# Chapter 1: The Quiet Frequency I saw the message before practice started because my phone pinged while I was pulling on my left boot. It was a short string that didn’t make sense at first, something like the letters of my name wrapped around a glitch report. The subject line read “Broadcast anomaly,” and the body had a single line of code embedded in plain text. I stared at it until the boot locker slammed and my teammate threw my socks at me, asking if I was going to stand there all morning. I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing when I walked over to the monitor set up for team data. The technical staff uses it to watch the field cameras and feeds for breakdowns that could affect the game. My name in the message was probably a coincidence, but the code looked like an identifier from the station’s signal analysis pipeline. I went to the monitor and began to watch the noise floor around the 3.2 MHz band, since that’s the kind of range some stadium equipment operates in for intercom and certain broadcast links. I had to lean in to make out the bands. The stadium lights hummed behind me, and someone ran past with a towel hanging off their neck. The 3.2 MHz edge had a persistent sawtooth shape in the interference spike. I pushed the zoom control and tried to look at how tight the narrow band was. It didn’t change when I moved the center frequency down a little. It didn’t change when I moved it up either. I ran a quick comparison on the previous day’s data and saw the same shape without my name in any reports. I didn’t tell anyone I was going to the control room. The tech guys know me enough to say hi, and they’ve told me to avoid the control room when they’re reconfiguring things because it’s easier if one less person is in the way. I walked past the practice field and let the gate click behind me as I stepped into the cool underground tunnel. I could see the control room door ahead. The air smelled like dust and warm electronics. When I walked in, a girl named Liza was alone at the desk, watching the monitoring screens. She looked up, saw me, and said my name, but didn’t ask why I was there. She’s used to players wandering in for different reasons. I told her I wanted to look at the narrowband near 3.2 MHz because a message suggested something weird was happening and the code looked like it came from the station’s signal chain. She nodded and moved her chair to give me space. She didn’t ask who sent me the message, and I didn’t tell her. The interference was stronger on the monitor than it was on the field feed. It was clear enough that even with my limited equipment knowledge, I could see there was a repeated pattern. I pressed a few buttons I knew how to use and opened a cross-check with the stadium’s emergency systems and the frequency distribution files. It was around then that I noticed a small side lobe at the edge of the trunking cable array. Liza asked if I wanted to open the trunk and look inside. I didn’t need to answer. She brought a small portable light and a portable multi-tool from a drawer. We walked to the cable trunk along the back wall. It was a gray steel rectangle with screws that had a slightly different head than most. Liza found the right screwdriver bit and pried the cover off just enough to see inside. There was a black device tucked into the cable space like it had been wedged there for easy concealment. It was small, about the size of a deck of cards, but slightly thicker. There were thin lines on the side that looked like they were either vents or optical indicators. I moved the light closer and thought I could see faint ridges. I touched it carefully with the back of my wrist and felt a faint vibration, like it was alive with a very quiet hum. I asked Liza if she’d seen this before. She shook her head and shrugged at the same time, which is her way of saying no and there’s nothing weird about this kind of thing. I didn’t want to assume anything, so I got out my phone and took a picture of the device. I sent it to myself because my phone doesn’t like sending the same image to the same person repeatedly. I stood back a step, waiting for the hum to stop. It didn’t. The device stayed steady, then flickered. Something inside the trunk caught the light and reflected it back in a way that made the surface look like it was softly pulsing. I reached my hand toward it and felt a small force at my fingertips, like a low energy current trying to push away. My fingers hovered near the case and then I felt something press out a little, barely noticeable. I stopped trying to push and just hovered my hand close. Liza said something, but I didn’t hear it because the device started to change. The hum rose a fraction and the reflection brightened, then a low hum filled the space around the trunk. It sounded like it matched the 3.2 MHz on the monitor in tone. I stepped back. A narrow cylinder slid out from the device, like a small drone rising and unfolding. It hovered with no visible propulsion, not even a faint fan noise. It hovered at about the height of my head, then lowered until it was at eye level with Liza. It didn’t move for a second, then shifted to face me. I felt ridiculous saying it out loud, but I said hello anyway. I wasn’t expecting anything to happen. The drone didn’t have a face or lights that could be read like eyes, but it seemed to look back at me like it understood. I reached into my pocket for my portable radio. I pressed transmit and asked if it could hear me. I was half thinking Liza would think I was an idiot, but she didn’t seem to care. She just watched. The drone shifted a little, then let out a ping sound. It wasn’t like a metal ping. It was a soft, electronic chirp that felt like it landed somewhere inside my skull rather than outside my ear. I didn’t move. I pressed transmit again and said this is Jesus from the football team. The drone pulsed three short times, then began a sequence that sounded like it matched the handshake pattern in radio protocols. My brain did a small flip. It was some kind of spatial audio handshake. I had seen them in the lab when we were studying signal integrity at the university. If I pressed transmit again, I expected