Future Lovecraft

by Anthony Boulanger

  Human hands were not normally allowed near any of the books protected in these specialised archives. Scholars who had been able to demonstrate a need to consult the originals used hermetically-sealed, climate-and-light-controlled boxes. Inside these, internal robotic fingers turned the pages, when instructed via touch pad. It wasn’t like holding a real book in your hands, but it was better than having the pages disintegrate from careless handling.

  Curator of this section, Iris was one of the few allowed to touch these books. While they waited for intruders, she methodically reread the pages of her children for anomalies. Possessing photographic recall, she remembered by ‘seeing’ things—pages of books for example—in her mind-viewer, and could instantly detect any textural alterations. As the minutes ticked towards midnight, she was wondering if it had all been a bad dream. “Great Goddess, how did we get here?” she whispered to her sister.

  ***

  Good question. As the famous frog once said, “It’s not easy being green.” While not green in appearance, the twins had grown up profoundly committed to the repair and protection of the environment.

  By the middle of the 21st century, any thinking person, by then a declining species, understood that the pernicious effects of extensive agribusiness farming was transforming the residents of wealthy countries into slow-moving, cancer-ridden, dull-minded robots. The proliferation of foodstuffs assembled from refined corn syrup had created a sub-class of citizenry no longer able to discriminate healthy food from toxic. Soya derivatives mixed with reconfigured corn syrup, flavoured by e-numbers, were mashed and extruded into an endless variety of products. Diets consisting of little more than sugar, cellulose and food colouring made consumers sluggish and unhealthy. Sugar-induced torpor meant that, as people moved less and less, bones became dangerously brittle. Physical education programs in schools had long been abandoned because even the youngest children could not run or jump or risk the fractures that ensued from the smallest of accidents.

  Early on, some people had developed Multiple Chemical Sensibilities (MCS)—in other words, they had become allergic to almost everything in their surroundings. Forced by their illnesses to escape the dangers presented by polluted water, air, soil, and food, many had retreated to guarded rural enclaves, as far from the centres of toxicity as possible, where they produced their own food, tried to live more sensible lives, and campaigned for more sensible farming and food production practices. America had become that dreaded hydra—a two-tierd society: one part, physically and mentally active and healthy; the other, physically incapable, diabetes-ridden and mentally incompetent.

  Others, recognising the dangers before irreversible damage had been done to their biosystems, voluntarily removed themselves from the locations of greatest pollution.

  Iris and Thyme’s parents had been among the first wave to recognise these growing environmental hazards. When Mama Carter learned she was carrying twins, she insisted they move to an island off the coast of Maine to gestate their babies. There, with other like-minded families, the community grew its own vegetables, raised sheep and chickens, and fished. Mama had been determined that her children’s minds and bodies would not be compromised by the toxicity of American supermarket offerings. As with so many well-laid plans, there had been a glitch. The elder Carters and their community had not anticipated the changes wrought in the seas by agricultural run-off.

  When the twins were born, they seemed perfect: healthy bodies, smiling faces, prodigious lungs, which they demonstrated when annoyed or hungry. However, as they grew, they began to display some unusual abilities. For one thing, they could talk to each other without words across vast distances. They could also change their shapes and, in the form of any winged creature, could fly. A call of distress from Thyme would produce Iris leading a swarm of threatening birds in seconds.

  They had other skills, as well. Iris could see events in the past, and project herself and her sister into them, while Thyme seemed able to project into the future. Papa Carter had been so concerned about the twins getting lost, injured, or trapped in other time periods that he made them promise to not use these powers—at all—until they were older and, hopefully, wiser. They loved their Papa, so they promised. Safe on their beloved island, the twins grew up convinced of the need to respect and protect their world. The environment responded by making them tall, beautiful and clever. “If only they weren’t twins and could have had individual styles, their lives would have been perfect,” they said but only to each other.

