And our illustrious leaders knew. THEY FUCKING KNEW!
Damn them all to . . .
At first, I went into sceptical denial, playing Devil’s Advocate with myself, trying to disprove what I already knew deep in my bones to be so awfully, painfully true. I filled my whiteboard with equations, erased it in a fury, refilled it, over and over, but the maths kept throwing the same horrible conclusion back at me.
No wonder they stoked infighting between the faculties: they didn’t want us cooperating, pooling our data, fearing we’d eventually stumble on to the terrible truth.
People lie, as do their ideologies, but science doesn’t. The numbers don’t lie, even (and especially) when they violate your precious previously conceived notions. Even if they make you bitter.
I was already so bitter, but still naïve enough to think the rest of the world would be as willing to see the bitter, intractable truth as I was.
The paper I wrote is still out there somewhere, taken up and discussed by a contingent of ‘free thinkers’ (as they call themselves). I believe the thread is still active on the Grid, but to the world at large, indistinguishable from the squillion other conspiracy theories festering in cyberoblivion. If I’d published it earlier in my career, it might’ve got more credence. Now beardless, newly sober, troubled with shaky health much of time, it was hard not to entertain paranoid fantasies of stern, silent men in suits with dark glasses and earpieces showing up to my apartment. But they never did; they knew they didn’t need to. My name already so mud-caked, it was easy for them—the government, the press, Scitech—to dismiss me. It only further cemented my status as a pariah, a crank, a raving drunk, an embarrassment to himself and anyone foolish enough to listen to him, best forgotten.
Let them think what they want. That’s the most banally and profoundly intractable truth of all: people will think what they want to think. Equations only make sense to people like me. To accept something, you need incontrovertible proof. Something big, sensation-making, even (and especially) if it shatters your world.
I look at the time: three minutes.
Here, we begin our countdown: T-minus two fifty-nine, two fifty-eight . . .
I unhook the hearing aid from my ear, look around. No one is paying attention to me. All eyes are glued to the big monitor, waiting for the triumphant return of another spacecraft, one of the many based on the original Falcon design, overflowing with cargo fleeced from the unsuspecting alien world.
As it approaches, satellites will detect spacetime disturbances in the outer solar system, normally signalling the ship to dematerialise out of ‘warp space’ at a safe distance from our planet.
But not today.
With unsteady fingers, I carefully unscrew the ear bulb, revealing transistor wiring and a tiny switch that, when thrown, will jam that signal.
And then?
Well, from here I’m speculating, but if I’m right (and I always am) . . .
There will be a shadowy ripple in the sky. The globe hologram will fizzle and shimmer with bands of horizontal static before it vanishes with an audible pop. All the screens will wink out, and there will be darkness. And silence, punctuated by gasps and confused murmurs, quickly mounting in panic. Then sudden violent fluctuations in gravity throw us into the air. The carpeted floor beneath us undulates like an ocean. Shrieks of alarm all around, drowned out by groaning metal as load-bearing pylons over our heads bend and sway like trees in a cyclone. Then the domes shatter, showering everything in powdered polymer-glass, a cloud of lacerating rain, too fast for everyone to hold their breaths or cover their eyes in time.
Outside, still a clear sky. No one will realise (anymore than the aliens did) that the ship is already here, but still travelling faster than light, the effects of its arrival are experienced before it’s seen.
Minuscule black-holes, like anti-stars, flicker in and out of existence, within scant hundredths of a second apiece, but plenty long enough to split the planet’s crust like a eggshell, to suck cone-like spires of material up into the air, leaving behind those strange twisted conical mounds for aghast onlookers from afar to puzzle upon, wondering why they look so familiar . . .
If we live long enough, we will eventually see, up above, a blinding flare of particle/metaparticle plasma—just what our transplanetary brothers and sisters would’ve seen, from which the avian-looking spacecraft would emerge, in the nick of time, just after the planet-shattering catastrophe, weirdly, magically, as if by some cosmic miracle.
By then it’ll be too late for us in the disaster zone, but in other parts of the world, on moon bases and space stations orbiting the other planets, at a safe enough distance to observe not just what happened, but why, remembering where they’d seen this phenomena before.
The media will be all over it. They’ll want someone to blame, to pin their slurs on (‘madman’, ‘terrorist’). Maybe my name will emerge, to be dragged through the rhetorical mud all over again, but I, along with everyone else in what remains of this once ostentatiously impressive airport, will be beyond caring by then. What remains of ’Mr Warp Drive’s reputation is worth sacrificing. If my life along with the lives of hundreds of ignorant, blind believers in our intergalactic benevolence must also be sacrificed to make everyone finally wake up and see the truth, so be it. The time for comforting lies is over.
I started this mess; I must finish it.
My quivering thumb rests on the switch. Out of Hell’s heart, I stab . . .
One minute . . . fifty-nine . . . fifty-eight . . .
The big monitor shows nothing but a star-filled void, but I feel the ship’s approach, closing the million-kilometre gap at beyond-blinding speed, yet every second is an eternity.
When the countdown finally drops to single digits, people push forward, crushing and crowding, their enraptured eyes up, beaming, hopeful.
Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .
Brisk professionals, puffy-eyed women, lost-looking old people . . . the faces all fog, begin to blur into one another.
I am trying not to cry.
I can’t see the numbers anymore.
I want to wipe my eyes, but I can’t move my hand.
I can’t feel the switch; I don’t know if I’m still holding it. Have I thrown it already?
I feel strange. Does the SDPS-disentanglement have an unforeseen effect on human biology? I look up, searching the sky. The ship could be here already and I won’t know for . . . I’m not sure how long. It might already be too late.
I think it’s causing electrical shortages. I can smell something burning.
The switch falls from my limp hand and the world reels as I suddenly topple backwards.
The carpeted floor slams against my back.
And there is darkness. And silence.
I open my eyes to find I’m not dead, to my disappointment.
The fog coheres into concerned faces surrounding me. One has a stethoscope around his neck, holding my hands, asking me to squeeze them. I can’t.
There is talk. I catch words I think I once knew the meaning of: “cerebrovascular accident . . . atrial fibrillation . . . probably from long-term alcohol abuse . . .”
I too once had clever-sounding things to say, to desperately want to tell the world, but all that comes from my mouth are spastic moans.
They’re not really paying attention, or even pretending to, for my benefit or anyone else’s. But what does it matter? They wouldn’t listen anyway; they never do, to me or anyone telling them what they don’t want to hear.
The fuckers. The poor, smug, overfortunate fuckers. They’ll never know how fortunate they really are because they’ll never know how right I was about everything.
THE END.
ARRDUM’S PROMISE by Shane Porteous
There were no twists in the trees; each stood like an impaled arrow upon the back of some giant dead beast. Each leaf seemed like a Fletcher, perfectly placed instead of grown. Snow and ice covered the landscape, there was a not a patch of dirt
that could be seen anywhere. It was cold here, always chilled, always freezing, there was never a summer, autumn or spring, only winter. Snow hadn’t fallen in this place for thousands of years, the snow and ice here were ancient and far from fresh. Nothing ever thawed, the landscape remained constantly frozen. It was as if the gods of this world, whoever they maybe, were terrified of this place and so froze it in time, hoping that one day the world would forget this landscape. It was a terrain that rejected life, insulted that anything breathing would ever dare walk amongst its eerie forests.
There was at least one being who didn’t mind insulting the terrain, a lone figure that showed no fear of the eternal woods. Furs covered his body; the hides of animals that couldn’t be found anywhere else but in this morbid cold. Though beardless the hard frame of his face hadn’t suffered the red marks that chill often loved to provide. His breathing, calm and near silent, left his body like exhaled smoke from a tobacco pipe. The cold did affect him, but long gone were the days where it bothered him. His stomach was empty, it wasn’t growling yet, but by the hour’s end it would be sounding like a beast roaring.
He didn’t have to worry about snow blindness, but that didn’t mean the landscape didn’t play other tricks. He couldn’t rely on the path of the trees, they were seemingly endless with no real distinction between one tree to the next. Thus he kept his eyes closed, knowing his other senses were harder to trick. Through smell, sound or even touch he would find his meal. He enjoyed meat, but what man his size and strength didn’t? It was a real rarity here, the few birds and deer that lived here were hard to kill, cowards and weaklings simply couldn’t survive in Shillvii. A name that supposedly meant, ‘the underworld made from ice.’ The only thing it was under on this night was a full moon with no accompanying stars. Shillvii wasn’t the afterlife, although there was undoubtedly something otherworldly about it.
The figure tilted his head as he listened well, knowing he had to be patient. On this night his hopes were far too high, not only did he want to catch a deer or a bird, he wanted to cook it. Fires were almost impossible to start in Shillvii and half the time they were started the flames would often freeze before the meat could be singed. But the man kept his hope, he didn’t like being hungry, which was far from ideal in this wasteland of ice and snow. He had never quite gotten use to it. What he had gotten use to though was the near constant silence. He had trained his ears to always alert him to any sound, no matter how faint.
The sound he then heard was anything but faint, it was loud, monstrous and booming. It was a roar, a vile sound of malice and might that could be heard all throughout the eternal woods. The man knew such a sound, it was as horrid as it was unique, only a dragon could make that kind of noise. Strangely he didn’t panic he kept his eyes closed and listened on. He heard the sound of enormous wings and felt the powerful wind they created as the dragon flew overhead.
The moment passed and the wind grew weaker, the sound more distant. The dragon wasn’t hunting him. Even with only the faintest sound of the wings in the distance his mind wasn’t at ease. His hearing was great enough that he knew the exact direction the dragon was flying. He also knew where that direction led, which meant he had every reason to be concerned. He heard another roar from the dragon, even from such a distance it was a powerful sound. Dragons only roared when they were hungry and the man knew what their favorite meal was.
