PART 1.1
“DOWN”
Endworlds: Echoes of Worlds Past—Part 1 “Down”
Endworlds 1.1
First Edition: August 2011
Copyright © 2011 by ReadBooks Pte Ltd
All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, circulated or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Endworlds is a fact-based narrative fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are real where indicated, other than where dramatic license has been applied by the author, whereupon any resemblance to actual events, locales, technologies, corporations, brands or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Text, maps, illustrations and archival documents are reproduced from original materials under direction from The Cassandra Foundation and The Endworlds Partnership Inc.
The ReadBooks colophon is a trademark of Read Books Pte Ltd.
ISBN 978-0-9831658-1-1
Typeset in Times New Roman and Blair.
Printed in eBook format in the United States of America. For more information, address: [email protected]
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
for all the Longcoats.
Past, Present and Future.
Read the complete saga of Endworlds: Echoes of Worlds Past in formats to suit every eReader.
Standard eBook:
Part 1.1 ISBN 978-0-9831658-1-1
Part 1.2 ISBN 978-0-9831658-2-8
Part 1.3 ISBN 978-0-9831658-3-5
Enhanced eBook (with embedded art & soundtrack):
Part 1.1 ISBN 978-0-9831658-4-2
Part 1.2 ISBN 978-0-9831658-5-9
Part 1.3 ISBN 978-0-9831658-0-4
Soundtrack album Endworlds: Echoes of Worlds Past (as recorded by the Filmharmonic Orchestra Prague) is available separately with exclusive material no Longcoat should be without.
W.H.
PART 1.1
“DOWN”
JOURNAL OF W. HILLS
SEPTEMBER 2010
A STORM IS COMING that affects you. All of you. The only reason you haven’t seen it coming is because nobody told you where to look.
Until now.
So now this book is in your hands, and you have no excuse to be ignorant, as we all have been. As I once was before my eyes were opened.
Maybe you live with a sense that you’re bound for greater things. Something more. Destiny, just over the horizon. And you’re right. Everyone feels it coming, but few know what it is.
But I do know that after what I’ve seen and done in the decade since that fateful day in 2001, my views are somewhat more flexible on what our world is designed for, and the laws upon which it operates.
Indeed, something is coming. And only you can decide, individually and collectively, if we will all survive it. As you read this book, you’ll learn the truth of it. It is a warning. It is also an invitation. This book is written for you. Since before you were born. And now it has found you.
You will see this is no ordinary book. Oh sure, books are safe, they’re made of paper or pixels, and when you close the cover or flick the off-switch you can go back to your own world. But sometimes a book is more, made of words written and Words spoken.
To these I add my own words, the words of an old man, a tired man, a man who has seen more than should be allowed. Mine are humble words for I am not strong in writing. My scribblings lack the power to conjure thoughts into solids, or to rip physical matter from one of the dimensions that clothe this world and yank it to another.
But I have seen such things done this past decade. So terrible to behold the man who became a boy, the boy who became a god. My friend, long a marvel, once living the dream, now fighting the nightmare.
This book goes out to all who would join him in the Hunt. I trust you will, as the fate of all rests on a razor’s edge.
For as our world hurtles through space to where our galaxy grinds its rim into the spokes of an intersecting galaxy (yes, look it up before the websites vanish altogether!), all of us—me, you and everyone you know, face a choice before we reach that junction at the 2012 winter solstice.
Either we choose to believe that we live in the fourth and final Age of Man and join the Longcoats and their inter-dimensional allies in the fight—our fight, against an enemy we’ve forgotten about in our so-called ‘modern world’ (but which our forebears knew only too well), or we are doomed, all of us, to see Earth Prime and all the dimensions that cohabit this structure abandoned as a failed experiment, and lost to the pillaging of others not of our kind.
I have used the unseized remnants of Raef’s not inconsiderable fortune to pay a writer and his team that are most likely to grasp the subject matter. Masters of a hundred worlds in their own right, they are sworn to confidentiality lest too much leak too soon. I leave it to them to make sense of all the moleskins, blogs, videos and stolen files that took more than a decade to assemble, and turn them into something easily digested. A writer’s pseudonym is thus applied that serves as both aspiration and invitation. “Nicholas”, meaning victory to the people, is my heartfelt aspiration. “Read” is my invitation to you. I pray you will read, and act, and that the outcome will be a victory for us all against the threat you will read of herein. “Nicholas Read”: never did a nom de plume have more intrinsic meaning for a book.
Some hand-drawn maps will be added from our notebooks; a mix of direct observation and the debriefing of others. To bring you deeper into the action, artists will paint some scenes as described by those who were there.
Conspiracy nuts will find validation in this book, but not even their musings have cracked the larger nut. The truth goes deeper than anyone could have guessed. None have come close to hitting bottom. But I have seen it. I know its depth and form.
While this story is already told across the Internet for those who know its clues, the time for being cryptic has passed and the time for enlisting help is now.