  Time passed. Outside their secluded enclave, awareness of the need for healthier food and respect for the environment had increased in some places, so it became safe to leave Maine. Besides, the twins needed more of an education than their isolated haven could provide. Iris chose to study at USC Berkeley, while Thyme remained on the East Coast and went to Harvard. When both elected to study Library Science, no one was surprised. During their years on the island, books, real paper books—not electronic tablets—had been their dearest companions.

  While they were studying on opposing coasts, their parents, worn out by coping with an earth in turmoil, elected to take BDL (Bodily Life Cessation). The twins were alone. When both were offered positions at the BNFP, they accepted. What a lark, they thought. They were 24 years old and had never left the States.

  ***

  Relocation to France was blinding—a full-on blast. As so often in her past, Paris in the late decades of the 21st century had become a mecca for the world’s wannabe creatives and misfits. Not that these incomers were incapable—far from it. The variety of physical presentations and unusual abilities that had made them outcasts in societies composed mainly of sugar-munching trolls, made them ideally suited for life in 21st century Paris. These genetic newbies, who were too active, too lively, too noisy—too alive to be comfortable neighbours back home, found a warm welcome on the rues and boulevards of Paris.

  Paris has always attracted a diverse collection of colourful immigrants. In the 20th century, refugees from France’s colonial past, from Tunisia, Algeria and Morocco, from Viet Nam and Cambodia, had transformed certain arrondissements of the often-stuffy city into vibrant bazaars. Now, again, the streets teemed with a visual, aural and olfactory cacophony of colours, styles, foods, and music. Not since the 1920’s had Parisian cafés vibrated with such a glittering array of gorgeous people and lively discussions. Her throbbing heart was the seedy, graffiti-decorated rue Belleville—far from the staid bourgeoisie of the riverbanks. Within a week, Iris and Thyme had an apartment on a high floor overlooking the parc, its creaky, wrought-iron-curlicue cage lift operated by state-of-the art computers. They dove into their new life, ugly ducklings transforming into swans as they fell.

  Work-wise, it was perfect. The library most called the “TGB” (Très Grand Bibliothèque), Mitterrand’s monument to his ego, was also in the east of Paris, so required only one line change on the Metro. These were much less crowded than in the past, as so many people, unable to deal with stairs and walking long distances, worked from home. Mitterrand’s Very Big Library had tottered along into the future, its concrete towers chipped and mouldering, without losing its cachet amongst scholars, or any of its over twenty million volumes. This became their second home, its books their raison d’être.

  ***

  Midnight found them sharing a sandwich. “Maybe we should give up,” said Thyme. “If I don’t get at least a little sleep, I’ll be comatose during Monsieur le Directeur’s scintillating presentation tomorrow.”

  “That’s okay,” said Iris. “You go home and catch up on your beauty sleep. I’ll stand guard here.”

  “No way. Whatever this is, we’re facing it together.”

  “That’s the sister I know and love.” Iris beamed her most radiant smile.

  “You stay here. I’m going to take a quick flit around.”

  By down-shifting until she was as weightless as a hummingbird, Thyme could fly. Darting from shelf to shelf, up and down lightless rows of books, she was
virtually invisible. Speeding round a corner, she had to backpedal her wings furiously to keep from colliding with a lighted flying object. Ducking into a space between two books of differing heights, she exclaimed, “What the...blathers is that?”

  The glimmering purple thing buzzed and growled as it explored the shelves. It seemed unaware of her. Stopping near the end of the row she had just exited, it turned and hung, briefly motionless, before emitting a piercing, saw-like whistle. Out of the gloom behind, a phalanx of glowing, flying creatures appeared, moving up the rows and fanning out in groups, violet lights flickering on and off inside their rotund bodies. Clearly, they were looking for something—a book, perhaps. I’ll be damned, thought Thyme. They’re bees—sentient, purple, light-producing bees.

