Mobius

by Vincent Vale

  I surveyed the jagged and mountainous landscape. To the right meandered a canyon cut deep by a small river. To the left and at a more immediate distance was a wall of sheer cliffs supporting a forest of peach-leaved trees.

  “Could they have moved with the shifting landscape?” I suggested.

  “Unlikely,” said Fanbert, shaking his head with conviction. “The temporal stasis device attached to each Prophet will maintain their exact location with relation to the center of the planet. In effect, nothing can move them. They’re fixed in space as well as time.” He again pointed the ocular device in the direction of the supposed resting place of the Prophets. “Then again, anything’s possible.”

  Orsteen repositioned the large entropy gun over his shoulder. “Is there another way to locate them?”

  “No,” said Fanbert. “I had expected to locate them by their planetary coordinates.”

  “We should move to higher ground,” I said. “Maybe we can get a better view of our surroundings.”

  Everyone agreed and we moved with determined strides in the direction of the snow-capped peak. The sun started rising, warming our backs.

  Morion pointed into the distance. “Just above that cliff, I saw an unnatural glimmer, like the dance of light reflecting off metal. There it is again!”

  “I also see it,” said Orsteen.

  After a brief assessment of the terrain, we plotted the best route to avoid the steeper and more dangerous parts of the cliff. A short but exhausting hike brought us to the top of the cliff and into the presence of three behemoth spaceships, each partially buried, protruding up from the ground at haphazard angles.

  “What craftsmanship!” said Orsteen. “Such creations aren’t meant to be trapped in the dense atmosphere of a planet, but free to float in the ether of outer space.”

  I pushed my head forward. “For being abandoned for two hundred thousand years, they appear unblemished by the elements. In fact, they’re polished to a mirror’s surface.”

  Fanbert looked up from his ocular device. “I’m in agreement. Their preservation over the eons is surprising.”

  Morion squinted. “What are those things clinging to the surfaces of the ships?”

  Fanbert trained his ocular device on them. “People! With lank limbs, plump bodies, and suction cups attached to their knees and elbows. I think they’re cleaning the hulls.”

  “I thought no one was left on this planet,” I said.

  Fanbert shook his head in wonder. “There shouldn’t have been. It’s possible they’re an alien evolution.”

  I stepped forward. “Let’s get a better look.”

  We moved closer to the ships, but were soon confronted by the same kind of alien as those attached to the ships by suction cups. He looked male. His skin had a light blue tinge. His large eyes had great big pupils rimmed with green. He seemed primitive, wearing simple white garments and holding a long, rusty blade in his hand.

  “Halt, strange creatures! You trespass on sanctified land!”

  Fanbert implemented his dimensional transporter and appeared directly behind the alien. With little effort, Fanbert snatched away his clumsy blade.

  The alien extended his lank arms in a defensive posture. “Back! Stay back!”

  “Interesting,” I said. “If I’m not mistaken, our ability to understand him indicates he has a biolinguistic lobe, and is thus a Brahman descendent.”

  “You’re correct.” Fanbert waved the man’s blade in front of him. “What are you doing here? How have you come to this planet?”

  “Your questions suggest my people’s claim to this land is in dispute. Our history here extends back through the ages.”

  “And when did this history begin?” asked Fanbert.

  “The details of the past are blurred like a drunk man’s vision. My people find it unhealthy to fixate on the past, and instead concentrate on the future, where we’re all headed.”

  Fanbert stabbed the man’s rusty blade into the ground. “These people aren’t the Prophets’ descendents. It’s possible they’re from the only other inhabited solar system in this galaxy. Since its distance is so great, we didn’t think they’d find this planet. I guess we were wrong.”

  “In any event, they’re here now,” I said, turning to the local inhabitant. “Why do you polish these ships so diligently?”

  “Only those who remain loyal until the return of the Elevated Ones are allowed passage to the Celestial Homeworld.”

  “The Celestial Homeworld?” said Morion.

  “A paradise where all your desires are granted and all hardships alleviated.”