All these different source files, mountains of Wikileak documents, press clippings and arcane reference books would make dry reading for even the most ardent among us, therefore I have decided it should be written in narrative form, a manner most easily accessible to you as a reader. In doing so I risk convincing you that this is all a fantastic fiction. It is fact. You decide what you’ll do about it. Will you pass this off as mere entertainment, or will you put it to the test and join The Hunt? It is said that those who have ears will hear their inner voice calling. You will know what to do.
As for me, my fate is tied. A man hunted by day. A man haunted by night. Perhaps it is you who will bring the dawn.
W.H.
DISCLAIMER
THE PUBLISHER WARRANTS this is an original work, provided as delivered in manuscript form to our offices.
While our researchers have validated certain historical and scientific facts presented herein and summarized these as footnotes and appendices, it remains unclear if this is actually a work of fact or fiction given the wild subject matter it contains. Deliberations over which non-fiction Dewey category it best fits (and finding it suits multiple classes yet none at the same time) have led to a decision to publish this categorized as fiction. In the publisher’s judgment this will expose the work to the widest audience in the shortest time, which is the ultimate desire of the group whose tale it tells.
We have established the identities of certain characters by cross-referencing commercial and government records. However few of the people were available for comment and since making our inquiries, most can no longer be located. Attempts to valida
te information with military liaisons produced initial cooperation followed by denials and then a cessation of correspondence. The same applies to the research institutes, airlines, police, banks and other organizations whose records obtained under international Freedom of Information Acts (where such are honored) show certain events did occur as reported here. We are left to wonder with you if this is a wonderfully elaborate hoax, or a ‘puzzle box’ of true events? It is the publisher’s hope that this book is the former. Were it all true, the ramifications for our race are profound.
We are therefore compelled to publish it.
Every effort has been made to ensure information provided is accurate, but no legal responsibility is accepted for any errors, omissions or misleading statement. The publisher is not responsible for, and cannot guarantee the accuracy of any information on websites or locations that it does not manage; nor should the inclusion of a hyperlink thereto be taken to mean endorsement by the publisher of the website to which it points. Although it is presented in good faith, the publisher, its subsidiaries, affiliates and employees shall in no event be liable for any damages of any kind or nature whatsoever, including, without limitation, direct, indirect, special, consequential or incidental damages resulting from exposure to this information.
OFFICE OF GENERAL COUNSEL
THE PUBLISHER
REF-140867-19056RBRMG
PART 1.1
DOWN
1.1. 1 GONE 5
1.1.2 THE SPACES BETWEEN 19
1.1.3 UNDERGROUND 43
1.1.4 INITIATION 69
1.1.5 HOUNDS OF HELL 93
1.1.6 BURROUGHING DEEP 111
1.1.7 BEYOND AND ABOVE 129
1.1.8 INTO THE GRID 161
PART 1.1
DOWN
GONE
ABOVE THE PACIFIC OCEAN
JULY, 2001
“JULY 21ST, 2001 . . . damndest storm I’ve ever flown through. 747s aren’t supposed to pitch and roll like this.”
He peered out the window. Deranged lightning cavorted among the clouds. What would be an appropriate score for this, he wondered to himself? Mahler, or maybe Prokofiev. He blinked as another bolt split the sky entirely too close.
The man added another note to his daily journal. “Blue lightning, not pink.”
The jumbo took another bump. A few nervous gasps rose from seats further toward the back. Around him his fellow upper class passengers continued to read, work, sip wine or watch films in silence. Flying in First Class carried with it certain responsibilities, among which could be accounted the maintenance of a certain decorum. He hoped it wouldn’t bounce like this all the way from Hong Kong. They were not yet halfway through the flight.
“Sorry about the weather, ladies and gentlemen.”
Tinged with the distinctive Aussie accent, the pilot’s voice was what every passenger wanted it to be: calm, evenly modulated, the verbal equivalent of warm milk.
“We’ve had to detour somewhat to the east to get out of the worst of these storms. Right now we’re almost over the island of Pohnpei on the Micronesian chain, though you can’t see it very well through these clouds. The ride should smooth out shortly and we’ll make up for our late departure.”
There was no doubt at this rate he’d now be late for the meeting in Sydney. Not that they wouldn’t wait for him. He was the meeting.
This was the risk when flying commercial. But there was nothing to be done for it. When your Gulfstream is grounded for maintenance, you fly with the flock. But somebody would answer for the oversight.
Athletic, imposing, expression characteristically unfathomable, with a scalp kept close-shaven out of a desire for hygiene rather than appearance, he was continuously reminding his vice-presidents at Burroughs Labs to plan the work, work the plan and always have a back-up.
Out-think, out-perform and out-pace, or you don’t work for Raef Eisman.
Giggling rose above the steady thrum of Ansett Flight 888’s engines. Rising slightly in his seat while trying not to crease his work suit of grey Italian silk, he looked toward the rear of the nosecone cabin. He saw the other two girls first. Emily and . . . what was the other girl’s name? Alyssa. According to what Paige had told him, Emily was heading to Sydney for a music concerto with an Australian choir. Her Singaporean parents watched movies in Row 4. Alyssa was enroute as an unaccompanied minor to visit her grandparents in Australia.
