A New Short Story

shinybeetleSCARAB
A Science Fiction Short Story

The intercom crackled in his helmet, interrupting his daydream in mid-leap. Losing his rhythm, Beck landed awkwardly and nearly went to his knees. Only his reflexes and training prevented him from sprawling face first in the red dust that billowed around his boots. The dust hung in the air like mist, partially obscuring the furrows his feet had dug into the surface. Beck bounced a few more times in decreasing arcs, windmilling his arms until his momentum had dissipated and he was able to stand still.

“Beck, time to come in man, you’re twenty minutes over your EVA limit.” Gardner’s voice sounded annoyed.

“Plenty of air left in the tanks, Leo,” Beck replied, wanting to laugh but not daring to. Leo Gardner had a poorly developed sense of humor to start with, and it had deteriorated rapidly in the three days they had been on the surface.

“That’s not the point,” Gardner snapped, completely missing the point. “Twenty-one minutes to nightfall and I want you in before that. Get back in ASAP.”

“Yes, sir. Coming back right away.” Beck still wanted to laugh but Gardner was mission commander for this landing and nominally his superior. No need to rub him up the wrong way. Still two more days to go on this mission, the first of the habitat survey expeditions launched from the orbiting Nergal.

He activated the homing device on his wrist and turned around to orient himself in the indicated direction.  The hull of the Wolf glittered brightly in the setting sun and Beck was surprised to see how far he had come. The craft looked tiny, like a silver toy on an ochre carpet and Beck felt a twinge of guilt for stressing Gardner out so much. Leo has seen how far out he was but not said anything until just now and Beck knew he would likely have gone on further without Gardner’s warning.

It took him more than an hour to make it back to the Wolf. By that time the surrounding landscape had morphed into a surreal purple twilight. Far away, the top of Olympus Mons still glittered in the light of the setting sun, the bulk of its mass hidden beyond the horizon.

“I’m here, Leo,” he informed his teammate, making short work of the last few meters leading to Wolf’s airlock. The ground around the craft had been trampled flat by their boots, but this was not like the lunar surface. The frequent windstorms had dissipated much of the red dust and left the surface granular, scattered with boulders of varying shapes and sizes.

Unlike mission control to pick such a relatively clear area for a landing site, but then, this was a habitat survey mission, he thought as he switched on his headlamp and activated the airlock door. In the shadow of the Wolf, it was darker and felt much colder, though that was physically impossible. Beck knew his suit controlled his body temperature. Another example of his mind playing tricks with reality.

Inside, he recycled the airlock and waited for the green lights to stop flashing before unfastening his helmet and taking a deep breath. The air inside the Wolf was canned, just as it was in his suit, but somehow, it just felt better.

“How’re you doing down there, John?” Gardner’s voice chimed in over the intercom. “Come to the bridge when you’re ready. I’ve got something to show you.”

“Will do, Leo.” Beck stripped off the bulky EVA suit reflecting on how much larger the airlock was, compared to the primitive lunar landers of the previous century.

Guess they never changed their clothes he thought with a grin.

The boots were the last to come off, and they were dirty, almost completely covered in red dust that clung to the enameled surfaces as if it had been sprayed on. Picking them up by the inner linings Beck dropped them into a waiting container for analysis and cleaning and turned to do the same with the rest of the suit. It was then that he noticed the anomaly.

On the back of his left shoulder, where he could never have seen it while wearing the suit, was a shiny red speck flecked with green, so incongruous in that white sterile space that it screamed for his attention. Picking up the suit gingerly he bent down for a closer look and nearly passed out in shock and surprise. On the white of the suit’s fabric was a tiny object, slightly larger that a ladybug, perfectly oval and glittering iridescent in the airlock lights.

Beck looked at the impossible sight for a long time, hardly daring to breathe, staring at something that should not and could not be there, although it was. The lander was sterile. He knew that. It hadn’t been in here or on him when he left. It had to have come in with him. Come in from the outside.

Very slowly he put the suit back down on the floor so as not to disturb the object and stepping back, switched the airlock cameras from monitor to record. Then he called Gardner on the bridge.

“Leo, can you come down to the airlock right away? It’s urgent,” he said, not taking his eyes from the crumpled heap of white on the floor. He half expected the sparkling object to have disappeared, but it was still there, seemingly inert, defying possibility.

“Be right there, John.” To his credit, Gardner had picked up on the undercurrent in Beck’s voice and he wasn’t asking any questions. At least, not yet. Beck continued to stare at his discovery, waiting for Gardner to open the airlock from the other side.

As he watched, the tiny speck of color expanded visibly, growing until it was five times its initial size. The iridescent red and green hues darkened to a deep burgundy, like a dried blood stain on the white of the suit. Beck’s first instinct was to get as far away from the object as possible, which wasn’t very far in the confined space of the airlock. Instead, he took a deep breath and held it, waiting for his training to kick in. Then he bent down to observe as the thing morphed before his eyes. Gone was the oval ladybug appearance of moments ago. Instead, It now looked like a small red marshmallow with a spongy, pitted surface. As he watched, fascinated, the thing pulsed. Then it exploded in a cloud of tiny spores.

The spores spread upwards in a tiny pink cloud, dispersing rapidly past Beck’s face as he tried, too late, to draw his head back. The feeling of the spores on his skin was a feathery caress, like a puff of breeze on a still day. His throat began to scratch and the muscles in his face and arms twitched involuntarily. Out of nowhere he felt a strange urge. He needed to get out, outside this restricted space. The urge became stronger, grew imperative and his muscles moved to obey even though his mind rebelled at the insanity of what he was considering. He tried to force his body to turn away but he no longer seemed to have control of his limbs or his will. His feet moved towards the exterior airlock, which he had sealed only moments earlier. He tried to focus but control kept skating away like a magnet approaching the opposite pole of another.

This is insane, he thought, fighting his body’s unnatural behavior, even as his shuffling steps drew him inexorably up to the lock. I’ve got no suit on. What the hell am I doing?

Even as he considered it, the thought careened away and something in his head insisted that he open the lock. His fading self-control understood suddenly that the thought was alien, hostile, somehow linked to the iridescent object on his suit and the spores he had breathed.  Detachedly, he watched his arms reach out to the airlock control, his fingers moving over the keypad.

Behind him, a low melodious triple tone signaled the start of the internal airlock open sequence. Gardner was opening that door. He registered the event, even as his fingers tapped in the correct sequence for the outer lock, his muscle memory overriding his failing motor control.

Alert, alert, opening both locks will result in hull breach,” Wolf’s AI broke in urgently. “Warning, catastrophic failure imminent!” The AI continued to repeat the warning in increasingly insistent tone and volume.

As he watched, the lights above the control panel cycled from green to red and a warning siren filled the airlock as outer lock unsealed with a sibilant hiss. Behind him, the inner door flew open and Gardner screamed at him.

