Starweb

by Warren James Palmer

  Moss sat and stared out over the lake in silence for a few minutes, watching as the artificial sun began sink. The projections of the two young ladies stepped out of the water, toweled themselves dry and quietly disappeared into the undergrowth. The ancient Arthur sat patiently without disturbing his distant descendant.

  Moss knew he was being told no more than he had already worked out for himself. The clues had been there all along, it had just needed the last pieces of the jigsaw to complete the picture. Only the ability to ‘perceive’ other timelines, to be able to traverse from one reality to another, would enable any form of sentient being to manipulate events on the scales he had witnessed. Such perception was beyond his own abilities, but it came as no surprise to himself that their child could carry out such feats. The only thing that was a surprise, was that it was a surprise to those others. It displayed their arrogance, their elitism, that they could not predict another joining their ranks. This was a flaw in their makeup; an error. Moss wondered what other mistakes these others had made. It put big dents in their god-like status.

  ‘I know I’m going to regret asking this question,’ he eventually responded. ‘However, I shall ask it anyway…. You said that it is necessary to restore balance to the multiverse; my question is, why does balance need to be restored? Isn’t the multiverse self-balancing by definition?’

  ‘There are those who see the concept of the multiverse as an aberration, unholy, fundamentally wrong,’ Arthur replied earnestly. ’It is their stated aim, their mission, to delete all the other timelines, except their own….’

  Moss looked at the ancient with a quizzical frown. ‘Surely, that’s impossible? By definition, attempting to delete a timeline, will simply create another multitude of alternate timelines?’

  ‘You are quite correct, but unfortunately it doesn’t stop them from trying to delete timelines. Or at the very least, make them look and feel like their own…’ came the reply. ‘My associates and myself, are trying to counter their mindless, pointless vandalism. Their actions destroy countless worlds and civilisations; billions of lives. That is what I mean by restoring balance.’

  ‘Who are these vandals? Are we talking about the Starweb?’

  ‘I am not a liberty to give you that information. However, I can tell you that it it not the Starweb,’ Arthur told him firmly.

  ‘More demigods like yourselves, then?’ Moss reply curtly, unsurprised at the sudden unwillingness of his ancestor to divulge more. It was a character trait the ancient had a tendency of displaying each time they met. ‘You know, I can’t help feeling that my family would be a lot safer without the existence of either yourselves, or these vandals you speak of. It seems to me, that your associates and yourself, view us as nothing more than chess pieces, on your grand gaming board. To be manipulated and sacrificed at your behest… ’

  There was no reply. As frustrating as it was, Moss knew that Arthur would tell him, or say, no more. So, the two of them sat in silence and looked out over the lake at the last rays of the artificial sinking sun glinting off the water. After a few minutes, Moss got up off the grass, dusted himself down and turned to leave.

  ‘If you try to interfere with my family ever again, there will be consequences…’ he told his ancestor in parting, as he stepped onto the path and into the woods. The artificial stars were just beginning to twinkle when he glanced over his shoulder and saw that there was nobody behind him. His ancestor was gone, and Moss wondered if he would ever see him again.

  Venice, Earth, 14.32hrs, Local Time.

  September 3rd 2057.

  It was a glorious late summers afternoon. The sun glinted off the water of the Grand Canal, the winds were light and the sun gently warm. The gondola pulled up alongside the quay, close to St Mark’s Square and the traditionally dressed pilot, complete with striped shirt and dark trousers, silently aided the three passengers onto the wooden platform. Then, without a word, he untied his gondola and rowed away to rejoin the other gondolas plying up and down the main waterway.

  Miss Smith and Bishop Dydnski looked about them, whilst their charge stood between them, silent and impassive. Venice in the late summer sun was as beautiful as ever; a testament to the cultural achievements of humanity. Water taxis and other boats made their way along the Grand Canal, just as they always had. People made their way towards the tourist sites just as they always had. Waiters and restaurant owners stood outside their venues, ready to greet new customers, just as they always had…All was just as it had always been—except for the silence….Nobody talked, nobody laughed, nobody smiled. In fact every single person went about their business without a word or an expression on their faces. They were all like automatons; proceeding without emotion. The afternoon might be warm, but the ambiance was cold and forbidding.