  As soon as the last of the platoon had passed her, their buzzing communication mode and regimented behaviour marking them as soldiers on a reconnaissance mission, Thyme headed back to Iris as quickly and soundlessly as her tiny wings could take her. “Iris, Iris, wake up. We’re being invaded by bees.”

  “Huh! Killer bees?...I wasn’t asleep.”

  “I don’t know about the ‘killer part’, but they’re purple, smart, and they’re looking for something.”

  “Our books! They’re after our books. Merde! Those...those….” Iris couldn’t think of an expletive harsh enough. “Thyme, we have to stop them.”

  “Shh...quiet! You’re right, but let’s think about this before we rush in like Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral.”

  “No rushing, there—it was a standoff, one gunman against another.”

  “That’s just what we could be facing—a standoff between a regiment of killer bees and two defenceless young women,” said Thyme.

  “With special powers—don’t forget our special powers.”

  “They have special powers, too. Have you ever looked at that book they keep locked up in M. le Directeur’s safe?”

  “The one we’re not supposed to know is there...the Necronomicon?”

  “That one. I think they have something to do with it. I have the feeling these flying terrorists are Nekrobees.”

  “If that’s the case, we could be in way over our heads.” Iris flopped onto the floor, her head in her hands.

  “When has that ever stopped us? Come on. We’ll think of something. “

  The sisters put their heads together, to communicate telepathically. Wanting to make surprise one of their weapons, they decided to follow a single bee, in order to determine what the group was up to. Downsizing to the dimensions of baby dragonflies, they zoomed to the top of the stacks, so they could hover over the entire collection. From there, they watched the bees moving through the stacks. They seemed to be reading the book titles on the spines. “I didn’t think bees could read French,” whispered Iris.

  “We’ve already agreed that these aren’t ordinary bees.”

  “No, they’re not...but...ah...look there, that lazy one...it’s falling behind the others.”

  No matter how well-drilled an army, even of rampaging sentient bees, there’s always at least one who can’t or won’t keep up. Iris and Thyme had found a slacker.

  Taking advantage of their diminished size, they flitted and darted behind the lone, lazy bee as it fell farther and farther behind the main group, stopping every few shelves for several seconds before moving on. “What a lazy plodder. It isn’t helping its fellows at all,” said Thyme.

  “I think it’s looking for a place to sleep until the pack comes back.”

  “You could be right. Look at that.”

  The slow, and really, rather-size-challenged nekrobee had slipped between two books, its violet glow dimming to a memory. “What do we do now?” asked Iris.

  “I’m not sure. I think we’ve got company. Look behind you.”

  “They look angry. Do they look angry to you?”

  Five flashing purple bees had appeared behind them. Another group materialised around a corner, while a third cluster zoomed down from the top of a row. As the twins attempted a tactical retreat toward the front of the stacks, still another group appeared, cutting them off. They were surrounded.

  “Yes, Iris. They look angry to me.”

  “Damnit, we’ve been ambushed....”

  “Led into a trap...”

  “...by our own carelessness.”

  “Now what do we do?”

  That question was answered by the bees. Buzzing, they circled the girls, who had retaken normal size in hopes of improving the odds. Not a chance. The bees darted in, stingers first, trying for an arm or a cheek. To avoid them, Iris and Thyme waved books pulled from the shelves. It was hopeless. Any attempt to deviate or escape was countered by a cloud of angry, purple insects. Inexorably, the bees manoeuvred the girls deeper into the darkness. After five minutes, the twins had run out of stacks, books and ideas. All the while, in the far back, an eye, set into an opaque black circle, watched the melee.

  “Iris, that wasn’t here the last time I checked.”

  “It’s here now, sister, and we’re about to go through it.”

  Unblinking, it had followed their frantic attempts to escape. Once they were flat against it, the eye swirled open. Surrounded by irritated buzzing, the girls exploded through the sable pupil into a lightless cavern.

  Behind them, the eye clanged shut. Far ahead, violet lights glowed in the darkness. The bees pushed them towards it. “They really like this colour,” mouthed Iris.

