Maya grabs my hand once again, and she squeezes it until I feel woozy from the pain. But I won’t let go! We walk over to a small opening with a jagged ledge. She reaches in and pulls out what looks like a tiny metal bird.
“What is it?” I ask incredulously.
“It’s a Saqqara bird,” Maya utters, appearing a little stupefied as well.
“It could be twenty-five hundred years old … maybe older,” she whispers.
“How can you tell?”
“Well, my dad knows all about them. He says that they were built in prehistoric Saqqara, Egypt, not far from the Sphynx and the Giza pyramid,” she whispers. “They’re the first proof that aliens were on our planet centuries ago.”
“What’s it doing here?” I inquire naively. Maya moves her fingers around the diminutive flying bird. “It looks like it’s pure gold. Could it be this is an original? “Maybe it’s a gift to us.”
Maya flashes an incredulous grin. Her eyes glitter, and the sound of her voice is angelic.
“Look,” she says, swaying the Saqqara bird over her head, “it can fly!”
We both stand there in traumatized amazement.
“You mean it’s aerodynamic?”
“Of course” she whispers. “It’s magic! Don’t you think?”
“It was built to fly way back then.”
“What? Quick. Quiet! I hear footsteps,” Maya whispers. “Hush!” I see that same yellow light emanating from the wall, flickering, as if it’s following us.
“Someone’s here!”
“Put it back,” I whisper, “please.” Maya reluctantly complies.
“Dear G_d, thank you! Now let’s get out of here!” I say in a low, guttural tone.
Maya grabs my hand, gesturing toward the craggy aperture. My heart seems to be taking flight like a Saqqara bird. Maya goes first, wedging her slight body through the narrow gap, followed by a slightly more clumsy attempt by me. Naturally, I fall. I straighten my comically droll hat as we stealthily tiptoe toward the exit of the cave.
We carefully tread under the knifelike stalactites; then Maya and I slowly and gingerly creep under the sharp rocks and deep crevasses. My eyes sweep the cave, searching for the renegade bat.
Then I see him! The vulturous bat seems to be heading right for us! I grab Maya’s hand as we race toward the opening of the cave. We break into hysterical laughter. We’re free, and I am in love.
CHAPTER 7
June 23, 2378
1:14 p.m.
Just when I thought I had met my true love, my world fell apart. I love walking on the craggy shores with a great book. Recently, a fascinating novel called Cracked hit all the cutting-edge Frazzle sites. Even Byte Me, a highly critical literary publication, endorsed the novel, saying Cracked is bitingly satirical but poignant.
Cracked is perhaps the most disconcerting book I’ve ever read. It’s about our schizophrenic culture. After all, we live in a society that has no bearings. Even during the time of the Salem witch trials, our society knew who our opponent was—at least we thought we did.
Do you want to hear something even more disconcerting? Don’t freak out. I think the novel is based on my life. Please forget what I just said.
As I walk on toward Glass Beach, I enter into a new world called a synthetic radar form, which is used to create objects. You can go there. SARF, synthetic artificial radar forms, creates a world that is unlikely to be invaded by any microorganisms or, more importantly, any sort of human intervention. You need to take a synthetic shower before you can enter. I like it because there are times when I just need to think. By the way, if I don’t reprogram my thinking, I tend to get really depressed.
I’m entering my therapy session now.
I catch a view of the indignant sky growing progressively more ominous. “Looks tragically schizophrenic to me,” I say softly. To the east I observe vindictive black clouds looming over me, holding dominion over the land and sky. I tiptoe over grotesque rocks and swordlike craggy roots, squinting at two demonic eyes emerging from the darkened clouds; they appear to be staring disapprovingly at me, exposing their bulging red pupils. It’s strange how these manic caricatures seem to be alive; their malevolent eyes seem to have a quality of radar conscience, and they beam their dislike for who I am—more importantly, who I was. They must be wondering how they can steal my soul. Did these secretive, muddled mars develop this morning, or is some conniving ET seeding them with harmful chemicals, nourishing them with paranoia dew and chemical soup? I swallow, tasting the bitter pill of fear and uncertainty.