“John! What the fuck are you doing, John?” he yelled, then tried to scramble back through the door, which was now pinned open against the airlock wall.

Beck turned to look at his colleague, feeling a vague sense of sorrow as he watched Gardner pull futilely against the air pressure pinning the door open. Behind him, the outer lock unsealed completely and popped open with a bang. The hiss rose to a roar as the air in the craft exploded outwards, pulling him and Gardner along with it. His ears popped and he strained for breath as he was forced outside by the gale of crystalline vapor that had been Wolf’s atmosphere. His head felt like huge hands were squeezing it from both sides and his chest and lungs burned with the effort to extract a breath from the vanishingly thin atmosphere. He landed on his back about five meters from the open lock, in profound silence and the last thing he saw was Gardner flailing and tumbling out of the lock towards him, trailing the last of their air in a glittering cloud of crystals.

© Bryan Knower 2016

THE LAST GREENHOUSE IN THE WORLD

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veryshortstories Gabriel looked with concern at the sapling in the corner. Its silver-gray leaves drooped and the plant, not more than four feet tall, projected an overall air of forlornness. Behind the ornate pot holding the plant the transparent panes of a wide bay window showed a murky red sky and rolling brown dunes denuded of vegetation, numbing in monotony. The dullness of the scene had no effect on Gabriel. His whole concern was focused on the plant before him.
Reaching out, he touched one of the leaves with his thumb and forefinger. It was the most delicate of touches but even that slight contact seemed too much for the sapling. It trembled and the leaf came away in his hand, leaving a stark white patch to mark the spot where it had detached from the trunk.
Gabriel inhaled sharply in dismay, examining the leaf in his hand. The top of the leaf was still a handsome silver gray but the underside showed mottled patches of brown and yellow and a spidery pattern of cracks covered the surface like a fine lattice. Even as he watched, the little tree seemed to sway, although no breeze stirred inside the building. Another of the lower leaves detached itself and floated down to join a small group of its fellows in the base of the pot.
Clutching the leaf in his hand Gabriel ran back up the long avenue leading back to his central office from this remote alcove on the edge of the building.
The office was hexagonal and glass-walled, providing a panoramic view of the interior of the building, which was large. From the central perspective, the six sides of the building were clearly evident, a macroscopic version of the office itself. Inside, machines and displays stood banked against the clear walls except for a small curtained alcove providing the only privacy in the entire building. The alcove contained Gabriel’s private quarters, although privacy never concerned him these days. Gabriel was the only occupant of the transparent building.
Hastily he dropped the leaf he was holding into the receptacle of a quietly humming machine and pressed some buttons. The leaf disappeared inside and the machine made quiet regular sounds as it analyzed its input. Less than a minute later a small screen popped up and data began to scroll down its surface. The receptacle popped open again but there was no sign of the leaf. Gabriel glanced quickly at the display and his shoulders sagged visibly.
Two days, he thought. That was all the time the sapling had left. The deterioration was irreversible and permanent. The tree was dying. Sadly he walked back out of the office and onto the wide plaza with its six broad avenues branching out precisely to the six sides of the building. Retracing his steps to the sapling, he stood looking at it, knowing he would have to take it out of the pot and destroy it before it infected any of the other plants nearby. But not yet. There were still two days and he could enjoy its company a little while longer.
Stepping to the clear wall, he pressed his face to the surface and looked outside. The building stood on a bare hilltop whose gentle slopes lead down to a shallow valley. The slopes were bare brown and dusty, the valley a continuation of the same. Beyond, other small hills rose up around him, similarly denuded and desolate, an endless procession stretching out into the distance. Gabriel knew that beyond the hills lay a great plain, equally dry and desolate, scoured by fierce winds that were gradually eroding the hills into dust. A world of perpetual dusk. He had not been outside in more than a century. There was nothing out there anymore. The machines that kept his building alive maintained him too, his circuits recharged and replenished as he rested in the nothing state he had come to call sleep.
But he never really slept. The term was a throwback to his long dead creators who had made him for a very specific purpose. He needed to stay vigilant. That was his imperative. He was the Keeper. The Keeper of the last greenhouse in the world.

© Bryan Knower 2015

An excerpt from a science fiction novella in progress.

AL-WOLA

     The day started uneventfully for Daniel Winot. He woke to the sharp crackle of frost breaking up on the ground outside the steadfast, the brittle shards shattering under the boots of men already up and about although the sun had yet to show an arc above the horizon. In a few hours, as that red orb climbed into the sky, all the frozen moisture trapped in the soil would disappear as if it had never been, cold and damp giving way to a blinding scorching heat that would last until the red sun sank below the horizon again. Getting ready was easy. He was already completely dressed except for his boots. They were the only thing he removed before sleep, a habit he had picked up from the others here at Al-Wola. He glanced at the vacuumshower then decided against it, knuckling his eyes free of residual sleep as he grabbed his footgear. Sliding into them with the ease of long practice he walked over to a small chest on the floor of his envirocube and filled his pockets with charge packs for his laser, another habituated part of his daily ritual. Then he activated the door seal and stepped outside, making his way to the central mess for a meal and the list of his day’s chores.

He hated this place. So many extremes. Nothing was just normal. After four months on Almanir, he still wasn’t used to the dizzyingly short days, everything foreshortened as the planet rotated madly about the K Type star that dominated its sky. During the day, the bulk of the red giant Theta Doradus loomed overhead like a gigantic fireball, its enormous disc covering a major portion of the sky and tinting everything on the surface of the planet below. Its bulk and radiance defined Almanir’s day, making for disconcertingly abrupt transitions from shivering cold to numbing heat in the space of just ten standard hours.

He wondered how the Manticora adapted to the accelerated day/night cycle of the planet. Their attacks were often timed for the end of Almanir’s daylight cycle but not predictably enough to defend against it. In retrospect it seemed that the Manticora always appeared when the steadfast was busiest, and no one was expecting them. In the endless documentaries he had watched both before and after deploying here, Nimrod troops always battled aliens from the safety of shielded redoubts and mostly from the comfort of flatskimmers, whose armored hulls were partially impervious to alien weapons. All gung-ho and light-years of safety away. He never thought about actually fighting any aliens face to face until Parker’s malice. Until this posting.

It took only a week at Al-Wola for Daniel to realize that Parker never actually meant for him to come back from this trip. Why else send him away for six months to this forlorn outpost on the edge of a god forsaken interstellar blight? Thinking of Parker made him think of Elvira and his head ached. Parker was the commanding officer on Terminus, the company’s advance base on Gliese 163 C and Elvira was Parker’s woman. No, had been, and he was partially responsible for that. Although Daniel tried to avoid getting mixed up in domestic company intrigues, Elvira’s charms proved irresistible. Apparently the attraction was mutual. Things escalated rapidly and soon all his noble intentions scattered like chaff in the wind. His standing with the station commander suffered similarly.