  “So you’re a religious people?” asked Orsteen.

  “We prefer the term Devotees. Come, I’ll show you our practices—unless you’re going to kill me. In which case, I’d prefer to be knocked on the head so my body is unscathed for the Rite of Preservation.”

  I returned the man’s rusty blade. “We’re not going to harm you or your people. Please, lead the way and we’ll follow.”

  “Very well. My name’s Marden. I’m head of territorial security and maintenance. Since you’re here peacefully, I’m obligated to invite you to join us in the service of the Elevated Ones. We don’t discriminate or turn away those willing to be devout in our ways. Though, I must admit, you’d be the first not born into them.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “We’ll consider your offer.”

  Marden led us to the closest ship. It was farther than we expected—its size was so great that its distance was misleading. We moved through a small farm, past a cluster of primitive dome-roofed dwellings, and at last came to the base of the ship.

  Marden touched the ship thoughtfully. “If you place your hand on the surface, you’ll notice it’s warm to the touch. This is the divine heat, which doesn’t dwindle on even the coldest days. As you can see, there are many Devotees presently giving their daily service to satisfy the Elevated Ones.” Marden looked up to a dizzying height at the many figures attached precariously to the ship’s hull. “With a passionate, counterclockwise motion, they polish the hull with a sacred cloth weaved by our women from the delicate underbelly hairs of a burrowing animal called a droobsy mouse.”

  As Marden continued to detail the exact weaving pattern of the cloth, Fanbert continued to peer through his ocular device, searching in all directions. Marden noticed his distracted behavior and, with a brisk hand clapping, called for his attention.

  Marden indicated a Devotee descending from the ship’s hull. “When a Devotee finishes his daily service, as brother Darden has, the cloth, which has become positively charged with the divine heat of the hull, must be taken to the fire beacon. Come, we’ll follow Darden.”

  We followed the man along a dirt path that curved through a tree-covered hillock, across a cold rocky stream and finally ended at a grass carpeted clearing. There, we found a large fire pit surrounded by over a hundred enormous telescopes, all pointing over the snow-capped peak.

  Marden continued: “Darden now throws the positively charged cloth into the fire beacon, which remains lit at all times. The rich gray smoke produced from the burning cloth is a signal to the Elevated Ones that his daily service is done. He’s now free to look to the heavens through a great eye and pray for the Elevated Ones to return, so they may pilot their chariots back to the Celestial Homeworld with him aboard.”

  I noticed an elderly Devotee limping to the fire beacon. “And your ancestors also performed this ritual?”

  “They did, with as much pride and zeal as we do today.”

  “Isn’t it discouraging to know your ancestors worked their entire lives in the service of these Elevated Ones, only to die without being delivered to the Celestial Homeworld?”

  Marden laughed. “This is an understandable concern that’s easily resolved. Those who have died before the return of the Elevated Ones are allowed the Rite of Preservation, in which their bodies are submerged in a potent brine derived from a local plant extract. After thirty days of submersion, their
bodies remain preserved until the return of the Elevated Ones, who have the power to resurrect these loyal Devotees.” Marden made a sympathetic look. “If the four of you are to gain favor from the Elevated Ones, you’ll need to start offering your services immediately. We believe the appearance of this awesome light in the sky is a sign of their return.”

  “We’ll keep this in mind,” I said, nodding with fake concern. “However, before we join you in worship, we’d like a better look at these fine lands composing your community. We wish to know the full quality of your lifestyle.”

  Marden raised his brow curiously. “I see no reason to hesitate in your devotion. Who in their right mind would refuse the promise of paradise? When a thirsty man is presented with a glass of water and a mug of ale, doesn’t he leave the water for the dogs?”

  Orsteen puffed his chest out. “This may be a truth to live by, but only if you know the ale is a quality brew.”

  Marden contemplated for a moment. “Very well. You’re welcome to look around, but first we should announce your peaceful intentions to my people. Otherwise, they may sneak up behind you and cut off your heads with a pair of farming shears.” Marden led us onward. “Since the appearance of the great light, we’ve been holding a continual feast at the Pantheon Gardens, where all but those performing their daily services are celebrating. I’ll take you there now.”