The city was dull, the giant stone walls weren’t fine architecture, they were simple constructions forged from repetitive labor, the houses were much the same, though they were small insignificant dwellings. Even the house of lords wasn’t particular well built, it was nothing more than a practical place for the politicians and so called ruling class to squabble about insignificant things. The only real thing the city had going for it was the number of soldiers and guards it possessed. Men and women, well trained, forged by the harsh environment this city was built on. Beyond the final walls was the snow-covered wasteland of Shillvii and on the other side was the Grand Blue Road. Such an unimaginative name, it was forged from morm stones, each an ugly blue. The city functioned on the edge of a knife, there was never a time where food was plentiful or gold coin was numerous. It constantly was in a state of desperation and this night wasn’t any different.
The market place had been forced to reopen once more, all the shop keepers with their meager offerings had opened their stores and carts. None of them were particularly hopeful for a good sale; it was hard to sell trinkets and tools when people were struggling just to keep themselves fed. The shopkeepers knew this, the soldiers knew this, the townsfolk knew this and most of all the entire ruling class knew this. In truth the lords weren’t malicious people, but they were desperate and desperation often led to selfishness and cruelty. Being so isolated this city relied too heavily on the yearly tributes of the wealthy nations far away in the south. The nations that were constantly at war with the confederation of the north and needed the city to rest their weary armies once or twice a year. But the constant wars were coming to an end and thus there was less and less need for this city in the middle of nowhere. Without the tributes the city’s economy was collapsing like a horse that had been ridden too hard for far too long. Taxes had steadily increased as the months went by, those who didn’t pay or rather couldn’t pay were often beaten and made an example of. It didn’t make any difference, most people weren’t hiding coins, they simply didn’t have any money. Most of the shopkeepers had to rely on trade all year around, they would trade tools for services and other such things. The ruling class, who seemed to live in a full state of denial, didn’t acknowledge these realities.
It was mandatory that every citizen appear at the markets. They didn’t have to buy anything, they just had to pay the entrance tax. Thievery and crime had been rife the last couple of weeks, desperate town folks that didn’t want another beating had stolen any coin they found. The soldiers of the city knew that most of the coins collected had been stolen, but they didn’t say anything about it. The entire city was living in a delusional ignorance. Mindlessly most of the town folks moved from stall to stall, pretending they were interested in what the keepers had to offer. Very rarely something was brought and it always was something insignificant.
But out of all the shopkeepers there was one who was almost sure she wouldn’t sell anything regardless of its significance. She was rather quite young, especially amongst the other shopkeepers. Her hair fell like black silk, perfectly framing her pale face. She was also the only shopkeeper that appeared well washed, hygiene was a luxury in a city of necessity. She was no fool and knew this quite well, but it would be impossible to sell her soaps if she was covered in dirt and filth. She had to appear like she was making a real effort to sell her trade especially with all the guards around. Like most of the city, she too had relied on the travelling armies to fill her pockets. The great southern knights, who took great pride in how they looked, before going into battle, welcomed her soaps.
She glanced over to the next stall, where a slightly older than her man stood, just as aware that he was offering luxury as well. She knew him as Telom the polisher, he too relied on the vanity of the southern knights by polishing their armor for them. The guards and soldiers of the city, sadly weren’t as vain, they were the most practical people one could ever meet.
“Can we go home now please?” She looked down upon the face of her son, he was a mirror image of his father at that age, save for his eyes, they were green and enchanting, his eyes were those of his mother.
“I wish we could Herial,” she said, speaking her son’s name softly. “But we have to stay here until we are told we can leave.”
“Elheria!” a voice said sharply.
Upon hearing her name she turned and met the gaze of Telom.
“Lower your voice when speaking about such things.” Tolem wasn’t rude, in fact he was being helpful, desperate times made many fickle. There was no exact way of telling how the guards might interpret her words. She knelt down, ensu
ring she could look her son directly in the eyes.
“Hopefully it won’t be too much longer Herial.”
The boy trusted his mother as much as he loved her, her tone was enough to tell him not to harp on about the matter.
“Shop Keeper Elheria?” a commanding voice asked.
Before she even looked she knew it was a guard, only guards spoke in such tones.
“Yes?” she asked, standing and facing the guard, ensuring proper respect was shown.
“You may return to your home if you so wish.”
Elheria didn’t respond, Tolem had been right to warn her. She couldn’t tell if the guard was amongst the more desperate of the city.
“You were the first that opened your stall tonight, therefore you have the first right to leave.”
“Thank you I shall,” she responded, realizing that the guard meant her no harm.
Though none would speak of it, the real truth was the guards had collected as much taxes as they believed they would on this night. But it was all part of the elaborate show of control, the dedication to routine that the ruling class and the guards who relied on their coin were so use to. Elheria had come to the marketplace with only ten soaps and she left with ten soaps. She held no expectations for selling anything on this night anyway, she was simply glad to be returning home. She could feel her son grasping her hand as they walked through the streets.
It would only be a few moments until others were allowed to leave the marketplace but for now the street was theirs to walk down alone, hand in hand.
“That was a waste of time!” Herial said.
Elheria welcomed the smile that grew on her face, her son certainly had inherited her stubbornness.
“I agree,” she said keeping her smile.
“Why did we do it then?” Herial asked.
“Because we have a responsibility to this city, the guards and soldiers keep us safe. The fisherman and gatherers keep us fed. The tailors keep us warm….”
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