  ‘He’s excelled himself this time…’ Dydnski comment, looking around at the surreal setting before them. ‘A city full of Golems, acting as if nothing untoward has occurred—very creepy….’

  ‘Golems—artificial human beings brought to life by evil intent…’ Miss Smith responded with a shudder. ‘This is beyond creepy, it’s plain sick…For what possible purpose is he carrying out this charade? Why doesn’t he finish the metamorphose and allow the arachnids to level the place?’

  Dydnski turned and looked at his daughter with a raised eyebrow. ‘Do I detect the merest hint of empathy and sympathy in your voice? Are you getting soft dearest?

  ‘Even I have standards; rules of engagement if you will. Without them there is nothing but chaos.’ She replied acidly. ‘This breaks all the rules…Keeping a population in a perpetual state of undead is the fast-track to ultimate chaos.’

  ‘Hmm, I have to say this is not to my taste either,’ Dydnski admitted with a frown. ‘We can only hope that this is all part of some bigger plan. It has some purpose…. Whatever the reason, we won’t find out by standing here. We’d best be getting on.’

  ‘The sooner we’re done and out of here the better,’ Miss Smith agreed. ‘Let’s get this over with…’

  They stepped out in the direction of St Mark’s Square, their charge walking obediently between them. Their destination was the Patriarchal Cathedral Basilica of Saint Mark, famous for its Italo-Byzantine architecture. It’s ornate facade and large dome dominated the near end of the square and in the recent past was the focus of many a tourist. Now, it was surrounded by lost souls who bore the resemblance of tourists, but gazed with blank expressions and emotionless attitude.

  As the three of them walked toward the Byzantine cathedral, the ‘tourists’ silently move aside, leaving their path to the ornate entrance unhindered. When they approached the large bronze doors, they opened with a groan on ancient hinges. Stepping over the threshold, they paused to allow their eyes to adjust to the relative gloom of the interior. In contrast to the bright sunlight of outside, the lighting was soft, with daylight entering through portals in the dome, augmented by subtly hidden artificial lighting which highlighted the Byzantine decor.

  Once their eyes had adjusted, they could see that the pews were filled with robed and hooded members of the ‘Triplanetary Church’. The disciples all sat in the same hunched manner, chanting in unison in almost inaudible voices, ‘Only through penance can you seek redemption.’ Previously, the church members would have chanted in reverence to Dydnski in his character role of ‘Bishop’, but now they followed another—they followed the small robed figure who prayed with their back to their flock, at the altar at the end of the long aisle.

  ‘Give me strength…really?’ Dydnski mumbled before being subtly kicked by his daughter.

  Escorted by several of the hooded disciples, they walked up the aisle toward the figure at the alter. As they passed each pew, worshipers looked up and gazed silently at them with blank faces and unblinking eyes. Their charge continued to walk between them, head bowed, eyes fixed on a point on the floor just in front of it’s combat boots. After what felt like an eternity they arrived in front of the alter and stood there wait
ing for the kneeling figure to rise and acknowledge their presence.

  The figure before them rose and turned to face them. He wore a monk’s rough woven robe and lowered the hood down, revealing the clean-shaven face of a man apparently in his forties. His face was a picture of calm and tranquility, his features neutral but approachable.

  ‘Ah, Bishop Dydnski and the delectable Miss Smith,’ the Starweb member once known as Brother Dakol greeted them with a small smile. ‘Thank you for stopping by…It’s so good of you to spare me some of your precious time…’

  ‘Think nothing of it….’ Dydnski replied through gritted teeth.

  ‘And this must be the famous Josh Brabazon?’ Brother Dakol asked, ignoring Dydnski’s unenthusiastic response. He used a finger on his right hand to lift Brabazon’s face from his perpetual lowered state, and stared into the blank unseeing eyes, as if trying to find some sign of a soul within. ‘About to blow himself up was he?’