Okay, I’ve totally freaked you out; I get it. Welcome to my world. I told you earlier that I’m a little bit strange. I need time to myself. It’s as if some unknown entity has taken charge of my mind and soul. I feel it. What do I do? I try; that’s all.
So what can I do? Sometimes I’ll take out some primitive paper and write a few lines of poetry while I watch the surf come in over the sandbar jetties. Large pelicans seem to be holding on for their life, daring the tide to drive them off to sea. Sometimes I’ll walk by the opening of the cave that Maya and I visited, hoping that maybe she’ll just appear like she did that one glorious day. To my misfortune, I haven’t even caught a glimpse of her in the last week—not once. Word has it—well, at least my mom tells me—that Maya is being grounded.
“Can her parents hate me that much?” I say to the angry tide. I didn’t take Maya to the cave, did I? I just fell in love with her there.
The beaches by our house are rare, beautiful, and lonely. If you wait a few minutes, the fickle sky will change, reconfiguring its own persona. I love the way the clouds swirl in the air, forming beautiful pictures in the sky. You see, anger and hatred paint the sky to the east, but to the west I see four riveting hues of clouds. There is one gray cloud that channels a lonely old man surveying the skies, wondering where his longtime lover has gone. “Perhaps she’ll come back; I love her so much,” I imagine the old man saying.
Right above the old man is an orange cloud shaped like a chameleon that is seemingly content to bask in the sun, possibly getting a little bit of a tan. You’re right; this cloud could give a rat’s ass what happens to anyone or anything. He just wants the sun to himself.
I wonder what it would be like to simply lie on the beach, peering straight up at this solitary solar torch. As I lazily and aimlessly stare at the enigmatic sky, I become enamored with the sultry clouds, witnessing contriving figures and strange apparitions floating aimlessly in the sky. Strangely, however, there is a blackish-gray cloud hovering above both of them, just meandering slowly in the painted firmament. I wonder why he seems so unaffected, as well. After all, he is the dark cloud, isn’t he?
You’re probably asking why I’m so preoccupied with the sky. Perhaps it’s because my subconscious tells me that something is wrong—very wrong indeed. It’s a feeling that I have every once in a while. You know, just before I feel like offing myself. So I study the sky, looking for answers. Wouldn’t you?
I’m hoping to see the burning wheel circling in the sky, wondering if that was our interloper in the cave. If so, why us? Did he or she bring us gifts, or was it just a coincidence? I love to fantasize about the people around me. Don’t you? I’m guessing that the interloper is studying Maya and me—targeting us. Yes, there’s a reason why he’s hovering in the sky, watching us like a spy from another universe. But what’s his purpose? What does he want from me? Is it some form of remote viewing? Have you ever heard of that? It’s a way of accurately seeing information millions of miles away. Talk about paranoid. Who are these people? What do they want from me? I pause for a moment and take some of my anxiety pills. They’re called APSs—antiparanoia and schizophrenia modifiers. You see, every once in a while I begin to feel jumpy; I’m always trying to figure something out—something that’s bad, or perhaps even my fault.
I continue walking down the greenish-ta
upe beach. Yes, you heard that right. I forgot you’ve probably never seen a green beach before; that’s because this particular sandy desert called Glass Beach contains an ingredient called olivine, which is a remnant of volcanic eruptions that occurred many centuries ago. As I pick up a piece of sharp greenish rock, I wonder, What can Maya be thinking? Will I ever see her again?
I see a few seagulls resting on top of the greenish stones as if they own the sea, the water, and the horizon. Then, from out of nowhere I observe two more seagulls glide onto the beach, seemingly unaffected by the boisterous tide; the large, multicolored porous rocks; or the larger herons that are picking morsels of food off the moist, endless beach. I envision these seagulls thinking, feeling, and worrying just like me. Are they trying to make sense of everything?