Parker was livid. No, that was an understatement. He was totally pissed off. Sexual mores being what they were on Terminus, he couldn’t say or do anything when Elvira moved out of his cube and into Daniel’s, but his eyes followed them around malevolently whenever he encountered them on the base, and Daniel soon found his progress reports all mysteriously downgraded. Parker regarded him with such hatred that Daniel made sure to give him a wide berth whenever possible. Murder was uncommon on outworld bases but “accidents” were not and he had no intention of ending up a statistic in Nimrod’s logs. It was sheer misfortune that Parker was in charge of the duty roster when news of the Manticora raids on Almanir reached Terminus Station some months later. The Nimrod Mining Corporation did not approve of disruptions to its offworld operations and reaction was swift and predictable. A special operations team, formed from existing personnel on Terminus deployed via lightship to Almanir to end the nuisance as soon as possible. Daniel was shocked but not really surprised to find his name on the list of officers slated to accompany a brigade of men and equipment to Al-Wola.

Al-Wola. Nothing could have prepared Daniel for the bleak misery of the steadfast, or the sullen restiveness of the men assigned to his detail. The vagaries of Almanir’s revolution around Theta Doradus dictated that only a narrow band, about forty kilometers wide surrounding the southern pole, was truly habitable, if it could even be called that. Within that “comfort” zone, grasslands grew, and forests after a fashion. Trees with multiple barrel trunks and boughs that spread out in umbrella fashion from disc shaped caps grew in wild confusion, interspersed with creeping vines as thick as a man’s thigh. The grass reached up to waist height and more, the blades sharp enough to draw blood if handled incautiously. Random and bizarre, the vegetation seemed more nightmarish than hospitable, a fitting cover to the flinty ochre breccias that made up Almanir’s crust.

Almanir itself tilted so far on its axis that the light of the red sun baked the northern hemisphere to a crisp. Nothing grew there, not even stunted grasses, and the land was cracked and thrown up in fantastic shapes by the heat driven pressures. Drones had surveyed that landscape of course, but all that land was baked dry, a patchwork of mottled browns and yellows, wearying to the eye and the soul in equal measure, and completely inhospitable. Nothing survived in the waste. Nothing human that is. In terrifying dribs and drabs, all those involved in the mining operations on Almanir became aware that things did actually live in that terrifying land, things that belonged in the realm of myth. Shockingly bestial life forms, as alien as any monster in an entertainment vid, yet still vaguely humanoid enough to be fodder for nightmares.

More than half again as tall as a human, grotesquely wide and multi limbed, the Manticora stood nine to ten feet high and their heavily muscled thighs and long spear pointed tails were reminiscent of ancient pictures of a legendary creature bearing the same name. Bipedal in general and inhumanly fast on their feet, their bodies resembled that of an enormous elongated lion, broad chested with double jointed arms at the shoulder, and eyes large and wide spaced on ill-proportioned humanoid heads, providing a terrifyingly wide field of vision. They had two leathery wings on their backs, which folded to near invisibility when furled but spread out like gossamer capes when spread. Luckily those wings could only bear the weight of those enormous bodies over very short distances. To all intents and purposes, Manticora could not fly.

It took a while before the authorities on Al-Wola understood that the Manticora were sentient. Initially, none came back from any encounters with them. But the increased rate of desertion on Al-Wola alerted the Company, and interrogation of some of the recovered deserters provided enough information to form a fairly detailed picture of the creatures. Their technical development was still eons behind humanity and they had yet to invent mechanical or aerial modes of travel. Their weapons were primitive, javelins that looked like small tree trunks and some form of crossbow whose darts would have served as spears for a mere mortal. They wore no armor and needed none, their nubbed skin being armor enough and resistant to anything but lasers and shock guns. They moved about the waste with surprising ease and speed and they were utterly ruthless.

The Manticora took no prisoners, left no survivors and mutilated both the dead and the dying, ripping apart the rib cages of screaming victims to spread the entrails around them in steaming stinking glistening piles. It was a bad way to die, and a slow one. The company issued projectile weapons and multi-charge lasers to all personnel and fortified their redoubts and steadfasts but still the losses continued. Daniel’s expedition was designed to be one of the first organized resistance efforts on Al-Wola and so far they had seen no action. Everyone was as nervous as hell.

The laser probably saved him. That and the daily routine he had made for himself the first morning after picking up his weapons at the armory. He made it a practice to fill the pockets of his tunic with the little cylindrical laser charge packs before leaving his quarters every morning and followed the practice religiously as the weeks morphed into months and it seemed his luck might hold. Maybe his tour would end with no sign of an encounter.

He palmed the laser on hearing the first hoarse screams, seeing gaping holes in the perimeter and blurring movement in his peripheral vision as the Manticora poured in over the twenty-foot high nano-steel that formed the steadfast barriers.

His last rational thought was that they must have other weapons to breach the perimeter like that.

Sharp bursts of green showed him that others were firing at the intruders now, and his own weapon tracked and fired, tracked and fired like a well-oiled machine. His mind calculating the target ranges as his arm swung and finger squeezed. Thirty loads to a charge. Track and squeeze. Track and squeeze. Eject the spent canister and push in a fresh one. Lock and track and squeeze. Sweat ran into his eyes and made them sting. He could hear himself screaming hoarsely. Or was it the men around him. He didn’t know. Didn’t care. It was every man for himself. To his left, he saw a man take a crossbow bolt in the throat. The force of the impact and the size of the dart literally tore the man’s head off. The headless corpse staggered around for a moment, laser still firing in reflex as the dead man’s finger clenched on the trigger. Green light filled the air, arcing wildly. Men and Manticora dodged together as the corpse fell thrashing to the floor, and he saw more of the creatures come over the barrier straight towards him. All around him, men were screaming and falling and dying. The battle was lost. They had overrun the steadfast. Al-Wola was about to fall. It was only a matter of time before the Manticora destroyed and mutilated every living thing in the camp .