  We arrived at a beautiful stone-paved patio open to the sky and surrounded by gardens of bell-shaped flowers wafting a honey-sweet aroma. The blue-skinned residents were caught up in a joyful celebration. A group of children blew vigorously into large, twisted gourds, creating an uplifting music that resonated throughout the patio. Everyone in attendance was invigorated by the glow of the phenomenon and let loose their inhibitions, moving rhythmically to the music.

  Marden led us to the stage and stopped the children’s music with an authoritative gesture. All who danced became still and gazed with big pupils to the stage. Marden introduced us, and we were met with little interest. Marden again gestured to the children, who resumed huffing and puffing into their gourds.

  “Your presence is acknowledged,” said Marden. “You may roam our lands as you please. Help yourself to the beverages and cuisine laid out for the celebration. You’ll discover the droobsy mouse to be a versatile creature.”

  Marden departed and we found our way to the perimeter of the patio, where long serving tables were piled high with many foreign dishes. Morion was quick to find a large cask full of small animal bladders filled with a golden ale.

  I noticed Fanbert continuing to utilize his ocular device. “Have you discovered any sign of the Prophets? Ten minutes ago, I noticed the phenomenon pulse and shimmer, as if it could barely maintain its current size.”

  “It may take more time than we have. This ocular device is inefficient for searching large areas.”

  Orsteen devoured a cheese-filled droobsy mouse. “Why don’t we just ask Marden if his people have seen these Prophets?”

  “Why not, indeed?” I said, now searching the crowd for Marden.

  “No need!” proclaimed Fanbert. “Our search has ended.”

  Fanbert looked down the length of the flower garden, where stood a row of statues, chiseled from a lustrous jade stone. They were unlike the race celebrating on the patio. They wore a modest garb indicative of a lifestyle unconcerned with fashion. Yet, on their heads they wore skullcaps decorated with a unique arrangement of feathers, suggesting rank or status.

  “They’re just statues,” I said.

  “Statues of the Prophets!” replied Fanbert, who rewarded himself with an ale-bladder. “Don’t you see? These are the Elevated Ones. I’ll show you. Gather around me.”

  Fanbert transported us back to the grass-carpeted clearing, where the many telescopes pointed to the sky. He guided us to the closest telescope and peered through the peephole. He raised his head and smiled triumphantly. He signaled me to take a turn at the peephole. “Behold, a Prophet!”

  The telescope was fixed on a single figure floating, motionless, high above the snow-capped peak and left to exist in a frozen moment. I manipulated a knob near the peephole, so the telescope zoomed out. All the Prophets came into view. They hung close together, forming a disc of bodies, to the effect that the mountaintop wore a halo of men.

  I withdrew from the peephole. “And I thought Marden and his fellow Devotees were wild-eyed lunatics, awaiting gods born from the imagination of their ancestors.”

  Orsteen took his turn at the peephole. “How do we get them down? We don’t have a ship or anti-gravity belts.”

  “We only need one of them,” said Fanbert. “I can grab him from the sky with the help of my dimensional transporter.”

  “Can you do it now?” I asked, feeling the tug of the phenomenon on my mind.

  “Absolutely.” Fanbert opened his bag and retrieved the device required to wake the Prophet from temporal stasis. He sharpened his attention above the mountain and vanished.

  Through the peephole, I saw Fanbert materialize above the Prophet he’d selected. During the subsequent three-meter fall, Fanbert activated the device, causing the Prophet to come out of stasis and fall alongside him. Fanbert grabbed on to him and engaged his dimensional transporter.

  I pulled away from the peephole. Fanbert and the Prophet appeared beside me.

  The Prophet stomped his foot on the ground, apparently to guarantee he was no longer falling. With eyes conveying great intelligence, he inspected us. Before he could speak, he was thrown to his knees by an invisible force. He clutched his skull with two large hands, disheveling the arrangement of feathers on his skullcap. He then applied to his skull what seemed the full force of his grip, as if trying to break an unbreakable egg. His face twisted in pain.

