail above the helm, clacking in time with the storm.
 
Then it came. A light, green and wrong, broke the surface a hundred yards off the starboard side. Not a ship, not a buoy—a wound in the water, pulsing like the thing Miguel had heard, its rhythm slow, deliberate, a heartbeat from the deep. Vargas froze, his breath a rasp, his eyes watering as he squinted through the rain-lashed windshield. The light didn’t rise; it sank, spiraling down into the trench, a coil of sick radiance that burned his retinas, leaving afterimages of eyes and spirals that blinked when he closed his lids. It moved with purpose, like it knew he was watching, like it wanted him to see, to carry its mark. The sea swallowed it, black and final, the waves closing like a mouth, leaving salt on his lips and a hum in his skull—a soundless sound, the same chant that had broken Miguel, now lodged in his bones.
 
“El luz del abismo,” Vargas croaked, his voice barely audible over the engine’s whine. He crossed himself, fingers trembling, the rosary beads swinging wildly now, as if trying to flee. His abuela had warned him, her voice cracked with age, telling of lights that called men to their graves, lights that weren’t lights but doorways. He’d been a boy then, cocky, spitting into the sea, thinking it was just deep water. Now, at fifty-eight, he knew better: the trench wasn’t empty. Something lived there, something that didn’t sleep, didn’t die, just waited, its eyes open in the dark, counting the years until the world was ready. He cranked La Perla toward shore, the engine choking, spitting oil, the boat lurching against waves that felt alive, pushing him back toward the trench. He’d tell no one, not his wife, who’d call it a drunk’s dream, not the priest, who’d offer hollow blessings, not his sons, who’d never sail with him again if they knew. But tomorrow, he’d carve a spiral into the boat’s hull, a jagged mark to keep the dark at bay, knowing it was futile, knowing the sea had already claimed him.