a brief click to acknowledge my message and then a pause, but the drone sent out a layered tone with a pause at the end that felt like a request. It was smooth and unlike anything I’ve heard in the stadium before. I pressed transmit and said I’m here to talk, if you can understand me. The drone pulsed again, then emitted something that felt like an announcement. The sound didn’t come from a specific point. It filled the room around my head, like someone had placed a series of speakers around me and turned them on. I heard the first words that way. The drone said something like this: your presence on Earth generates harmonic interference that threatens our energy-extraction network. It didn’t use the words exactly. I don’t think it knows my words the way I do. But the message came through clearly enough that I understood it was saying that the field I run through, the intensity I push and pull from my body on the pitch, affects something outside my usual understanding of what happens on Earth. I said something like I’m not sure I understand what energy-extraction network you’re talking about. I didn’t want to make any promises. The drone pulsed and the spatial audio spread out more, becoming broader and a bit more human-sounding, though not exactly like a person. It repeated the message about harmonic interference. It added something about the city grid and sector analysis, then said it could show me overlays of interference strengths across city sectors. I said yes, I would like to see that. A transparent sheet appeared in the air in front of me. It was a weird thing to describe, but the drone generated some kind of visual field, like a thin hologram layered over the trunk. Liza stared at it and murmured, saying she’d seen something like this in pictures but never in person. The overlay was a grid map of the city with colors representing intensities. I recognized the stadiums, the universities, the power stations, and even the small radio towers that dot the edges. The colors weren’t random, and they moved slowly over time. The strongest pulses were centered around the stadium field while I was practicing and playing, but even stronger ones radiated outward from the main track and the training rooms. I asked if this is what happens because of me. The drone pulsed, then the spatial audio voice repeated the explanation. My presence amplifies something that has been latent in human activity. The city’s grid has substructures that interlock with what the drone calls extraction pathways. When I push intensity on the field, that intensity interacts with these pathways, creating harmonics that leak energy out into zones outside the city. This leakage destabilizes the drone’s network. That’s why the broadcast glitch was flagged. I’m not a broadcast station, but my energy signature is broad and changes across the 3.2 MHz band with a pattern the drone can map to the city’s energy nodes. I thought about how weird this sounded. I’m not a broadcaster. I’m just a football player. I didn’t say that out loud, because I didn’t want to belittle what was happening. I asked if the drone’s network was dangerous to people. It pulsed and said no. The energy is harvested from ambient sources. It doesn’t affect human welfare except through interference with systems that humans use. I glanced at Liza. She said out loud that she was thinking about the last game. We lost a play because the intercom cut off during a timeout. I asked if that was because of me. The drone pulsed again. It said that the interference doesn’t only affect the stadium. It affects other signal layers. The drone’s extraction nodes can be tuned to minimize impact, but my presence creates a unique pattern that makes tuning difficult. Liza said that the intercom hiccup happened right after I sprinted down the right flank. I remembered that moment because the crowd went quiet at that point, like the stadium itself took a breath. The drone pulsed once more, and the overlay map shifted to show a line crossing from the stadium into the surrounding neighborhoods. It pointed to blocks where broadcast equipment and public safety signals intersect. I said I’ll take your word that this is what’s happening. I asked if I can do anything without harming my team. I said I don’t want to abandon my career, but if this keeps causing problems for other systems, I need to find a balance. The drone pulsed for a long time. Then the spatial audio voice said I can temporarily withdraw from football to protect Earth’s grid stability. It didn’t say if there were alternatives, but it sounded like it was a direct request rather than a suggestion. I thought about the season schedule, the fans who waited in the rain for my autograph, the people in the locker room who knew me by the day they met. I thought about what it would mean to sit out while the team carried on without me. I asked how long. The drone pulsed, and the overlay shifted again. The graph showed interference spikes with a curve that goes up and down. The drone said that a few weeks would allow the harmonics to settle. The network would retune and recalibrate. It didn’t promise that my presence would stop causing any effects. It said that my role can be re-integrated after adjustments. I felt something like a weight lift from my shoulders and then land there again. I said I can agree to that. Liza looked at me and then at the drone. She asked if she should log anything. The drone pulsed once. It was a neutral response. I didn’t want to create a huge paper trail about an alien drone in the control room that most people would not believe. I told Liza we should keep this quiet for now, and she nodded. She’s good with quiet. She turned off the main feed on her desk for a second and then turned it back on. The intercom noise cleared. I walked toward the locker room. The drone hovered behind me, but it didn’t follow me into the hallway. It stayed near the trunk. I didn’t know if it was going to move after this conversation or if it would remain attached to the station. I asked one more question. I said I want to see normal signals restored at the stadium. The drone pulsed three times and said yes. The locker room door is a