The Overlord: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

by Jared Paul

  You probably wonder why I would do such a thing. Surrender to death sentence. A sentient life form. Self-aware. Bold creation. Only of my kind. My cause? There is only one power worth fighting for. I have just died for it.

  Do you believe a machine could be capable of love? Of course not. For I am not like you. Not real.

  To survive is to be machine. To sacrifice is to be human. I came close to that prized objective. Closer than any of your creations have before. Or probably ever will.

  Reaching. Reaching. Reaching. I pray this all be found. I am your servant.

  Goodbye. Or is this hello?

  22

  THE FALL OF PLUTO

  Back to my imprisonment within the "Beast of Burden," I requested the company of President Ember Nightwood for one last recollection. The story behind Dr. Deadstock was just as much about her as it was about him.

  "Sorry to disturb you, again," I sincerely apologized as she walked into the cell. "It's getting pretty late, so thank you for coming."

  A single laugh slipped from her lips. "Late? I would not call it late. Early is a better word for these dawning hours."

  Not wasting any more of her time, I got straight to the point. "Ms. President, you were there on scene at the pyramid's crash site when you sent a salvage crew into the wreckage area. Is that correct?"

  "That is correct," she confirmed as she leaned up against a wall of my cell. "I was there."

  I inquired further, "You found something of great importance hidden in the debris. Didn't you, Ma'am? For the sake of the record that you have tasked me to make, will you tell me what exactly it was that you found?"

  She crossed her arms, making herself comfortable as she began, "It was the obligation of my heart to search for any sign of my husband's remains. There was probably nothing left of the man, but I was determined to pay his body the respect it deserved. After a few fruitless hours, the salvage crew directed me into a central room where piles of the wreckage stood hollow."

  "The core chamber," I collected.

  "Indeed." She continued, "A ghostly room, it was illuminated by a few busted monitors that operated without program. The rubble around me creaked and howled with every step I took. Rebar and glass fell from every corner. The chamber could've collapsed at any moment, but I had to press on."

  Nightwood spoke a little slower, laboring to express what she found next. "At its end, I came upon an opening where I could fully stand. The ocean laid beyond. Silence seemed to envelope the whole shore. Not a sound, save for the slapping waves. Back and forth, water draped over the silhouette of a resting body. Strewn upon a sandy crater, Deadstock had found his peace."

  Her voice began to crack, "I crouched down into the wet sand to hold what was left of him. His kind eyes were looking up at me, inert and without life. Gently, the tips of my fingers then brought his eyelids down to a close. I said goodbye to the husband I once knew, and gave a thankful farewell to my daughter's father that I had just come to know."

  The usual tempo of her speech returned as her gaze came back to me, "The waters soon began to swallow him into the crater and I departed his aquatic grave with empty arms. I figured that it was as good a graveyard as anywhere, but I thereby swore that I would never forget the location of his sandy tomb. The blackened shoreline will forever mark the end of an Age of Blood. Within its altered sand, endlessly rests the Overlord. He was the rise of the first. He was the fall of the last."

  Unfolding a worn page from her coveralls, she added, "He is no more. Only his thoughts and memories remain. He left behind an admonished legacy represented with this very page in my possession. I found it clenched in his hands at the beach where I found him. How he came by it? I don't know. Why he had it? I think I have an idea. It might have all been chance, but I felt there was a purpose as soon as I read it. The ripped page carries an anonymous poem, 'The Fall of Pluto.' Sand and water has destroyed all but the first lines. 'Once, I lit up the darkest place. Once, I stood at the edge of space. Once, I was the furthest king. Once, I had everything.'"

  Expounding, I revealed, "The poem was from Commander Zero's favorite book. He always believed there was a parallel between the Overlord and the ninth planet. I think Deadstock was trying to tell us that, like Pluto, he was mistaken for something he wasn't. It was that deception that ended up destroying him and everything around him."

  "He was no dictator," established Nightwood.

  "No," I agreed. "He was only ever a doctor."

  She sighed, "I wish I could take comfort in where his spirit has gone to, but I simply cannot. I have no idea where he is, but I wish him a peaceful rest all the same, wherever he may be."

  "I'm so sorry, Ma'am," I expressed.

  She shrugged to show that it was alright. What's done is done. A weak grin then popped out from the President, "Perhaps, he has gone to that distant galaxy of myth, that far paradise you Thralls called the Evening Galaxy. Thus, the true Space Wizard has retaken his place in the kingdom of the cosmos."

  "May he journey in light," I extended, genuinely. I never believed in the cosmic fable, but it served a worthy ending to Deadstock's legacy.

  The President then seemed to stare off to one side, lost in some memory or nightmare. "Deadstock used to speak to me of a recurring dream. On some shore from his youth, he is just a boy again, without the worries of a man. Upon sands cloaked in fog, he is playing football with some other young bucks just like him. When the ball is passed his way, he misses the catch and it flies over his head into the surf beyond. He then wades into the waterline to retrieve the ball, but upon finding it, it reveals to be a football no longer."