I cup my hands together and shout “Maya!” at the top of my lungs. No response. A few seagulls alight a few feet from me, merely going about their business.
Why isn’t my therapy working? I wonder. My head feels as if it is swelling up with fluid. When one enters a synthetic artificial radar form, it’s supposed to make him or her feel better! I don’t feel better; I feel worse. The therapy isn’t working. I wonder why.
I walk about a half a mile, just thinking about Maya and my encounter with her in the taciturn El Diablo cave. I reflect about the wall turning a bright yellow. I brood about Maya and me wedging ourselves through the cavernous aperture in the extraordinary cave. But mostly I remember the sound that seems to emanate through the walls of the cave, and of course that golden Saqqara bird left on a shelflike nook. Why didn’t we take it? We need to go back! My stomach begins hurting badly. I need to see her; I have to see her, now.
I slowly peer around, wondering if anyone is watching me right now. After all, my mom believes that we are always being watched. Then an overwhelming stench permeates the air. I pull up my red handkerchief, lifting it over my nose. The putrid scent reminds me of the day that the ETs fled from their biosphere under the island. There was a strange odor in the air on that day as well.
My eyes aimlessly meander up the coast. I observe dead loons, cormorants, ducks, geese, herons, sandpipers, and whitish-gray gulls. The birds are obviously contaminated; the feathers of these once high-flying, proud birds have been destroyed. I put on a pair of gloves that I keep in my back pocket for situations like this.
I carefully pick up one of the birds with my gloves and then place my index finger to my nose. I detect a sticky, odorless, nearly colorless substance that seems to envelop these birds. The bird’s head literally falls off, landing on a razor-sharp green stone. I begin to shake. My whole body is wired as dark fluid seems to fill my brain. I’m getting jittery again. I feel helpless and scared.
I pick up the glistening green stone. The sharp edge cuts me. I watch as the purest, clearest red blood drips onto my hands. I appear to be bathing myself in savory red blood. Somehow it’s soothing me; it’s cleansing me. I place my head in my hands, bathing my face in the crimson fluid.
CHAPTER 8
June 25, 2378
10:57:13 p.m.
Finished with my woman ‘cause she couldn’t help me with my mind
People think I am insane because I’m frowning all the time
All day long I think of things, but nothing seems to satisfy
Think I’ll lose my mind if I don’t find something to pacify
Can you help me, occupy my brain?
—Black Sabbath (ancient band)
The men in black have returned in the hush of the night. They’re in my mother’s kitchen. My father tells me to go to bed. I comply. I walk up the stairs toward my bedroom, turning Terby on. Remember: I’ve wired the kitchen. Hey, in today’s paranoid, delusional world, a boy has to defend himself. One thing’s for sure: something is going down, and it’s happening right in Monica’s kitchen.
I see mathematical equations on my air screen. In case you’re interested, mathematical truths are the way to truly understand the world. Remember when I said that all is not as it appears? Well, I think we’re all going to get a taste of that tonight.
Terby says, “Is this good enough?” I take a peek.
“My God, that’s who they’re doggin’?”
“The one and only,” Terby responds in her best simulated voice.
“Okay, how can you tell?”
“Language is mathematics, Michael. You asked me to tell you what the men in your mother’s kitchen are saying. First of all, one of the three is a woman. Look closely. Second, it’s a very old language. Not only is it Hebrew, but it’s an older version of Hebrew.”
“Why?” I say.
A virtual smile occurs on Terby’s face. “I don’t do ‘why.’ It’s just a fact.”
I lean in, petting Terby. “What would I do without you?”
“You would find another animaloid. Perhaps you will anyway. There are more recent versions coming out.”
“Nonsense,” I say. “You’re my girl. What’s my father saying?”
“Switch your mode to Ancient Hebrew interpretation so I can proceed.”
Nodding my head, I do as Terby suggests.