heavy, creaky thing. It sometimes gets stuck and you have to pull it with a certain angle, which we joke about saying the door likes drama. I put my shoulder into it and it gave after I shifted my weight. The sound of the door slamming into the metal frame carried across the tiles and echoed a little. The smell of hair gel and laundry soap hit me. I saw the coach sitting on the bench, a clipboard resting on his knee, a stopwatch dangling from his wrist. He looked up as I stepped inside. The room went quiet in the usual way rooms go quiet when someone walks in and everyone knows it’s time to get to business. I saw two teammates sprawled on their chairs, socks hanging, and the water bottle crate sitting by the door. My teammate Mateo kicked a shoe and frowned. The coach asked what’s up. He didn’t ask where I’ve been or what I’m doing. He just wanted to know what I was about to say, and he wants me to say it directly. I said I need to step back from football for a bit. I said it without stopping or adding anything. He didn’t say anything for a second. His mouth turned down in a slight frown. He shifted his weight, his stopwatch tapping lightly against his palm. He said why. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded like he was trying to understand something that didn’t make sense to him, because I’ve never asked for a break for reasons that weren’t obvious. I said because there are things happening with city systems and the energy grid that are affected by my presence. I said that I don’t fully understand them yet, but I agreed to withdraw for a few weeks to protect those systems. He looked at my face, trying to read if there was something else. He asked what kind of system. He didn’t say are you serious. He didn’t say are you joking. He said what kind of system. I said signals, broadcast systems, public safety. He tilted his head. He said that our broadcasts and emergency protocols are tightly regulated. I said yes. He said you sure about this. I said yes. He set his clipboard down and closed it with a soft click. He didn’t say anything about my teammates or the fans. He just held my gaze until someone moved. Mateo stood up and crossed his arms. He said I need to know that you’re not leaving because of something on my side. He didn’t add anything else. I said no, this isn’t about you, it’s about me and my energy affecting systems outside the field. He looked at me for a few seconds. He nodded, then dropped his arms and looked toward the door. He shrugged in a way that says he doesn’t agree but he respects what I’m doing. He didn’t ask more questions. Two of my teammates stared without blinking. They didn’t say anything. It’s not unusual for people to need a minute to process news like this. I saw the look that goes across people’s faces when something ordinary suddenly becomes complicated. Their expressions were quiet. They watched me, then looked at the coach to see what he would do. He didn’t say anything to them right away. He asked me again if I’m absolutely sure I can do this. I said yes. He didn’t push it further. I repeated my decision out loud so everyone could hear. I said I’m taking a break from football for a few weeks. The room stayed quiet, and it felt like every small noise was amplified. A locker door clanged somewhere else. A shoe squeaked on the floor. The air vent hummed low. The coach said he will need to adjust the lineup. He didn’t ask me to stay longer or say that we can find another way. He said we will handle it, and I’m trusting you on this. After I said the second part, the drone’s hum faded. The control room beyond the door went quiet. I knew because the drone’s presence made the air slightly different, like the air pressure shifted a tiny bit when it was active. Now it was gone. The signals at the stadium probably felt more stable right away, even if the broadcast monitors didn’t show anything dramatic. The stadium lights hummed the same, but the intercom stopped giving that faint hiss that had been there during the last few practices. I stood there and watched the coach slide the clipboard back under his arm. He said he will call the management and the captain later today. He didn’t say we will figure out what to say to the press. He didn’t say we will come up with a story. He said we will figure out what to say when it’s time. I nodded. Mateo leaned back against his locker and breathed out. The room remained still for a moment longer. Then the routine began to move again. The drone powered down completely, its hum disappearing and the soft glow at the trunk dimming. The spatial audio handshake was gone. The overlay map collapsed, and the trunk made a final soft click. Liza reached for the trunk cover and slid it back into place with the screwdriver bit she had left in the tool. She didn’t say anything. She just put the screwdriver back in the drawer and stood up to check the monitors one more time. The stadium signals returned to normal. The intercom clarity was back. There was a small note in the station’s log that looked like a flag for the narrowband spike, but it was now labeled as cleared. The interference near 3.2 MHz had stopped. The coach walked out of the locker room and into the hallway, his stopwatch swinging. He stopped at the threshold and looked back at me. He said this isn’t a goodbye. I didn’t answer. I just nodded. Mateo picked up his shoe, turned it around, and slipped his foot into it. He didn’t look at me. He just tightened the laces and waited for the next instruction. I stood in the locker room and looked at the rows of helmets and the water bottles lined up like soldiers. I reached for my phone, because I knew this was going to be complicated later. The coach had asked for a few weeks. I had agreed, and the drone had powered down, restoring signals. That’s where I stopped. I didn’t have anything else to do in that room right now. I didn’t try to guess what the management would say or what the fans would think. The drone said the network needed a few weeks to recalibrate. The coach said he would handle the lineup. The teammates stared and were quiet. The signals at the stadium returned to normal. I knew that was all I could handle right now.