Without thinking Daniel turned and sprinted for a tumblercraft parked on the edge of the field and away from the main thrust of the attack. It was unarmored and used for light reconnaissance, but it was his only hope. The tumbler had no doors, and its round ungainly body was nothing more than an egg shape open on both sides, with the interior cavity all but exposed. He had almost reached the opening when an angry whine warned him of imminent danger. He threw himself to the side and a crossbow bolt screamed over his shoulder and stuck the smooth microplaz surface of the tumbler with a sharp “clack”. It ricocheted off the glassy surface and angled up towards him, plowing a furrow along the top of his shoulder. The pain was sudden and intense, flaring down his arm and into his head like hot metal pressed to his flesh. Glancing down, he saw the ripped fabric of his tunic and realized how incredibly lucky he’d been. The shaft had grazed the top of his shoulder instead of burying itself in his flesh. Had it been the latter, he would now be bleeding out next to the tumbler. A knot of Manticora ran in his direction as the shooter began winding a fresh bolt onto his weapon. Ignoring his shoulder, he threw himself into the craft and punched the auto lift, clinging to the control stalk as the tumbler rose in a wobbly arc over the perimeter of the steadfast and headed out over the plain.
Gritting his teeth, Daniel resisted the urge to take the tumbler higher. The little craft was unmaneuverable at altitude and he would be a sitting duck. Dimly, he was aware of the whirring thud of shafts hitting the microplaz skin and gave thanks for the smooth rounded shape that prevented any of those deadly bolts from penetrating. He made a mental promise to himself that he would never again laugh at a tumblercraft and then focused his fading energy on holding the tumbler steady with his feet as he fashioned a makeshift field dressing from the sleeve of his shirt. The effort of stripping off his tunic nearly made him pass out, but once he had the garment off, ripping off the sleeve of his inner shirt proved easier. Tying a knot one-handed proved much harder and he was sweating when he finished. His shoulder ached with a steady drawing pain and he knew that if he didn’t attend to soon, it would become infected. Manticora weapons were definitely not sterile.
As he banked the craft and headed south towards a faint shadow marking a distant tree line, he saw a group of Manticora leave the steadfast and trot out onto the open plain, clearly pursuing him. They must know that the tumbler had a limited range. If the fuel cell had been fully charged he had maybe four hours of flight before the tumbler gave out. He hoped it would get him close enough to the forest that he could make it under the canopy before the Manticora reached him. The red sun was already past zenith and darkness and cover was his best hope if he was to avoid his pursuers.

He made it to within half a kilometer of the trees before the tumbler’s fuel cells ran dry.

The spreading umbrella shapes of the callowleaf forest were clearly distinguishable when the comforting hum of the tumbler drive abruptly cut out and the craft lived up to its name, wallowing in the air like a small boat in a rough sea. His injured shoulder impeded him and he struggled to keep the craft level as it descended rapidly to the plain. Below, the ground was broken and sprinkled with sparse shrub, rising gently towards the trees now looming before him. He could see no clear level surface to put down and at the last moment, he steered the tumbler to a small patch that seemed flatter than the rest, bracing himself as the little craft hit the ground at some velocity and bounced along on the surface towards the trees. He had expected the impact, prepared for it, but the rolling tumbler threw him about the inside like a marble inside a glass jar and mercifully he passed out seconds after the initial impact.

When he came to he found himself lying on his back on coarse grass in probably the only spot around him that wasn’t littered with boulders. Lucky once again, he thought. A few meters away the tumbler lay on its side like an upended beetle. He moved his arm gingerly and screamed as the pain hit him. Finding a twig nearby he clamped his teeth around it and explored the shoulder with his other hand, snorting in pain, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tested the joint. No dislocation, but he had lost a lot of blood. The whole left side of his tunic and the remnants of his left sleeve were damp and in the light of the setting sun, the blood looked black on the pale blue of his uniform. He adjusted the dressing as best he could and still chewing on the twig, he forced himself to his feet and stumbled towards the tumbler. He couldn’t stay out here. The Manticora were surely still on his trail and he needed to get under cover before the light faded. The tumbler’s microplaz exterior was undented but its canopy was shattered. Leaning over the side he managed to secure the emergency supply pack from under the seat. He had lost his laser in the flight from the steadfast but there was another in the pack and he still had plenty of charges. Dragging the pack behind him he hobbled through the grass towards the first trees, keeping a sharp eye on the ground to avoid holes and boulders that might trip him up. If he fell down again, he didn’t think he could get back up.

Theta Doradus had nearly disappeared over the horizon when Daniel reached the welcome sanctuary of the first trees, the tall shadows of the callowleaf sentinels reaching out like fingers to draw him in, cloaking him in cool darkness. The contrast between light and dark left him momentarily blind and he paused just inside the dark shadows, smelling the coppery stink of blood. His blood, slowly seeping out around the clumsy dressing he had tied around his shoulder. His arm felt as if it was on fire, flashes of pain shooting down towards his wrist and across his ribs, blurring his vision as he put out his other hand to steady himself against the trunk of a forest giant. He ought to push on, put as much distance between him and his pursuers, but his limbs refused to follow his brain’s orders, seemingly intent on doing everything possible to slow him down. Gravity allied with his muscles to bring him to his knees and his breath went out in a gasp as his knees hit the mossy floor. His vision went completely dark for an instant, his mind blanking out in sympathy as the pain hit again. Fighting the imminent vertigo that threatened to engulf him he leaned back against the gnarled old wood, his eyes closed, gritting his teeth. The lightheadedness rose in him slowly, seeming to start in his belly and rise up to his throat as he struggled to avoid the inevitable. Then the darkness swallowed him again and he gave in to it, allowing himself to sink into the respite of oblivion.

When he swam back out of the darkness a breath of wind was tickling his face. Somewhere deep in his subconscious he understood that no wind blew down here on the forest floor. With a great effort he cracked his lids open and looked into enormous hooded yellow eyes, pupils dark and flecked with green. Eyes that regarded him without sympathy.

© Bryan Knower 2015

EASTER RABBIT: A seasonal fantasy tale

EASTER RABBIT

EASTER RABBIT

John saw a flash of yellow in the bushes at the far end of the garden and it intrigued him. He had collected fourteen Easter eggs so far, nearly double the number Melissa had found and for the last ten minutes neither of them had come across any more.

At the start of the hunt, his mother had announced that there were two dozen eggs hidden in the garden and that meant there must be at least two more. John wanted to find them but the scrap of yellow tantalized him. He looked around to see if Melissa was following him, but she had trailed indoors behind his parents, and he was alone in the garden, free for at least a few minutes before being called in to wash before dinner.

Quickly he walked over to the rhododendron bushes and bent down to look at what had caught his eye. Imagine his surprise when he found a yellow rabbit, sitting on its haunches by the roots of the bush and calmly cleaning its paws.

The rabbit looked at him inquiringly and nodded gravely.

“Hello, my name is Phelps, what’s yours?” he said in a perfectly cultured voice.

It was a small voice, of course, because it was a small rabbit, but the words and the fact that a rabbit was uttering them took John completely by surprise. He opened his mouth but no words emerged.

The rabbit seemed unperturbed. “Lost your voice young man?” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Careful now, that’s not something we can go misplacing, can we?”

John’s voice came back with a rush. “Why, you’re a rabbit,” he said, realizing immediately that it was a stupid thing to say.

