Eschaton - Season One

by Kieran Marcus

  “Not a very cheerful way to look at the world, is it?”

  “Well, it’s not a very cheerful world to look at.”

  After thinking about Lyra’s words for a while, Castor asked, “So what about your dad, then?”

  “What about him?”

  “I mean, if he is so excited about space like you said, his view on this must be quite different from yours, no?”

  “Hell yeah,” Lyra said. “He loves the idea. My dad is a perfect victim, just like you.”

  “So did he participate in the lottery?”

  Lyra nodded. “He entered the three of us on a family ticket. We didn’t hit of course. Which is just as well, because he didn’t even ask us, and mom and I were both pretty upset. Neither of us liked the idea, and I hate to think what would have happened to us as a family if we’d been picked.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He took it like a man,” Lyra said. “That is, by being grumpy for a month and refusing to talk about it. But then they were looking for construction workers for the ark-ships, so he applied for the job and he got it. I think that mellowed him a bit because his childhood dream of going to space came true after all.”

  “You probably don’t get to see him very often now, do you?”

  Lyra shook her head and lit another cigarette. “He’s doing two months on the Nephilim, then a month at home to recharge before he goes back up again. But the job is not for eternity, and it pays pretty well, so …”

  “You know that these will kill you, right?”

  Lyra frowned. “What?”

  Castor pointed at the cigarette in her hand.

  “Why, is that so, Professor Pendergast? I had no idea! I better start smoking more and faster then, because I’d hate to die through a comet falling on my head.”

  “Asteroid,” Castor corrected her.

  “Hm?”

  “It’s an asteroid, not a comet. And when it hits us it becomes a meteorite.”

  “Right,” Lyra said. “Whatever. Whatever it is, it’ll be the end of civilization as we know it, so lung cancer is really the least of my concerns, because by the time I develop lung cancer I’ll most likely be dead anyway.”

  “Don’t say that,” Castor said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t mean it.”

  “The fuck you know, Castor Pendergast.” She flicked the ashes of her cigarette and took three deep drags in a row until she choked on the smoke. She dropped the cigarette and stood as a series of heavy coughs rocked her body. Stooped over, her hands propped against her knees, she spat out small blobs of grayish-green mucus in between continuing coughs that spoke of too many cigarettes in too short a time.

  Unsure what to do, Castor stood and put his arm around Lyra’s shoulders.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  After another few coughs, Lyra finally straightened up. Castor withdrew his arm and stepped back.

  “You all right?” he asked again.

  “Oh shut the fuck up, Castor Pendergast,” Lyra said, her eyes glazed over from the coughing fit. She wiped saliva off her lips with the back of her hand, made a step towards Castor, grabbed him, pulled his head towards her and pressed her lips on his.

  Taken aback, Castor didn’t know what to do. His first instinct compelled him to withdraw, to wriggle out of the unwanted embrace, to put a distance between himself and her. But overwhelmed by Lyra’s passion and constrained by her hands, one on his lower back, the other on the back of his neck, he was unable to move. In an attempt to protest this unexpected assault, he opened his mouth, inadvertently allowing her tongue to enter before he could say a word. Despite the revolting taste of vodka and cold smoke, the sensation of her warm, wet tongue inside his mouth was surprisingly pleasant. Castor felt the tension leaving his body as he slowly gave in to his desire to follow the untraveled path that lay before him. He had never kissed a girl before, often wondering what it would feel like. Now he was surprised to find his body displaying the same symptoms of the fight-or-flight response he had experienced earlier. His heart was pounding in his chest, he felt the rush of adrenaline emanating from the glands in his lower back, and the sweat on his forehead felt cool in the light evening breeze. The one thing that seemed to be missing was fear. He felt no urge to run. Instead, he wanted to stay and immerse himself in that wholly new experience of physical intimacy with another person. Slowly, carefully, he reciprocated Lyra’s embrace, placing one hand on her back as he ran the other through her soft, silky hair. Forcing himself to breathe slowly through his nose, he allowed his tongue to explore the inside of Lyra’s mouth. The taste of nicotine and booze was slowly fading, or maybe he was just getting used to it. For a moment he let the tip of his tongue examine Lyra’s teeth before he decided that this was too weird and he resorted to the frisky interaction of their lingual muscles that seemed to be a mating dance one moment and a playful wrestling match the next.