  “When we get out of here, I’ll never look at a lilac bush in same way again.”

  “If we get out.”

  They were moving down a tunnel with smooth, slippery sides. Deeper in, it was lit by flashing bees nailed at intervals to the ceiling.

  “I wonder how often they change the bulbs,” said Thyme.

  “Don’t joke. Those poor things.”

  “Those ‘poor things’ may be herding us to our deaths.”

  Ten metres ahead, the tunnel widened into a chamber, its walls covered in markings that looked like writing, but indecipherable. A short, man-like creature, dwarfed by four angular stick insects, waited in the centre.

  “Iris.” Thyme poked her sister. “Check out the vertically-challenged dude with the basketball-player bodyguard?”

  “My, my, he is short. Looks like a jack-o’-lantern plopped on top of a pumpkin.”

  “His mother must have had a mega case of carotene poisoning when she was carrying him.”

  “I don’t fancy the look of his bodyguard, either. Green stick insect is not this season’s best fashion choice.”

  Mr Pumpkin Man strutted up to the twins. “You two have caused me a very great amount of difficulty. That wasn’t nice.”

  “What funny noises it makes,” Thyme said. “They sound like they’re being generated by a machine.”

  “No talking,” he barked. “When I want to hear your voices, I’ll tell you. Now, be quiet and follow me.”

  “Why should we do that?” Thyme demanded.

  “Because, if you don’t, I shall have one of my very tall and very hungry friends crunch off your sister’s arm.”

  “You and what army?” Iris shifted from human form into a small, stinging creature. “They’ll have to catch me first.” She swooped in and landing a dart, right on the creature’s shiny, orange head.

  “Ouch! Get her! Don’t kill her!” Pumpkin Man screamed. “IT wants them alive.”

  The tallest of the Praying-Mantis creatures waved a raptorial leg at Iris, its mandible clicking commands. She darted away, but was soon cornered. With all four trying to grab her, she wouldn’t hold out for long.

  “Leave my sister alone!” Thyme, shifting as she screamed, swooped at the Mantis Leader’s eye. It roared and thrashed in pain, all four pairs of legs flailing, lopping off feelers and bits of other mantises. Iris tried to escape the melee and flew straight into a wall of nekrobees. Ominous, saw-like buzzing broadcast how angry they were. Once again, they herded the twins, pushing them deeper into the cavern until the girls teetered o
n the edge of a cliff. Behind them gaped a long drop into nothingness. “Are you ready, sister?” said Iris.

  “Ready when you are.” They jumped.

  ***

  Endless hours, or seconds, passed. It was impossible to tell. All perception of time had vanished. The bottom, when it arrived, did so without warning. They landed—Splot!—in a puddle of sticky, foul-smelling, purple goo.

  “I’m really beginning to hate this colour,” said Iris.

  “Me, too. What’s that stink?”

  Iris leaned closer to the puddle and sniffed. “It’s from the Dragon Arum (Dracunculus vulgaris), I think. Euch! Disgusting! The things I do for you.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Probably. I don’t know. Never touched one before.”

  “Then I think we should get out of here as fast as possible. Damn!”

  “Now what?”

  “I’m stuck. Can you lift your arm?”

  Iris jerked her arm upward; rubbery strings wrapped around her forearm pulled it back.

  “Damn!”

  Taking a deep breath, she bent over suddenly and pulled a knife out of her boot. Bouncing back up, she slashed at the tentacles holding her arm. The puddle creature writhed and hissed, releasing her. As it backed away growling, she moved to cut her sister free.

  “That’s better,” said Thyme, rubbing her arm. “That was gross.”

  “You two are becoming very tiresome. First, you blind my avatar’s guards and now, you’ve frightened my poor little dragon flower.”

  The twins swivelled around to discover an enormous, squishy-looking thing with waving tentacles and beady, purple eyes.

  “What the...who or what are you?” Thyme demanded.