The only other kids in First Class, the pair and Paige had struck up an immediate friendship. Since the mid-week flight wasn’t crowded, the crew had sensibly given the well-behaved children the run of the cabin and let them commandeer the unoccupied last row of seat pods as their palace, their fort, their shopping mall; it had served as all three on the flight so far. Except for a few arched eyebrows at the occasional shriek, the other passengers ignored them. Soon enough the window shades would come down, the cabin lights would be dimmed, and even a trio of energetic ten-year olds would lapse into slumber.
Unless the storm kept them awake. But the Captain had just announced that they would soon be leaving behind the worst of it. Raef peered out of his cabin window at the darkening azure sky and performed a ritual he had long observed on every flight.
Letting his eyes relax just out of focus he looked for the shapes that floated lazily across his iris, silhouetted against the backdrop of blue. Soon came the dust motes, those perfect rings and strings, and as he tuned his focus ever so slightly more inwards, so came the almost imperceptible flickerings. Whether they were on the surface of his eye, between the layers of plate glass, or skimming across the airliner’s hull he didn’t know. But for years now he had been aware that if he could ratchet his lens by the tiniest of degrees and hold his stare, he could see something else in the air, something he could never seem to spy at ground level.
Slowly at first just a single will-o’-the wisp stirred in the center of sight, taunting him. Then, if he looked without looking, stared without staring, the window would shimmer as if through a heat haze, and the one was joined by another, then another, until he could discern a thousand vague shapes, moving across the flat membrane of air like skaters on a pond.
His silent companions were there now, the window awash with motion, and as he brought his eyes inward in one final degree of cross-eyed concentration, everything attained the clarity of a sunburst. A thousand pinpricks of brilliant white light rapidly spun and winked, coming and going busily in and out of this micro-thin layer, this slice of the universe that only came to him at high altitude.
He had once been convinced it must be a trick of the cornea, the shapes attached to his eye. But then why, when he looked just to the sides of the window, could he not see them inside the cabin? Whatever they were, they were benign; they weren’t static electricity, weren’t sparks, and posed no threat. But they were such a curiosity. Sometimes he found himself thinking they were curious about him. Nobody else he had mentioned them to seemed to know what he was talking about. Maybe he alone had special sight?
These musings were interrupted as Paige appeared at his side. Her gleeful smile warmed him.
Just turned ten, she had already travelled more than most adults manage in a lifetime, bemusing the staff at numerous frequent flyer lounges as she strode through their sliding glass doors and waved her membership card with the confidence of a business scion attending their home away from home. A small army of nannies saw to it that she ate correctly, exercised properly, and was educated in a dense curriculum of home schooling made possible by the Internet, though she was made to wear a twee little school uniform to delineate school time from cool time.
Paige had the singular advantage of seeing first-hand the cultures, geography, and history she read about online; juggling exchange rates between currencies for math studies and grasping the common roots of foreign words for language. Paige Eisman was gaining a classical education the rival of any preparatory school, with the perspective of world affairs that only travel across cultures can really provide, even to a child.
/>
Oval-faced with eyebrows that jaunted upwards as if laughing at a private joke, she shared her father’s cloven chin but her mother’s shoulder length chocolate-hued hair, and those same umber eyes. The other physical reminder of Jade Eisman was the twined metal knot-within-a-knot that Paige forever wore around her neck, once the mother’s favorite necklace, now the daughter’s priceless heirloom.
Extending an arm, Paige proffered a brightly colored sheet of paper to her father. “Alyssa, Emily and I are playing,” she explained breathlessly, “I drew you a sunrise. Hold it for me, daddy!”
He smiled as he took the paper and appraised it with the same eye that had valued many internationally known works of art in his private collection. “Good form, good color. Maybe they’ll hang it in the Louvre.”
Paige giggled with delight. Her father always made her feel important.
“Daddy you are my air!” she said brightly.
“And you take my breath away,” was the appropriate response.
It was a phrase Paige had made up a couple of years ago. She had told him seriously one morning that ‘I love you’ was special, and not to be shared in public with strangers. This is what she’d come up with as an alternative. He marveled at how one so young could so perfectly capture how he felt about her. She was his world.
“You girls have fun now. And don’t break the airplane.”
Making no promises, she darted back to the rear of the cabin. He followed her with his eyes until the strain on his neck forced him to turn away. Away, and back to the work he had spread out before him.
Though it was hard to concentrate on business when she was around he could not resist bringing her along on his frequent business trips whenever he could. He was away from home so much that if he didn’t take her with him he would hardly see her at all. He didn’t want to concentrate on work when she was around. She was his anchor, his antidote, the effervescence that put life into his existence. After a long day of executive meetings, poring over reports and statistics, trying to divine what governments and corporations wanted and devising the best and most cost-effective way to sell it to them, he liked nothing better than to come home, share a staff-cooked meal, and help her with her schoolwork.
Echoes of Worlds Past Page 1