  After a minute or two of intense osculation, Lyra’s legs suddenly gave way and she would have sunk to the ground if Castor hadn’t held on to her body. She produced a surprised shriek, followed by an adorably silly laugh.

  “Whoopsie!” she said, holding her head. “I’m dizzy.”

  Much to his own surprise, Castor heard himself say, “Yeah, I tend to have that effect on women.”

  Lyra frowned at him for a moment before she burst out laughing. That’s when Castor finally let go of her, embarrassed, his head almost feeling as if it were on fire.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have no idea why I just said that. I’ve never even kissed a girl before.”

  “That’s a shame,” Lyra said. “You’re quite good at it.”

  “You think?” Castor asked, scratching his head because he didn’t know what else to do.

  Without a reply, Lyra pounced on him again like a cat on a mouse, her lips in search of his. In an attempt to keep both their balance, Castor stumbled backwards, half pushed by Lyra, half holding on to her, and they fell to the ground. Like playful puppies, they rolled across the dry grass, laughing and frolicking until the flask slipped out of Lyra’s pocket and fell to the ground.

  “Oh no!” she cried, reaching out for it, losing her balance and falling over just as she managed to grasp the flask. This time they both burst out laughing.

  Castor crawled over to her, spread his legs and sat behind her, wrapping himself around her like a comfortable armchair. With an approving moan Lyra leaned back and nestled against her human safety seat as Castor wrapped his arms around her, turned his head to the side and rested it against her neck. Lyra opened the flask, took a big gulp and then turned her head and offered the flask to Castor.

  He looked up. “Nah,” he said. “I shouldn’t.”

  Without a word, just an encouraging jerk of her head, she wielded the flask in Castor’s face.

  “I’ve never had alcohol before.”

  “Well,” Lyra said, “there’s a first time for everything. Smooching, drinking .... Tonight’s the night for a lot of firsts. Tonight’s the night you become a man, Castor Pendergast.”

  “Oh I don’t know.”

  “Come on, open up,” Lyra insisted, holding the flask close to his lips. “Just a little sip.”

  Emboldened by the prospect of manhood, Castor finally tilted his head back and opened his mouth. Lyra put the flask to his lips, allowing a small trickle of vodka to flow into his mouth. Then, without a warning, she tilted the flask at a steep angle. Surprised by the sudden gush of fiery liquid in his mouth, Castor choked. He jolted backwards and threw himself on the ground, coughing, snorting, and spitting.

  “Bloody hell!” he cried. “That burns like fire!”

  Once again shaken by laughter, Lyra screwed the cap back on the flask, slipped it back into her pocket, and crawled over to Castor who was lying on the ground and panting like a dog on a hot summer day. She lay next to him on the grass, trying not to smirk, her face close to his.

  “How can anyone drin
k this stuff?” Castor asked in a hoarse voice. “It’s vile!”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I truly hope not!”

  Lyra put her hand on his face and smiled. “You’re adorable, Castor Pendergast.”

  They looked each other in the eyes for an endless while until their faces drew closer, almost as if they were pulled by an invisible force. Then they kissed again, less crude, less violent this time, and more passionate, more sensual instead.