“Your father is talking about good and evil. He says that even good men sin. He’s speaking about the mystery and contradiction of the Hebrew letter tet. Tet is the ninth letter in the alphabet, which has the numerical value of nine.”
“What else is he saying?”
“Your father pauses. He is patting one of the men on the back. He says that there are times when tet is good and there are times when tet can be weakened, generating filth and impurities.”
“Thank you, Terby, but I don’t understand.”
“You will, Michael. Please turn on your QCR!”
I cringe. “Eavesdropping on people seems so foreign to me. It gives me the creeps,” I whisper. Truth be told, I’m getting used to it.
I touch my temple, activating a sound recorder that I use when I need emotional support.
“Knowledge is power, Michael. You must plug in the code that unlocks the information in the cloud. C’mon, Michael, knowledge is something a true Eisenstein cannot resist.”
I sigh. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Complying, I reach into my drawer and pull out the code that unlocks my father’s recorded espionage. A sick feeling shoots through my body. An air screen reveals the covert images before me. I feel a little sick, but according to Good Ole Ben, Eisensteins have been doing this for a long, long time.
The White House Grounds
Sierra Mountains
11:04:36
President Stephanie Cox stares out the window of the oval office. She peers outward, nearly fixated on the darkness. Oddly, there’s an unusual crescent moon casting brilliant light upon Earth. Stephanie wonders what may be happening on the dark side of the moon. Does it matter? she muses.
The president of the American Isles takes a deep breath. She was so idealistic about the job of president over six years ago. After all, she had become a two-term president who had tried so hard to stay true to her convictions and ideals. But that was before she was briefed, minutes after her swearing in. That was before she was told some of the evil truths about the true nature of the universe; that was before she knew what she knows now. That was before she realized that she had lost her soul.
Choices—does she truly have any? She takes a cigarette out from her top drawer. No one will know. She watches the smoke swirl into the air like a genie on fire. Perhaps that’s what she needs—three wishes.
Stephanie inhales deeply and then immediately puts her cigarette out. “Enough,” she says to the empty room. She reaches down toward the table beside her, picks up a glass of clear, clean water, and drinks it slowly. Perhaps this is the last pure act that she will perform today. You see, she was told about the forces of good and evil. She was told how we had no choice but to comply to the demands of f
orces beyond our control—certainly out of her control. Forces were already at work. They were far too many, and they were too complicated for even her to understand. She gulps down the last bit of clean water left in her glass.
The battle for our souls had been going on far too long, and the consequences were far too dire. Who was she? What could she do? After all, the concealed truth was that the universe seemed to be operating on a level that she could never understand. Yet she was the president—at least that’s what they said.
Michael’s bedroom
11:13:07
“So Terby, what is terrifying the president? Who is she afraid of?”
“Switch the frequency dial, Michael.”
“Why? Honestly, I don’t like eavesdropping. Yet I have a right to pursue the truth, don’t I? Don’t we all?
“Your father is thinking. You need to hear his thoughts.”
“Are you sure our eavesdropping is remaining anonymous? After all, I’m not sure being Ben’s son guarantees my safety.”
Terby reels off more mathematical equations. “Your father is totally oblivious to your intervention. Besides, he doesn’t think you’re capable of pulling off such a feat. You’re still a little boy, remember?”
“How do you know that, Terby?
I swear Terby smiles. “Everything in life, Michael, has its basis in mathematics. Even Galileo pronounced that everything in the universe is a ‘grand book’ recorded and written in the language of mathematics. Certainly, as an Eisenstein, you know this, Michael.”
I begin petting Terby again. I feel much better.
“You’re right,” I say. “What else are they saying, Terby?”
“Your father is thinking.”
“Can you pick up the subatomic waves of his thoughts?”
Michael hits enter on a side button under Terby’s ear. Random numbers appear in the air: “1 - 12.38 - .66667 - 0.8625 - ¾ - .222 - 198.”
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