  “The feedback’s too powerful!” cried the Prophet. “It’s too much! My mind can’t handle it!”

  “What’s he talking about?” I asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” responded Fanbert.

  The Prophet struggled to control his seizure. I tried to help him from the ground, but he pushed me away. He examined me with odd intensity and then focused on the sky, where the celestial phenomenon shimmered and pulsed.

  “It’s begun!” said the Prophet, looking to Fanbert with familiarity. “We could’ve prevented this, but you stopped us!”

  Why does he care about the celestial phenomenon? I thought. Weren’t they trying to assassinate Nara-Narayana?

  “You’re confused,” I said. “The celestial phenomenon is the work of the Fume. He’s trying to birth a god from the souls of all humankind. We must find Nara-Narayana. She’s our only hope to stop this apocalypse.”

  The Prophet made a mocking laugh that progressed into a cough of pain. “You fools! Do you think I’m ignorant? Of course this is the work of the Fume! You don’t know what the celestial phenomenon is, do you?”

  I grabbed him by the shoulders. “We only want to find Nara-Narayana.”

  The Prophet laughed insanely. He pushed his hand toward the sky and pointed to the celestial phenomenon. “Are you blind? She’s right in front of you, oozing out upon the universe. The celestial phenomenon is Nara-Narayana.”

  “My God,” I uttered. “If the phenomenon is Nara-Narayana, then we’re fucked.”

  Fanbert’s nostrils flared. “You’re just as crazy as the day we put you into stasis, two hundred thousand years ago. If you knew this was coming, why didn’t you tell us?”

  “No more questions! I can’t tolerate the feedback!” The Prophet’s eyes bulged, as if a pressure from inside his skull grew to uncontainable levels. “Take me to my ship. I must stop this pain.”

  Fanbert transported us to one of the ships. The Devotees clinging to the hull caught sight of the Prophet and apparently recognized him as an Elevated One.

  Hysterical cries rained down: “An Elevated One has returned! He has come to take us to the Celestial Homeworld!”

  And, from even higher above: “We’ve served you with a
ll the diligence and zeal possible! We praise your return! Take us to the Celestial Homeworld. Please!”

  A hundred Devotees frantically descended. The squish-squelch of their suction cups produced a bizarre chorus.

  “Where’s the entrance?” I cried. “Fanbert! Transport us inside the ship!”

  “I can’t,” responded Fanbert. “The Prophets built it so Guardians couldn’t transport inside. From what I remember, the main portal is at the base of the ship. It’s now buried.”

  I shook the Prophet who kneeled on the ground in pain. “Are there any other portals?”

  The Prophet lifted his head. “No.”

  “I have a solution,” said Orsteen, presenting the entropy gun. He raised it to the hull and let loose a stream of energy that vaporized the metal. “The door’s open,” he said, nodding with satisfaction.

  I turned to Orsteen and Morion. “Keep the Devotees at bay. We don’t have time to deal with their fairy tales.”

  “You got it,” said Orsteen.

  I lifted the Prophet over my shoulder and entered the ship.

  The Prophet pointed a finger, guiding us. “Take the lift up twelve decks, veer left, and then proceed to the end of the corridor.”

  There we came to a small chamber. Within rested a single metal chair. I placed the Prophet into the chair and three metal posts rose from the floor and surrounded him. I heard an electrical buzz as the silver posts glowed.

  With great care, the Prophet began removing the skullcap from his bulbous head. When finally he pried it free, Fanbert and I noticed a substantial part of the Prophet’s brain protruding from a hole in his skull.

  “Why have you mutilated yourself?” I asked, approaching the Prophet.

  “Keep your distance!” said the Prophet. “I must undergo a special treatment to undo the modifications made to my biolinguistic lobe.” He spoke a command word and the three silver posts projected energized beams toward his head. They carried through the air like ripples of heat rising off hot sand. The Prophet closed his eyes and accepted the strange energy.