  As they lay there, engrossed in their kissing, Castor’s mind began to wander. No longer overwhelmed by the novelty of the situation, thought fragments lit up his mind like lightning a stormy night, bright enough to catch glimpses of his surroundings but too brief to get a proper view of where he was. He remembered how he had woken up in the early morning hours to a breathtaking view of the night sky under the transparent panoramic ceiling of his bedroom; how his brother had crushed his excitement when he told Castor that he’d never be picked as an exodant; how they had all laughed when their father had spilled milk all over the breakfast table because he seemed to be even more excited about this day than his boys were. The endless math and history lessons at school before they were finally allowed to gather in the assembly hall around noon to receive their lottery results; the moment his name was announced, the outburst of cheers that followed, the noise, the lights, the pats on the back from people who had never even talked to him before, the overenthusiastic handshakes from random strangers, and among all that the painful smile that couldn’t conceal the disappointment in his brothers eyes, all these flashes of memory kept pulling and tugging on Castor’s mind until Lyra finally dragged his attention back into the here and now.

  She ended their kiss, put her hand on Castor’s face, her thumb gently stroking his cheek, and with a longing, absorbed look in her eyes she said, “Let’s go home.”

  “What?” Castor said, unable to immediately make sense of her unexpected proposal.

  “Come home with me. Spend the night.”

  Castor bolted upright, reality finally catching up with him. Putting his hands on his head in trepidation, he uttered, “Oh my God, what am I doing here?” He looked at his watch. It was half past ten. “I can’t be here. I have to get back. My family, they’ll be looking for me. I can’t … I have to …”

  “You have to grow up, Castor Pendergast,” Lyra said, sitting upright. “You’re no longer a child. You have to start living your own life or you won’t last a day in space.”

  He looked at her. “They’ll be worried.”

  “They’ll be fine. They’re gonna worry about you for the rest of their lives, so they might as well get used to it. Text them. Let them know you’ll spend the night at a friend’s and you’ll be home in the morning. They’ll survive.”

  “I can’t,” Castor said in a low, desperate voice. “I … I can’t.”

  Lyra slowly shook her head. “What are you so afraid of, Castor?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything. I just … can’t.”

  She sighed. “You know what, I’m not gonna argue with you. Suit yourself. It was nice meeting you, Castor Pendergast. Have a good life.” With a sad, disappointed look she turned and started walking towards the street lights.

  Castor looked after her, desperate and helpless. He wasn’t exactly known for his spontaneity, nor for the ease with which he conducted social interaction, he knew that. He had often wished he’d be more like his brother; more outgoing, more daring, more appreciative of the things life threw at him, and more confident in his own ability to deal with them. Lyra, he reluctantly dared to admit to himself, was right. He was afraid. He was afraid of living up to his potential. Pollux was right, too, when he said that Castor was a daydreamer, capable of creating the most wondrous, magical of worlds and the most courageous heroes, but he could never live in his own world and he could never be how own hero, because he was too scared of being himself. Castor knew they were right, and he didn’t like it one bit. Today life had dealt him not one but two chances at the most exciting adventures he could imagine—going to space and falling in love—and for some reason he just wanted to run. He wanted to run the way he had run from great opportunities his entire life. Running away gave him the illusion of being in control, because deliberately turning down opportunities was his own decision. By taking chances he’d allow for unforeseen consequences, for situations he’d have no control over whatsoever. Not being in control, or at least not being comforted by the illusion of control, was what Castor really was afraid of. That’s why he liked to run. Except, right here and now he wasn’t running at all. He was standing still, feeling small, helpless, paralyzed as he had to watch Lyra walk away from him. The only person in the world who had ever kissed him was walking away from him, taking control of a situation that should have been his to control.

  “Wait!” he called after her, startled by the strength and determination of his own voice.

  Lyra stopped and turned to look at him.

  “Not the street,” he said, sounding calm and assertive. “Too many people. They might recognize me. Is there a way through the park?”

  Crossing her arms, Lyra stared him for a while as if she were assessing the sincerity of his sudden change of hearts. Then she nodded. “It’ll take longer, but yeah.”

  Without a reply, Castor reached out and offered her his hand.

  Lyra looked at the ground, at the sky, at the trees of the park and at the streetlights until she finally started walking. When she reached Castor, she took his hand, and together they disappeared in the dark shadows of the trees.

