by Karl Beecher
"Yes, of course," Tyresa reassured him. "I'll get you to a hospital. All in good time. Don't you want to see what's at the end of the trail? You said yourself, the disease is suspended. You said you've never felt better."
"At this…precise moment," he mumbled, "I don't…feel so good actually."
His head began to loll. The sweat now ran down his face. This looked serious.
Tyresa pressed her hands to the glass. "Colin?"
His legs began to shiver. "I need to sit down…I think I'll just sit here on the floo—"
His attempt fell apart halfway to the ground, and he collapsed in a heap.
"Colin! Colin!"
It was no good. He wouldn't answer.
24
Colin's vision was suffused with white light, and he heard the echo of unearthly choral sounds.
It all seemed strangely familiar.
That familiarity kept Colin feeling calm. It must have been imposed. He of all people knew he would normally be running around in panic like a headless chicken by now. Apt, because he didn't seem to have a head at the moment. Or any physical presence he could sense for that matter.
Soon enough, the white light and choral sounds both died away, leaving behind a silent, infinite darkness pin-pricked with starlight. For a moment, Colin felt as utterly alone as it was possible to feel.
A light shone in the distance. It seemed to come closer, growing into a multi-coloured spectral swirl. Endless shades and hues, some Colin didn't even recognise, swam silently in the distortion.
Finally, it stopped moving. It floated in space, the colours melding into one round beam of light. A shadow emerged from it, blurry at first, but it soon sharpened into the outline of a figure.
Colin had a strong suspicion about who he was going to see.
"You again?" Colin heard himself say.
"Indeed," smiled Alec Guinness as the jumble of colours behind him faded into nothing. "We meet again, Colin Douglass."
"What have you done?" demanded Colin. "Why have you brought me here?"
"Time is short, Colin Douglass, I have much to tell you and little time in which to do it."
"But where am I?"
"Still exactly where you were a moment ago," the old thespian assured him.
That was clearly impossible. "But…I was…"
"Your body remains where it is. It has not moved. Neither is it the case that I have come to you. Not physically at any rate. Rather, I am communicating to you from where I reside."
"And where's that?"
"That would be difficult to explain," came the considered response, "particularly in terms that your limited human brain might comprehend."
Charming. Then something dawned on Colin.
"Human brain?" he said. "You're not human then?"
"No," replied Alec Guinness. "I am a member of the race which your species has come to call the Predecessors."
"You are?"
In the heat of the moment, it felt so easy to believe it. Tyresa's talk about so-called simpler and more plausible explanations held no water right now. This felt like the real thing. Occam's Razor was all very well, but Occam never saw the ghost of Alec Guinness emerge from a rainbow-coloured whirligig in outer space.
Incredible. He was communicating with an alien race!
And, from what he'd heard, this was a highly advanced race whom nobody had ever met before. This might be first contact! He was presently a representative of his species, conducting the first conversation between humanity and the Predecessors. This exchange might end up in the history books.
The weight of history was on his shoulders. He had to say something. Something noble, memorable, full of gravitas.
"Gosh," he said finally. "So, you're not Alec Guinness then?"
Okay, in terms of first words, that was hardly in Neil Armstrong territory. Quite honestly, he couldn't think of what to say. If he opened his mouth again, he'd probably end up asking what the weather was like in their dimension.
"As you may remember me explaining at our last encounter," the Predecessor pointed out, "what you see before you is an avatar, chosen from among your own memories as a comforting image. We chose this form because it was one you held in high regard when we scanned your mind."
Suddenly it made sense. That silly fantasising about being Colonel Nicholson in Bridge on the River Kwai, trying to find inspiration while imprisoned on Hanson's ship. He had been doing that just before the first encounter. Presumably, they observed that the memory of Alec Guinness comforted him at that moment.
"Oh," said Colin. "What should I call you then?"
"We have limited time," came the Predecessor's reply, his expression growing serious. "My name is not important. But if it helps you to know, my name is…"
The Predecessor proceeded to spit out several syllables, which to Colin sounded less like a name and more like a flu-ridden sheep trying to clear its throat.
"Come again?" said Colin.
The throaty noises were repeated.
Colin gave his best attempt at a pronunciation. "Kla-ba-lath-ker—?"
"Klablath will be fine," said the Predecessor hurriedly. "You have little chance of pronouncing the actual name correctly. The human larynx is rather different in construction to Predecessors'. Or, more correctly, as they used to be, since we no longer possess physical bodies. Now, Colin Douglass, to busine—"
"Hang on," said Colin. He'd remembered something, a rather obvious fact in retrospect. "Everyone told me you Predecessors were dead."
Alec Guinness, or rather Klablath, began to look agitated. "No, we're not dead. It's just that we no longer occupy the same level of reality as humans."
"Eh?"
"While once we lived in your universe, we have since…" The alien paused to consider his next word. "…ascended to a whole different dimension, if that helps your understanding."
It didn't.
"Now," continued Klablath. "I must insist on proceeding. I am contacting you in order to give you a warning. Not just you, but all human beings. A great peril is arising that threatens life for your species as you know it."