  ‘Yes Brother Dakol. We intercepted him just in time to intervene.’ Miss Smith answered smoothly. Brabazon glanced at her and smiled thinly.

  ‘It is just as well you did…’ he said, returning to stare at Brabazon once more. ‘That wouldn’t have done at all; to loose such a valuable asset….’

  Dydnski and Miss Smith said nothing in response. The tone used by the Starweb member was one that required no answer, just mute attention.

  ‘With the knowledge of the metamorphic virus in our friend’s head, and the actual virus itself lying dormant in his DNA, Josh Brabazon is a walking, breathing mass weapon of destruction.’ Brother Dakol continued in the same pleasantly dangerous tone. ‘He is the key and the solution…Are his powers of prognosis still intact?’

  ‘They are…’ Dydnski replied to the direct question. ‘The nanobots inside him have had a code update. His DNA remains unchanged, but there is a switch on his higher brain functions. They can be activated or deactivated at your command.’

  ‘And the switch is?’ the rogue Starweb member demanded.

  ‘1890; followed by his surname…’ Dydnski replied dryly.

  ‘Of course….you’re favourite period in history… what else would it be?’ Brother Dakol said with a smile. ‘Well, there’s no need to ask where you will be taking your vacation, now that your work is done.’

  ‘That’s its? We’re finished? We’re done here? We can go?’ Miss Smith demanded with barely concealed anticipation.

  ‘Indeed…. for now at least…’ was the reply. ‘This assignment is completed and terminated. The good doctor Brabazon and I have much work to do, but the two of you may take a well deserved holiday. After all, I know where to find you, when required.’

  Dydnski and Miss Smith looked at each other briefly, a quizzical expression on their faces. This wasn’t what they had been expecting, however, they weren’t about to look a “gift horse in the mouth”.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ the Starweb member asked them, flapping his hands in a shooing motion. ‘Don’t just stand there…. Go, go…. Before I change my mind!’

  Without a word, Bishop Dydnski and Miss Smith, turned on their heels and marched back up the aisle, toward the sunlight drenched exterior, trying their best not to appear to be in haste.

  Starweb member 3789/29, once known as “Brother Dakol” watched the pair leave the cathedral. They served a purpose and they had shown their worth during this project. However, Starweb member 3789/29 knew that at some point in the future, they would have to be terminated. They were a pair of looses cannons, as likely to ruin his carefully made plans, as to aid their fruition. But, that was for the future, for the present, they had shown their worth and deserved some time to exercise their free-will.

  He turned his attention to the mute, placid, Josh Brabazon, who stood before him, head lowered blank eyes fixed at a point on the ground just in front of his combat boots.

  ‘1890, Brabazon….’ Starweb member 3789/29 spoke directly at the scientist.

  Josh Brabazon blinked, shook his head and raised his eyes, looking about himself in confusion. ‘Where am I?’ he whispered. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You were infected by nanobots and was about to blow yourself up, my friend,’ Starweb member 3789/29 told him. ‘Do you recall?’

  Brabazon nodded. ‘I released the metamorphic virus and it seemed to work, then stopped. I don’t recall why…’ he said with a frown. ‘I tried to end it all, before the nanobots completely took over…I don’t understand… did the grenade not go off? I’m confused… am I dead?’

  ‘Not quite my friend…. Not quite….’ Starweb member 3789/29 replied enigmatically. ‘We have much to discuss you and I. Follow me and I shall explain everything…’

  Josh Brabazon turned and followed Starweb member 3789/29, once known as “Brother Dakol”, up the aisle toward the sunlight, following in the footsteps of the recently departed Bishop Dydnski and Miss Smith. As they moved past the pews of unblinking worshipers, the undead rose, turned, and intoned “Only through penance can you seek redemption”, in unison. It never occurred to Brabazon to question why. His days of free-will were over…

  Miss Smith and Bishop Dydnski sat beside a table at one of the many bars and cafes that occupied St Mark’s square. The cups of espresso coffee served by an undead waiter, sat untouched before them. Positioned as they were, they had a good view of the grand entrance to the Patriarchal Cathedral Basilica of Saint Mark. They watched as an entourage of disciples exited through the large bronze doors and into the bright afternoon sun. In the centre of the group, protected by the hooded bodyguards, were the unmistakable forms of Starweb member 3789/29 and his new companion Josh Brabazon. Silent, blank-faced pseudo tourists stepped aside to make way for the entourage as they headed toward the Grand Canal, and boarded an ornate barge. Once all were onboard, the barge slide away from the quay, glided up the canal and out of sight.