“Of course I am,” replied the rabbit. “Its pretty obvious, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to catch your eye for the past ten minutes, and now that the grownups have gone in, you stand there saying the obvious to me. Are you coming or not?”

“Coming?” John was confused. “Come where? You mean you want to take me somewhere?”

“Yes, of course,” said the rabbit impatiently, “but I can’t do that unless you tell me your name.”

John hesitated. He had been taught never to reveal his identity to strangers, but he wasn’t sure if rabbits counted as strangers. He saw that the rabbit was tapping his left front paw on the grass and the tips of his floppy ears were beginning to curl downwards. Not wanting to agitate the little beast further, he made up his mind.

“I’m John, John Richards,” he said quickly. “But you can call me Johnny.”

“Well Johnny, that settled then,” said the rabbit, wiggling his ears. “You can call me Mr. Phelps. Are you ready? Close your eyes and say my name.”

John closed his eyes tightly. “Mr. Phelps,” he said before he could change his mind.

After a few seconds during which nothing happened he began to fidget. He was at an age where staying still and doing nothing for even a short space of time was a difficult task.

“When are we leaving?” he asked plaintively.

”We have already left, Johnny,” said the voice of Mr. Phelps from behind him now. “In fact we have just arrived. You can open your eyes now.”

John gratefully blinked his eyes open and then blinked again as he took in his surroundings. On initial inspection, he appeared to be in the same place he had been a few seconds ago. The rhododendron bushes were still at his feet, but they were now a virulent shade of purple. The grass was a pale green, almost yellow and the rabbit was missing.

A discreet cough behind him made him turn slowly.

Mr Phelps appeared to have grown four times larger than he had been earlier. He was now the size of a medium dog and his fur was white, instead of yellow. He was standing up on his haunches, leaning on a polished wooden cane and his face, hidden behind very dark glasses, looked at him with an air of amusement.

“No need to be startled, Johnny,” he said. “Here, have a look at yourself.” A red and white polka dotted waistcoat appeared on the rabbit’s body and Mr. Phelps reached into an upper pocket and pulled out a polished hand mirror which he held facing John.

To John’s amazement, he could only see the waist of his trousers and just a little bit of his shirt, which was now a blue and white stripe instead of the light blue check he had been wearing earlier. His trousers were now held up with a belt rather than his usual suspenders. Apparently he had grown in size too.

He looked up from the disturbing reflection and around at the garden, which was no longer a walled enclosure but a wide open meadow. The familiar garden fence had disappeared and rolling expanses of pale yellow stretched out in every direction, dotted with purple bushes like the one at his feet and strange umbrella-shaped trees from whose drooping edges waving tendrils floated lazily, although there was no breeze to speak of. The yellow grass felt strangely springy under his feet, as if there was a layer of sponge underneath it. Surreptitiously he bounced on his feet and experienced a most enjoyable feeling of elasticity, almost as if he was on the floor of an enormous yellow trampoline. No familiar landmarks were visible, not St. Andrew’s church bell tower that was always visible from the garden or the tall wooden poles strung with power lines that ran by the bottom of their fence. Somehow, these difference didn’t disturb him. After all, a rabbit had brought him here.

“Where are we Mr. Phelps?” he inquired politely, turning back to the rabbit.

Mr. Phelps was now smoking a long thin cigar in an even longer holder, rolling it delicately in his right paw and blowing perfect rings of blue smoke as he studied the boy.

“Why, we are here,” he said waving the cigar airily. “Earlier we were there and now we’re here.”

The reply irritated John. This sounded like nonsense and the rabbit seemed to be talking down at him as his parents did sometimes. But he was a polite boy and didn’t want to be rude. So he humored the rabbit.

“Where exactly is here, Mr. Phelps?” he said in his nicest voice. “Mother will be calling soon and I can’t stay very long.”

“Don’t you worry Johnny,” said the rabbit, eyeing him sideways. “Time doesn’t pass the same way here as it does there. There’s plenty of time before your mother comes looking for you, but to answer your question, this place is called Retsae, and it’s my home.”

John was astonished. There was nothing around that could serve as a home for the large rabbit standing before him and no path that might lead to one. He didn’t want to offend Mr. Phelps however, so he smiled and said “are we going to your home then?”

“We most certainly are,” said Mr. Phelps emphatically. He was now chewing on a large pink carrot with an exceptionally bushy green top. His dark glasses had disappeared and his eyes had become a much darker pink than they had been back in the garden. In fact, they looked decidedly like ripe strawberries to John, who was too much of a gentleman to say anything anyway.

“Close your eyes again Johnny,” said Mr. Phelps waving the carrot at John. “We’re leaving right away.”

John felt the same sensation of nothing happening this time around too, so he opened his eyes after a few seconds without being told to.

They were certainly not in the meadow anymore. He appeared to be in cozy little room carved out of some smooth brown material with soft plush white carpets on the floor and beautiful pictures of scenery on the walls. Mr. Phelps was seated in an armchair by a window, carefully painting a solid white egg in bright swirls of color. By his side was a small basket filled with six eggs, already painted and delicately tied around the middle with shiny bows. The rabbit appeared to be a more manageable size now and a quick glance at his own self reassured John that he himself had returned to his original form, although he was still wearing the striped shirt and the belted trousers. He walked across to the window where Mr. Phelps sat and looked outside.

Through the slightly opaque glass he saw a small garden filled with strange shrubs. The plants were unlike anything John had seen before, short and sparsely leaved, with many branches spreading out like a canopy just a few feet above the ground. What looked to be eggs were suspended from many of the branches, all white and in various sizes. John knew that eggs were laid by chickens and he could not believe his eyes.

“Are those eggs, out there on those bushes?” he said finally after he had blinked his eyes a number of times, pinched himself a few more and confirmed that what he was seeing appeared real.

“They certainly look like eggs,” Mr. Phelps replied, “but I prefer to call them Cheggs.”

“Cheggs?” John was intrigued. “Why do you call them that? Is it because they aren’t real eggs?”

“Oh, they’re real eggs all right,” laughed the rabbit. “Except they are solid chocolate inside.” He picked up one of the painted eggs from his basket and offered it to John. “Here, try it. I’m sure you’ll approve.”

With that, he tossed it towards John, who was so taken aback that he had to juggle for a bit before he had the egg safely in both hands.

It looked like a regular egg to him and felt like one too, though it felt somewhat heavier than a true egg. John couldn’t say for sure, not having handled too many real eggs himself. As he looked at it the egg seemed to wiggle in his palms. Thin hairline cracks appeared on the painted shell, growing more pronounced as he watched. Not wanting the egg to break in his hands, John stooped down and placed it on the carpet. Even as he took a step backwards the eggshell splintered into many tiny fragments and flew apart, leaving a perfectly formed chocolate chicken standing there on the carpet. It looked so lifelike that John expected it to cock its head and move about, but it just stayed there, and beside him, Mr. Phelps chuckled.