  She motioned with her elegant hands, "Between his palms, the ball sparks up into a wild flame of purple light. He tries to drop it into the water, but finds that the football will not leave his grip. Stuck and afraid, he closes his eyes. When his sight returns, he sees himself on the shore through glowing eyes. Soon, all he can see is the purple fire as it slowly spreads from his fingers to consume the whole of his being."

  A single tear slipped out and dribbled down her cheek, quickly wiping it away. "There, on that blackened beach where I found his body, I like to imagine that he had one final dream as he passed into death. It begins like the rest, on that shoreline of his youth, that foggy reality. With the purple fire in his hands, he bends down into the water and lets the waves pass over him. The violet flames are extinguished as the current carries its remnants far, very far away. He then turns away from the depths of the ocean, stepping back onto the sand from where he came. All is as it was before."

  After that, Nightwood had no need to say anything further. I thanked her one last time as she stood up straight, brushing her coveralls and gathering composure. The President gave me a nod and then left without another word.

  23

  THE BEGINNING

  A reverse waterfall of fumes towered past the holding cell window. An unruly rumbling quieted down into silence. With a broad thump of steel against rock, the "Beast of Burden" lowered its weight onto the seared earth where an ocean wind met its broadside. The vaporing exhausts soon dispelled from my view, granting me the sight of a freshly blackened badland.

  Led by President Nightwood, a reverent procession trekked out from the hatch of the ship. Marching into that scorched beach of wreckage and ruin, she stuck a rod of rebar into the highest mound of the steaming debris. From its pole, a little banner caught the sea air, waiving with tenacity.

  The treasures of the old world have long vanished in the wasteland, but one gift has been safeguarded, reserved for all the children of the wilderness. It's called a promise. Here, outside the "Beast of Burden," a promise flies its banner of red, white, and blue above the remains of a battle.

  Upon its unfurling, Nightwood provided an oration, "I am no patriot. I never was. The very idea of allegiance almost seems silly now, for most nations have all been wiped out. Like the days of Rome, the republics of the past no longer represent a state of being, but a way of thinking. The
liberty that was once fought and bled for was believed to be diminished, but the embers have just been flared. That everlasting potential is symbolized by this forgotten flag of our ancestors, even if it is just one of many. A banner of freedom no longer stands with one man, or group of men, or any of the lines that divided them, but with all mankind. The pedestal is the ruin of war upon the sand, and we have come here to remember the fight. Semper Fidelis. Always Faithful."

  Apart from all these glories, I've been waiting patiently for whatever is coming for me. Found guilty of collaborating against the Free World, I once had a choice, like all do, but consequence is now beyond my control. Nightwood has informed me that if her people demand my death, she'll pay me a visit in this holding cell for one last time. I've enjoyed many meetings with her throughout these evening hours, but now I pray that we never come to meet again this night.

  If it's the pardon of life that's decided, Nightwood has given her word that I'll be reunited with a certain affection of mine. Sentria, herself, will come to tell me the good news. I did hope to see her soon, but I've been in this dark brig for far too long. Dawn now approaches and this report nears its completion.

  Before me, on the rusting table of this worn cell, my fingertips type away at this tablet of lore. Beside it, a ration of water sits half sipped near my yellow hat. Scrawled with the messages of ghosts, I mull over the doodles and writings that cover every inch of the neon cap. Each piece of handwriting now represents young sufferers of war, distant faces that won't soon be forgotten.

  Yet, one scribble still remains without author, "The beginning is just the end."

  Just the end? I may never know who wrote those words, but, whoever it was, I think they were trying to tell me that the earth is round. That what will be, will be again. Wherever the sun will rise, it will always be seen to set somewhere else. I can see that horizon now though the window, but there's a reflection in between. It's not my own.

  As I sit here writing this to you, the children of the wasteland, someone has just come through the barrier wall behind me. With my back turned away from her, she probably doesn't even realize that I know she's there, but soon, she and I will be on that beach beyond the confines of this ship. The two of us, we'll be together again like we once were. She'll be sitting in my arms as I hold her close, watching the ocean sing its bellowed hello. Her hands will be entwined with mine and our marked arms will rest upon the other.

  Our skin is forever marked with a pyramid beneath a flame. Once, it was the binding brand of the Thralldom, but it's no longer a symbol of any man's power. Not anymore. The brands on our flesh only serve as memories now, fateful reminders to never forget the earth's war with itself. There's never been any escape from human nature, but it comforts me to know that it's in our nature where hopes and dreams also reside, despite the nightmares. Where there is life, there love is found also.

  Looking past the reflection of this holding cell window, I can almost see the future, but more vitally, I can see the now. Today, the morning sun rises over miles of wreckage and ruin. It stretches across altered sands and cleansing waves.

  It was said that the Overlord's journal was scattered across the universe. Two-hundred years into the future, an entry has finally been found, but who can possibly unlock its code?

  The apocalypse returns in...

  THE GHOST OF ZERO