  ‘So what’s he up to then?’ casually Dydnski asked his daughter once the barge was out of sight. ‘Which team is he batting for?’

  ‘His own…obviously….’ Miss Smith replied, ‘Keeping Josh Brabazon at his side will be a form of insurance. A way to neutralize the others on the Starweb council, if needs be…’

  ‘Whilst giving him the option to work with the human species, if things with the Starweb don’t pan out….’ Dydnski added, reaching the for espresso coffee and taking a sip. ‘That would make sense… but what about all this? Venice—one of the most famous cities of all time; kept alive by a population of undead… what’s that all about?’

  ‘Vanity…’ his daughter responded, also reaching for her own espresso and savoring its contents.

  ‘Vanity?’

  ‘Vanity…’ she confirmed. ‘Starweb member 3789/29 has not forgotten his human past. In essence he is still “Brother Dakol”, the religious monk who tended his flock.’

  ‘And Venice is a way to satisfy his religious and emotional cravings? A “flock” of undead worshipers who carry out his bidding; his every physical whim?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Hmm…I believe you are right my dear.’ Dydnski replied smiling at his daughter over the brim of his coffee cup. ‘He is one very sick puppy our “Brother Dakol”!’

  ‘Indeed…Although it raises the question why now?’ Miss Smith mused, staring into her espresso as if searching in the coffee for an answer. ‘Why is he only now, playing one side off against the other? Why this city of “undead”; a pastiche of human creativity and endeavor? Why has he not attempted these things in the past?’

  Dydnski looked at his daughter appraisingly and a certain amount of parental pride. Even after all this time, his offspring could still surprise him with her level of insight.

  ‘That’s a very good question my dear,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps his recent encounter with the human baby “Arthur” has changed his perspective? It’s not often that a new Multiverse Constant appears on the scene… Maybe that has caused himself to examine his role as a Starweb member, and a previous member of the human race?
’

  ‘Hmm… Perhaps…. Perhaps not…’ Miss Smith replied non noncommittally.

  ‘Whatever the reason,’ Dydnski continued, ‘head office have told us to give him our assistance, without hindrance. So that is what we will do…. Including taking a short holiday!’

  ‘Oh yes? Where too then?’ his daughter responded with a raised eyebrow. ‘Let me guess….Paris circa 1890? You do realise our esteemed relatives are likely to be there as well?’

  ‘I’m counting on it…’ he replied with a short laugh.

  The figures of the unlikely pair, became insubstantial, faded and disappeared. Their table was once more unoccupied and their coffee cups empty. The late afternoon sun shone up St Mark’s square and the whole of Venice, whilst the undead population continued their charade of human existence.

  Planet Samarcia, Alrona mountain range.

  They spoke in hushed tones, so as not to disturb the exhausted men and women who either lay on the floor asleep, or slept at the large table, their heads resting on their folded arms. The control room above the now empty main gallery, was the command centre for the defence of the mountain lair occupied by the ‘Eco-Warriors’, led by Lollo Rosalio. Increasingly however, as their situation became forever more grave, it was less of a command centre and more of a ‘last refuge’.

  The combat drones of the Starweb Corporation had renewed their onslaught soon after the seed-ships Dominator, Valvia and Excalibur, had left for the stars, shepherded by the Terran vessel Karine. Wave after wave of the combat-bots had thrown themselves at the plasma weapons and Gatling guns that surrounded the mountain refuge, in an attempt to overwhelm the defences. The burnt and battered carcasses of the combat-bots were piled metres high in front of the defences, testimony to the vicious battles that had occurred. Now there was a lull in the fighting, as the overseer drones awaited reinforcements to replace the sacrificed combat-bots.