“It’s just chocolate you know,” he laughed. “Go ahead, have a taste. Unless you don’t like chocolate,” he added, seeing John’s hesitation.

John liked chocolate. He liked it a lot in fact. Easter was one of his favorite times of the year because there was so much chocolate around. He had never seen a chocolate figure so perfectly formed before. It looked delectable, and picking up the tiny morsel, he popped it into his mouth. The chocolate seemed to melt inside his mouth and when the syrupy center exploded on his tongue he had to put his hands to his mouth to keep from drooling on the carpet. Quickly it was gone, but the taste lingered long after he had swallowed the last morsel.

He turned to the rabbit in amazement and saw that Mr. Phelps, now dressed in a burgundy coat that resembled a bath robe was smoking a long pipe that glowed gently in front of his face and made the whiskers on his nose gleam silver in the reflected light.

“Have another, Johnny,” said the rabbit, pushing the basket forward with his rear paw. “I made these especially for you. Try the green and silver one next. I believe it has a ginger candy center.”

John couldn’t help himself. He knew he was being greedy and rather impolite, but he took the basket and sat down on the spongy floor, picking up the green and silver egg. It was as wonderful as Mr. Phelps had promised. He ate that one, and a purple and orange one after that and a blue and gold one next.

He ate them all.

After what seemed like only a very short time, he sat back in a daze of satiation, the empty basket lying there before him, surrounded by tiny shards of colored shell. Drowsily he thought that this might be the best Easter yet. He yawned prodigiously and lay back on the carpet, which seemed to mold itself around him like a warm blanket. Mr. Phelps, still sitting in the chair, was wreathed in fragrant smoke that somehow smelled like ripe berries. He didn’t really want to fall asleep but in spite of his best efforts his eyes grew heavier and heavier, the carpet grew cozier and cozier and he felt himself float away on a cloud of nothingness.

He came awake slowly to an insistent sound above him and a gentle pressure on his shoulder. Reluctantly he opened his eyes to see his mother bending over him, shaking him awake.

“Where’s the rabbit? I mean, Mr. Phelps?” inquired John groggily.

“What rabbit? And who’s Mr. Phelps?” asked his mother a little sharply. “Have you been talking to strangers John?”

John opened his mouth to explain and then closed it without saying anything. It was all just too absurd to explain anyway.

“No mum, I’m sorry, I must have dozed off,” he said sheepishly.

“You’ve been asleep in the garden for a half hour or more and no wonder,” his mother said. “You ate all the chocolate eggs you picked up this afternoon and it’s going to ruin your supper.”

2290 words       © Bryan Knower 2015

Read an E-Book Week 2015 on Smashwords

readanebookweekIt’s read an E-Book week at Smashwords. From March 1st through March 7th, there are tons of free books to read and download for your enjoyment.

Here’s a link to the Smashwords Read an E-Book Week Catalog, listing all the free titles enrolled in Read An E-Book Week 2015:
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And here’s a link to my author page, where you can download all my stuff for free during the promotion:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/beezul

Enjoy the reading and spread the word.

raebw2015(2)

The True Nature Of Father Time – a science fiction story

The True Nature Of Father TimeTHE TRUE NATURE OF FATHER TIME

Chron-OmiTar twitched with annoyance at the insistent warning tingle in his awareness. Overlaying his temporal display onto his main sensors he evaluated his track again. There it was. The cause of the alert. A discrepancy between his current and his projected position on the grid of his route. A difference of eleven discrete temporal elements. He was annoyed because he was partially to blame for it. On the temporal display his next waypoint pulsed green. It located a small blue world in a minor star system within one of the smaller arms of the great spiral galaxy that was his domain. Automatically he re-calculated velocities, set a new trajectory and adjusted his progress, thinking about the species on that world he was tasked to protect. They were the youngest, a late addition to the long list of those he had minded over the eons past.

That was what he was. A minder of the great spiral known to the blue world entities as the Milky Way. He found the name quaint. In fact, he found much of their nomenclature amusing, having absorbed all their collective knowledge as part of his ongoing task. The galaxy was anything but milky from his perspective, although it might appear an opaque smudge to something viewing it from a world in that system.They called their system Sol, and he adopted this name too for convenience, although he knew the system by a different name.

He himself was a creation of the Originators, who fashioned him and others like him upon discovering viable seed intelligences in the far-flung star clusters of the universe. On those selected worlds they embedded twinned energy crystals far beneath one of the magnetic poles and aligned them to keep that world tilted in relation to its star. Thus they could bring about a regular cycle of seasons. Chron-OmiTar and his like were designed to monitor and maintain the energy crystals on all the seed worlds and assigned different sectors of space and time that never overlapped.

His designated sector was the Milky Way galaxy and his task was to make an infinite round of the seed worlds on that track, adjusting the alignment of their crystals once every solar cycle. Right now he was headed for a blue world in the Sol system whose inhabitants celebrated his arrival at an annual festival marking the end of their seasonal cycle, although they were unaware of his true nature. At the winter solstice marking his passage, they celebrated and paid their respects to Father Time, by which name they venerated him. But they could neither see him nor know him. Even though he could take their form if he willed it, it was forbidden. There was no bridge spanning the vast gulf separating his kind from those they minded.

Chron-OmiTar had never met another minder. The nature of their task and their appointed galactic routes ensured this. Often, he let the power of his considerable awareness roam free as he traversed his path, casting a wide net among the edges of the far-flung star clusters he passed by. In all his travels over the eons he never discovered any sign of another until his searching had become a matter of rote. But now, the unthinkable had happened. One of his random scans returned a faint disturbance in the flow of his awareness, so faint that he might have missed it, except it was not supposed to be there. A brush against a kindred intelligence somewhere out in the neighboring Andromeda galaxy, just two and a half million light years from his position. It lingered briefly and then disappeared in the background chatter in spite of his best efforts at triangulating it. In vain he bent the interstices of his track in space-time, trying to glimpse the path of the other. He could not maintain the singularity he created long enough to probe further and his manipulations caused his own path to warp dangerously, putting him out of sync with his appointed course.

His temporal display showed that the blue world was diverging from the path of synchronicity as it approached perihelion. He would have to summon all his resources to make up the lost time. Concentrating, he poured his energies into a new intercept vector, wondering about the consequences of a failure to make his rendezvous with the planet’s crystals. Such an event had never happened. Not in all the history of the minders. No relevant data existed in his awareness but Chron-OmiTar knew by extrapolation that such a failure would undo all his patient work of many cycles as the seasons failed and synchronicity disappeared. It would mean the eventual end of the unfortunate species in question.