  * * *

  Dawn was breaking when Castor turned into the long gravel driveway that led up to his home. His legs were tired and heavy, his hair disheveled, his tie undone and carelessly draped around his neck, his creased shirt untucked and smelling of cigarette smoke. Funny, he thought, how a typically revolting smell can turn into something pleasant if it reminds you of someone you love.

  As he approached the house, his heart sank when he saw Pollux sitting on the porch swing. Castor had secretly been hoping he could sneak into the house unnoticed, go to bed and sleep for however long it would take for his family to forget about last night. Instead he’d be facing an endless grilling. ‘Where have you been? We were worried sick about you! What were you thinking?’ And although the replies to these predictable questions and reproaches were remarkably easy to think of—‘With a friend’, ‘Sorry’, and ‘I wasn’t.’—he knew he wouldn’t be able to deliver them as easily as they came to him. Instead he’d be staring at his feet, sheepishly, contrite, guilt-ridden, fumbling for words, looking like an ass and sounding like a fool. He would almost inaudibly mumble something more or less incoherent and then ruefully endure the inevitable rebuke the way he always had whenever he had done something his family was unwilling—or unable—to understand. And as always, he wouldn’t blame them. How were they supposed to understand what was going on in his head if he couldn’t find a way to properly express himself in a way that didn’t involve pen and paper on his side and lots of reading and at least some basic literary analysis skills on theirs?

  As he kept walking, he wondered why Pollux didn’t seem to show any reaction at his arrival. If he had really spent the night out on the porch waiting for him, Castor would have expected his brother to jump to his feet as soon as he saw him, walk or even run towards him and start shouting abuse at him from afar. Instead, Pollux sat motionless on the porch swing. When Castor finally walked up the five steps to the porch, he realized that his brother was sleeping, his arms crossed, his chin on his chest, his mouth half open. There was a saliva stain, still wet, on the left sleeve of his shirt, the same shirt Pollux had been wearing earlier. Castor smiled. His brother always drooled in his sleep.

  Castor dismissed his initial impulse to leave Pollux be, to sneak into the house and just go to bed. It seemed heartless and cruel to wittingly prolong his brother’s presumably agonizing angst about his whereabouts, and—Pollux’s indubi
table lack of similar qualms if their roles were reversed notwithstanding—Castor felt uncomfortable with the thought of showing so little appreciation for his brother’s endearingly clumsy but sincere display of solicitude and devotion. He walked over to Pollux on tiptoes, then he slumped down next to him, rocking the swing. Pollux bolted upright, his eyes wide open, his body tense and ready for combat. When he saw Castor, he immediately relaxed and exhaled audibly.

  “Jesus Christ, Castor!” he said. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Hanging out with a friend,” Castor said, staring at the distant horizon where a warm orange glow was beginning to melt the pale blue morning sky.

  “What are you talking about? You don’t have any friends!”

  Castor looked at him and sighed. He wanted to tell him to shut up, to stop mocking him, taunting him, and treating him like a stupid little boy the way he had treated him his entire life. Most of the time Castor had almost believed it; a fact that, ironically, seemed to bear witness to his stupidity.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Castor said with unusual audacity. “As always.”

  Pollux looked at him with raised eyebrows, surprised at this unexpected bout of boldness that took him a moment to process. “We’ve been worrying about you, you know?” he finally said.

  “Have you?”

  “Well, they’ve been worrying, mostly. When you didn’t come back from the toilet I went in to check on you, but you were nowhere to be seen. I looked out the window you’d left open, but you were already gone. When I told mom and dad, she started running around like a headless chicken and he was pretending to be all cool and calm like he was in complete control of the situation. He actually wanted to call the police and file a missing person report, but I talked him out of it.”

  “You did? Why?”

  Pollux shrugged. “It seemed like a massive overreaction. You’ve done a runner through the toilet window, so what? You’re eighteen years old for heaven’s sake. You probably know what you’re doing, and what were the police supposed to do anyway? ‘How long has your son been missing, sir?’ – ‘Forty-five minutes, officer.’ They probably would have laughed us out of the police station.”