"Peril?"
"Yes. But, if you listen to us, you can prevent a catastrophe from coming to pass."
"B-but…me?" stuttered Colin. "Me, prevent catastrophe? You couldn't have picked a worse person. Why come to me of all people?"
"Believe me," said Klablath dryly, "at this moment, we have no other choice. It is either you or nobody. The fact we even have you as an option is the result of a happy accident. A consequence of that rather unique brain of yours."
"My brain?" Colin felt a pang of pride. A super-intelligent alien had labelled his brain ‘unique.' "What's so special about it?"
"Oh, it's not special. It's faulty."
Colin's pride quickly deserted him again.
Klablath continued. "The purpose of the artifact on the planet you call Mars was to act as a beacon. Shortly before we ascended and left the corporeal realm behind, we concluded that the life on your planet seemed likely to develop intelligence soon. Soon, that is, in galactic timescales. And so, since we would no longer be able to observe the corporeal realm directly, we left behind the beacon which is linked to our dimension. It would lay dormant until the touch of a living being fell upon it. This would activate it and signal to us that a species had indeed developed intelligence and gone on to reach Mars."
"And so…" said Colin, processing the revelation. "The beacon is like a…radio to your dimension?
Klablath nodded.
Colin struggled on. "And you set it up like a…"
There was only one word he could think of but feared saying it for the implications. He said it anyway.
"Like a trap, so we would walk into it and give ourselves away to you? Oh, dear god, what have I done?"
Dark thoughts entered his mind of alien invasions.
"Calm yourself, Colin Douglass," urged Klablath. "You misjudge us. Our interest in your development is purely for curiosity's sake."
Klablath's words, delivered in the lethargic, nasal timbre of Alec Guinness, were reassuring, but Colin still burned with suspicion.
"I suppose you would say that if you were intent on an invasion or something."
"I assure you, even if we wished to re-enter your realm, we could not. We have no physical bodies. We exist only as energy. We are now merely minds echoing around the hyper-dimensional planes of our existence, nothing but intellects locked in pursuits of the most cerebral kind. The corporeal realm no longer holds interest for us. Indeed, we Predecessors have sworn never to interfere in the affairs of material beings such as yourselves."
"Then why do you keep bothering me?" cried Colin.
"Alas, your mind has complicated matters somewhat. Our intention was to use the beacon to establish inter-dimensional, telepathic contact with a human and learn about your species by scanning your brain. However, your brain has a flaw somewhere in the region called the thalamus. And the energy we use to create the interdimensional channel of communication has…oh, this is rather embarrassing… for want of a better word, this energy has snagged itself on this faulty part of your brain."
"Snagged?"
"Yes. The residual energy you have observed in your brain is the remains of the channel. We still share an imperfect and intermittent link. We are unable to…shake it loose, as it were. However, it turns out that this accident has put us in a most fortunate position."
"You're telling me," exclaimed Colin. "By all accounts, that bit of energy has neutralised my disease. It's saved my life!"
"I am not referring to that," said Klablath. The expression on his face turned grave. "What I mean is, the persistence of this channel allows us to warn you against the threat. You recall that your mind was not just scanned, it also had information inserted into it, yes?"
"Yes," he replied. "Equations, coordinates, and all that nonsense."
"That transference of information was unauthorised. You were not meant to have it."
"Eh? Then how come—"
"The beacon was sabotaged. You see, I was not entirely accurate when I said that the corporeal realm holds no interest to us. Millennia ago, when we ascended, the Predecessors decided unanimously that we would never return to your dimension. Ascension was a one-way journey. However, a tiny minority of Predecessors have since reneged on that promise and lobbied furiously to return. So far, they have been prevented not only by the will of the majority but by physical law as we know it. Now, however, it seems they might have found a way back. It was the rebel Predecessors who secretly inserted that information into your mind. The rest of us became aware only after it was too late."
"But why did they put it there?"
"We are not certain yet. It is possible they have found a way to travel back via the beacon. We have disabled the beacon on Mars to prevent this, but…"
Klablath looked around worriedly as the lights around him began to darken.
"But what?" asked Colin.
"There may be another beacon elsewhere. If there is and the rebels have access to it, they might use it to travel back. This cannot be allowed to happen."
"But you said your people have no physical form. How can they even come back?"
"In your universe, a mind cannot exist without a body, and so a Predecessor mind would have to find a physical body to occupy."
"Occupy?" A chilling thought occurred. "You mean like…possession?"
"Yes," replied Klablath. His voice grew quieter and uneven. Syllables began to go missing. "If the rebels ha– worked out how to do this, they must not be –lowed to come through. You must stop them."
"Me?" cried Colin. "What chance I have got? I'm the worst person in the world to ask. No, the worst in the galaxy. I'm a nobody, a nothing, a caveman. I even blew it when I had people queueing up to worship me as a prophet."
"Remember, Colin Douglass," replied Klablath. A shadow began stretching over him, and his image dwindled into the fading light. His choppy voice receded. "We cannot int–fere. You a– the only human we c–n reach. We are l–sing you, but we shall try to reestab–sh contact."