Continuously re-calculating his velocity and trajectory, he approached Sol system’s heliopause, vaulting easily over the swarm of interstellar debris of the Kuiper Belt. In his haste he tracked closer to the gas giants than he had ever ventured, causing huge vortices of atmospheric disturbance from Neptune to Jupiter. Like a glowing comet he flashed across the dark between the blue world’s moon and the magnetic polar region, compressing his vast bulk as he entered the planet’s atmosphere. Burning like a fireball he burrowed beneath the crust to his reference point. There, before his gaze, the enormous energy crystals glowed, bright and fierce, already almost vertical in their alignment to each other. If they became squared off, synchronicity would be lost forever.

Putting out his thought he grappled with the crystals, fighting against their natural tendency to come together. He was aware of the music of the crystals, a vast cosmic melody, slowly changing as he fought against their entropy. Within him a counterpoint rose to meet that melody, striving to bring harmony to a growing discordance within it. The two themes strove against each other and feeling his awareness beginning to splinter, he redoubled his efforts. Fragmentation was not an option. Collecting himself he channeled all of his essence into his thought, forcing the twin pillars of light apart with the sheer force of his will.

The cost was staggering. Chron-OmiTar felt his energies drain as he willed the crystals back to their designated angles of separation. Time seemed to stand still as the bright fires slowly separated. Gradually the music in his awareness became more harmonious until finally the crystals regained synchronicity in a great burst of energy and light. Chron-OmiTar rode the energy wave out of the planet’s crust, moving out far above the plane of the ecliptic. Pausing there he floated gently in the enfolding dark, waiting for cosmic energy to replenish him as it always did. Every synchronicity event he generated left him momentarily weakened but this time he had come perilously close to absolute emptiness. It took a long time for his energies to renew.

When he recovered, he reached out with his awareness, probing the results of his actions. Below him, two globes spun in sync around their star, one glittering blue, the other dark, locked together in the beginning of a new star cycle. On the blue world, the seasons would continue. Turning back to his track he cued up his next waypoint, thinking about the event that had delayed him. Something seemed amiss with the cosmic balance of this part of the universe. He had always believed he was the sole minder in this sector of space but against the probabilities he had sensed another.
Andromeda was approaching. The Milky Way, his home, seemed destined for change. He computed that soon, maybe in just a few billion years their tracks would intersect. Chron-OmiTar would encounter another.