Around him, the countless stars began to fade, leaving behind an empty black nothing.
"Wait!" yelled Colin.
"It– too late."
The shadow engulfed Klablath until nothing remained.
But with one last roar, he called out, "Don't touch the beacons, C-in Douglass. If you find a beacon, whatever you do: don't touch it!"
25
Lowcuzt awoke with a start. The grey-brown rocky ceiling, still bathed in soft yellow light, stared back at him.
What had just happened?
The last thing he remembered was reaching out to touch the artifact. Things after that were a bit fuzzy. Bursts of colour and psychedelic images, mostly. He'd seen clouds of dancing lights. He'd felt something like a hard, cold blast of air, not against his skin but inside his head.
And then nothing.
Quite a rush. It had been better than any neuro-V.R.
Lowcuzt tried to take stock of himself. Everything seemed in order. He felt clear-headed, and the only pain that registered was the discomfort of lying on the hard floor.
Then he remembered that, just before losing consciousness, he'd had the distinct impression that someone else had entered the room. He still had that feeling. If anyone was here, they were awfully quiet. Lowcuzt tried to crane his neck to look around the room.
He couldn't.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move his head. He tried to move his arms, his hands, his legs. Nothing happened. His body remained absolutely inert. Panic began to grip him. He cried out with all his might.
Help! Heeeeelp!
Wait a minute. That didn't sound right. There was no echo. His words hadn't reverberated as they should have. Actually, they didn't seem to have made any external sound at all. They'd had an odd sort of immaterial feel. As though…
…as though he had cried out inside his own mind.
He yelled again, but with the same disembodied result.
Help me! I'm trapped, and I can't move!
Of course, you can't move, echoed a second voice. I'm in control of your body.
Lowcuzt's underwear could be grateful Lowcuzt had already lost control of his body. Otherwise, he would have wet himself right there and then. Instead, only his mind jolted in shock.
The voice had sounded breathy and gravelly, like iron scraping over rock, and was nothing like Lowcuzt's or any other voice he'd heard before. Like his own words, they'd sounded like nothing more than echoes inside his own head.
Are you still there? the voice asked.
The words didn't feel like they'd been spoken out loud. He hadn't ‘felt' them in his ears. They had just popped into his mind.
You know, the voice continued, I don't know about your dimension, but in mine, it's considered rude to ignore someone when they ask a question.
Dimension? What did they mean by that?
Was this some kind of sick joke? It was possible somebody had shot him with some kind of stun gun. That would account for his incapacity. Whatever was happening, it seemed the owner of this voice was the only person who might be able to help, even if they were some kind of twisted practical joker.
How to respond? The voice didn't seem to hear his thoughts, but it had definitely replied when Lowcuzt at least tried to speak.
He tried once more.
Hello?
There now, replied the other voice like a stern teacher. That wasn't so much effort, was it?
What's going on? Lowcuzt voiced again. Who are you, what's your designation?
My designation is not important. What is important is that I am now in control of your body. Observe.
With that, Lowcuzt sat up. Or, at least, Lowcuzt's body sat up, because he sure as hell wasn't responsible for moving it. As the walls came into view, he watched open-mouthed—figuratively speaking, since he had no control over his mouth, voluntary or involuntary. The room was still
as empty as before, nothing but the lamps hanging on the grey-brown walls and the artifact standing black and inscrutable as ever.
Ooooh, the voice groaned in pleasure. Look at those colours! Do you have any idea how long it's been since I saw colours? Since I saw at all, for that matter.
His arms stretched out, and his shoulder gave a crack.
Ahhh, that felt good.
Suddenly, air was rushing into Lowcuzt's lungs. He could smell the stale atmosphere, musty, dank, and subterranean.
Odours! the voice gasped. The detection of airborne chemical compounds through biological sensory apparatus. I'd forgotten that one. Wonderful.
Lowcuzt, meanwhile, was busy trying to keep hold of his wits. Hey! he cried. How are you doing this?
His hand moved from his lap and trailed idly across the ground. Even though it was out of his control, Lowcuzt could still feel the coarse, rocky texture.
Mmmm, the voice purred. Tactile sensations. I'll tell you this: you don't half miss nerve endings after they're gone.
Stop this! Give me my body back. Where are you?
I'm the same place you are. Inside your head.
Clearly, someone was messing with him. There'd be hell to pay when he discovered who. For now, he had to find help somehow. He needed to get someone's attention, despite being unable to move or speak. The answer was obvious. Tekapt. He could use his messaging app to contact Forn and come to his aid.
He willed the app to open, but nothing happened. Ordinarily, his neural implant would have picked up his brain signals and brought up the interface in his vision, but he saw nothing. Had he lost his power to tekapt as well? Maybe another function would work. He willed his news app to open, but again nothing happened. He desperately signalled various cybernetic functions at random—infrared-vision, medi-monitor, adrenoshot—all with no effect.
His hands meanwhile were going on an exploration all of their own, rubbing along his torso, over his chest, down his ribs.
Hey, this touching thing works twice as good when you touch yourself.