© Bryan Knower 2015

AFTERWHERE – a science fiction story

AfterwhereAFTERWHERE

The reverend Sebastian Archibald Castilar paused at the beginning of his weekly sermon, surveying the scattering of people spread out in the pews before him. Attendance today was worse than last Sunday and that Sunday had been worse than the previous week.
Every week, a few more people dropped out, sometimes a family, and that was hard on Sebastian Archibald’s ministry. He tried hard to whip up some fervor in the flock, doing his best to expound the doctrines of the church, but nothing seemed to work these days. He tried humor and then sternness but the response was always distressingly similar. Polite smiles and a reluctance to part with their resources. Sebastian Archibald’s church needed those resources badly and in spite of his best efforts, he was falling behind.
A slow burn of a righteous anger began to build inside him as he thought of all these complacent souls, coddled by their technology and comfortable in their regulated lives, giving scant thought to the Afterwhere even as they blithely accessed it in their dreams. Sebastian Archibald thought often about the Afterwhere. In fact, he dwelt on it. His whole purpose for being was predicated on the notion of an unpredictable Afterwhere. Wasn’t that what he was there for? To guide these folks safely through the Afterwhere?
He monitored his implants and fine tuned the vocal enhancers for a more forceful delivery. Today needed to be different.
“Uncertainty awaits you, my friends,” he thundered, pounding the pulpit for emphasis. “Life is uncertainty. You’re here today and maybe gone tomorrow. What have you done for yourselves? With yourselves? What are you in the here and now? More importantly, what do you do in the Afterwhere? Do you dread going there? Do your visits fill you with terror and your days with dread as you anticipate your next inevitable visit? Do you know what’s out there waiting for you night after night?”
He wiped a spray of spittle from his chin and noted with satisfaction that his outburst had woken up at least some of the people in the pews. Tiny green pinpoints of light glittered like fireflies throughout the room as neural implants woke up and registered activity. He re-adjusted his vocal enhancers for more dramatic effect.
“I’ll tell you what’s out there, my friends,” he continued, pointing his finger for dramatic effect. “The devil’s out there, out in the Afterwhere, waiting for those of you who step in there unprepared. Are you prepared?”
Sebastian Archibald was in fine form now, the words rolling off his tongue like waves on a shelving beach. His sonorous voice, subtly enhanced, filled the sculpted hall and The New Electric Assembly of the Afterwhere Church reverberated with his message, making the ultraglass and titanium-steel structure vibrate with delicate sympathetic harmonies.
“He’s real my friends,” Sebastian Archibald continued, “And far more devious and terrible than the abstract constructs your data ports project in your minds. He’s been around a long time and he’s been fine tuning his approach all these years. The Afterwhere Devil lurks behind the portal to the Afterwhere my friends, and he wants to add your soul identity and your memory structures to his vast network. A network of integrated misery and terror that permeates all the interstices of the dark side of the Afterwhere.”
He paused again for dramatic effect. “Are your memories safe? Do you believe the cloned synaptic images in your data banks are safe? They’re all accessible via your Identikey codes, and that’s what he steals from you in the Afterwhere. Your codes. Your After-Identity. Your personality in the Afterwhere. Is it secured? Are you prepared?”
The sweat was rolling of Sebastian Archibald’s brow now, trickling past his ears and into his gleaming tyvek collar. He ignored it. He had their attention now. All of them. The artificially dimmed auditorium was awash in green pinpoints of light, winking and glowing as their owners accessed their implants, uploading recorded copy of his words to their databanks. He smiled. That’s what they needed. A good stir of their subconscious soup to shake them out of their data-safe programmed little worlds.
The Reverend Sebastian Archibald Castilar spoke for another forty-five minutes, each one of them more dire and dolorous than the previous. He stormed around the sanctuary gesticulating wildly, his ornate metal-fiber robes glittering as the strobes of the mood lighting caught them. The lighting operator seemed to have caught the fervor of the moment. She had three flash beams trained on the reverend at all times, making him appear to glow of his own accord. The fog machines rolled their heavy white clouds across the floor of the sanctuary and the reverend seemed to float about the room like a spectral apparition.
Just before his closing statements, the reverend linked his interface to the building systems and artificially darkened the ultraglass walls of the church, a signal to the lighting operator, who responded with a frenzy of strobe lighting simulating lightning strikes around the cunningly silhouetted figure of the reverend. For a few minutes there in the Church of the New Electric Assembly of the Afterwhere, it seemed as if the Afterwhere had indeed become the present.
“You are doomed, all of you. Doomed to an eternity of endless grinding repetition. Repetition of the most unbearable horrors your minds can envision. But all is not lost. I can help you. I can show you the way through the Afterwhere.”
He paused to let the idea sink in. The green fireflies flickered madly.
“Open your data ports to my uplink stream, my brothers and sisters. Do it now. Do it every day. Do it before you fall asleep and your dreams take you where you do not want to go.”
He raised his voice a few more decibels and lowered the pitch and the timbre, going for the payoff now.
“I have what you need. I will show you a safe road. A safe road through the Afterwhere.”
He stormed out through the mirrorblind curtains at the back of the sanctuary as his closing words echoed in an infinite loop through the church sound system, ten thousand watts of amplified reverberated exhortation that hung in the air long after he had departed, leaving the members pinned to their seats like butterflies on a display board.
That night, the reverend’s uplink stream pulsed as it had not in a very long time. The church servers frantically added more bandwidth as more and more people opened their data ports to his stream. The Unicredit counters monitoring his revenue stream blinked madly as his message downloaded across the data spectrum. The credits poured in faster than his mind could register, and the reverend felt a warm glow of happiness at his achievement, but he was already thinking ahead, knowing he needed to maintain the intensity to keep that credit flow active.
Boredom was the bane of this jaded world he lived in; every aspect of life and living regulated, controlled and monitored by robot processes to the point of mundane invisibility. The only escape for a largely process controlled population was through dreams, themselves monitored by robotic AI’s that randomized the outcomes of those visits so that no person visited the exact same scenario repeatedly. The Afterwhere was a logical construct to exercise the subconscious portions of the mind that could not be controlled by the robots, and lately, the Afterwhere had grown increasingly dark. The reverend’s church was a response to a growing emotional need.
Sebastian Archibald needed to keep the fears of his flock alive, their terror of the Afterwhere stoked, so that the New Electric Assembly of the Afterwhere Church continued to grow. And he along with it. As he pondered the problem he had an idea. He had posited a devil. They were terrified of that devil. So why not give him to them?
He would give them that very devil. The Afterwhere Devil, live and present via malware that would upload through their data ports and infect their implants subtly, making them receptive to his suggestions. His very own controllable Afterwhere Devil.
The Reverend Sebastian Archibald Castilar did not sleep that night, turning possibilities and outcomes over in his mind until he had crystallized what he wanted. Early next morning he placed a video comm call to an old friend of his who made robots for a living. His friend had done very well for himself, considering that most of the world was now run and regulated by robots of every shape, size, texture and capacity. The call was short and Sebastian Archibald was precise in his requirements.
Could his friend build him a robot interface to his exact specifications?
He could? Good!
Could he do it in a week? Two weeks? Great!
Could he tailor the robot personality to match the criteria he would specify? Excellent!
The price? What?
Well, never mind. There was going to be a lot more where that was coming from. Do it!
Minutes later, Sebastian Archibald had uploaded a hyper-security packet to his friend, with detailed instructions regarding the personality and capabilities of his new robot interface. The reverend was building himself a robot devil. An Afterwhere Devil, no less.
The next two weeks saw a feverish build up of intensity at the New Electric Assembly of the Afterwhere Church. Sebastian Archibald installed pheromone enhancers in the ceiling, subliminal message displays on the back wall of the sanctuary and upgraded the lights and sound before the next gathering. He posted prominent instructions at the entrance that all neural implants should have their firewalls lowered within the church and their receptors enabled.
The church was packed. Word had spread amongst the community that the reverend was onto something. He had a handle on the Afterwhere. He knew the pitfalls within that desolation and how to avoid them. People brought friends. Families brought other families. They sat mesmerized as the reverend expounded on his theme. This time he had visual backup. Giant displays behind him punctuated his words, picturing dismal dystopian futurescapes as Sebastian Archibald described the dangers of the Afterwhere. Subliminal messages pulsed invisibly in the background and the pheromone enhancers pumped the atmosphere full of disquiet and lurking terror as the images rolled on, bleaker by the moment.
At the end of the sermon, Sebastian Archibald was drenched in sweat and so was his audience. They sat slack-jawed in their seats as the reverend choreographed the finale of his performance like a circus ringmaster. The Unicredit input following the service far outstripped the previous week. The reverend’s net worth soared like a spaceship leaving orbit and his visage began popping up on the national buzz feeds, feeding the frenzy. He was a shark in a school of mackerel. He was the titan at the gates of the Afterwhere, the holder of a VIP access pass guaranteeing a good time to be had by all who could afford it. He was unstoppable.
The next week, the week before the devil arrived, he worked himself into a frenzy, foaming at the mouth as he frightened the wits out of those gathered in his church. There were so many people waiting to get in that he set up five services, spaced and hour and a half apart, all of them playing to capacity crowds. By evening the reverend was exhausted but edgy with anticipation. He dismissed his staff, telling them to take the next day off as a bonus for their work at the services and waited for the technicians who would install his dream device.
It was well into the early hours of the morning before the techs were done interfacing the new system with his servers. Sebastian Archibald could barely contain himself as he waited for them to leave. He sat in front of the interface terminal, brimming with anticipation. What devilry would he program for his first week’s rummaging inside his unsuspecting members memory data banks?
A small glittering dot appeared in the center of the display, resolving into a buckyball shaped figure that spun rapidly on the screen before him. The buckyball had many glittering rainbow-colored facets that flashed and winked mesmerizingly. Behind the interface, his data port came alive, servers humming urgently; data access monitors blinking rapidly in synchronization with the rotating buckyball.
The reverend was mildly irritated. He hadn’t activated the devil interface yet but the damn thing was obviously on. No matter, The technicians probably initialized the system before they left. Clearing his throat he stared directly at the buckyball and accessed the audio interface.
“Castilar. Log on and register vocal and retina print.”
The spinning buckyball flashed silver for a moment before turning prismatic again.
“Vocal and retina print confirmed. Welcome Sebastian.”
Something prickled in the back of the reverend’s mind, like an itch on the inside of his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, the sensation was gone.
Sebastian. The system had called him Sebastian, but he had not told it his name. No one called the reverend by his name. His was simple The Reverend. Sebastian Archibald Castilar guarded his personality with a fervor that matched his religious zeal.
The buckyball on the screen grew in size, some of the facets disappearing into dark openings like windows into an infinite depth. Inside those lattices sparks flashed into existence and died. The room lights dimmed and the unmistakable coppery odor of pheromone stimulants wafted into his nostrils. On the display he could see the reflected green LED of his own implant flare into activity.
A nameless dread assailed him as a suave voice bearing a hint of mingled mischief and malice echoed inside his head.
“Sebastian Archibald Castilar. Welcome to the Afterwhere. I’m your host, the Afterwhere Devil.”

 © Bryan Knower: September 2014