Descendant

by Jeffrey A. Levin

  It was that day in the bedroom. She had purchased a revolver; that was going to be the last day of her life. Then he came in—that filthy, disgusting man who controlled her, dominated her, and sickened her. When he demanded that she submit to him in his usual dehumanizing way, she began to cry. He laughed and dismissed her when she held the gun up to her own head. She felt her humanity flow out of her body as she tried to summon the courage to end it all. Yet when he derided her, calling her pathetic and stupid, something snapped inside of little Victoria. Her pathetic feelings about herself were so primordial, so freeing, that she dropped the gun from the side of her face and shot him cold. And then she cried. That was the day of the creation of Victoria Vorashian; the old pathetic version would never return.

  Victoria is breathing hard, so hard. Hurry! Put the glasses on one more time so you can move forward with your day!

  The doll is back on her lap. Daddy is holding her, kissing her—but in a nice way. He’s her daddy. He’s her support. He’ll always love her. I can depend on you! She thinks. Daddy kisses her on her rosy cheeks. “You’re beautiful! So beautiful! Daddy will be with you and love you forever!” he says.

  Victoria takes her VR glasses off. She feels better now. She can go on with her real life. She hears noises coming from the hologram; it’s called an electro-dark magnetic watch. The cool, soothing sounds of information; isn’t it wonderful? Victoria’s strength is getting information before anyone else can, and today a hologram from the cosmic microwave black hole appears like an ancient Polaroid.

  “Two interlopers have broken through the wormhole. We’re drawing them in!” Victoria glares at her Lalo lens hologram with immense interest. This new technology, luminous astronomical unit light element optics (Lalo), allows for her own image to interact with the object subliminally. She can give commands to the object without the subject realizing it.

  “I love it!” Victoria says out loud. Then she sneers. She hates aliens—especially male human aliens. They’re like cockroaches… dispensable vermin!

  There they are—two males: an older man and a young boy—and before too long, they will be captured and brought before her. She already has a cursory description of them, but she needs to know more. Where did they come from? Who are they? It won’t be long before she knows.

  Victoria walked right next to them inside of her luscious Lalo reality show.

  “You’re mine,” she says ever so softly.

  After all, to her, aliens are all sneaky little bastards that want her power and control.

  Victoria rings for Biddle by touching her exotic matter crimson ring. After all, Biddle Gnat is merely one of Victoria’s creations—a fine opus and a testament to her ingenuity. Once Victoria became strong and powerful, she knew she was going to need an ally. Yet it couldn’t be someone mortal, for that would be unreliable. Instead she created her strongest advocate, her strongest supporter, her most trusted person in the world.

  Victoria thought that the only male creature that she could really trust was a gnat, like malodorous, mephitic stink on a stray raccoon, like the smell of a man after sex. Yes, gnat-man would be her Robin, doing as she wished, kneeling slavishly to her, catering to her, and fulfilling her every wish. Yes, he would be half man, half insect.

  Victoria glares as the blips on her screen move closer to her dark spiderweb. It won’t be long before she eradicates the two interlopers. But before she does, they will be brought in front of her, kneeling and praying for their lives.

  Yes, Biddle Gnat, with his delicious long hair, six-pack abs, and long, flowing hair, is nothing other than a gnat! Victoria created the most evil of all robots through her own ingenuity. Biddle possesses the qualities of automation, art, and pure handsomeness. He is a tiny figure, almost cartoonish, with long extremities—yes, very long indeed. But he is not really a lover, just a prostitute that attends to her every wish.

  Victoria laughs, snickering at her own genius. Wasn’t man, even if man is a gnat, designed to grant her every wish—yes, to be a slave for her and beg her for small treats, and to be summoned when necessary and discarded when no longer needed.

  What a wonderful creation she has at her disposal!

  Why the name Biddle? That is perhaps the most delicious part of all. Victoria chose Biddle from a collection of a million gnats, all of them dancing before her eyes. And one—yes, one—seemed to move like a male rock diva, singing like an opera star and making sensual vibrational sounds. It was this precocious gnat, making sounds like an operatic genius, that she chose to be her loyal confidant.

  Biddle actually sounded like a runaway fiddle fiddling away in the night, passionately appealing to her every sensual desire. This insect genius was her man and was born Biddle Gnat.

  A knock is followed by a melodic musical sound. Victoria stares at her fermion-Bose wristwatch; an image of an incredibly handsome man with dimples the size of rivulets appears.

  “Enter!”

  In walks a cocky, delicious, diminutive man.

  “You are the gnat I always dreamed of,” Victoria declares, stroking his long and curly sexy hair. “Come here!” she commands, pointing to the hologram in the center of the room.

  “Ah, our next victims!” Biddle proclaims deftly, smiling craftily, for he has the capacity to feel Victoria’s every whim. He lives to functionally satisfy her. He desires only her.

  Victoria’s smile is brief and suspect, for Biddle is nothing other than a functionally created retard who is incapable of constructive thought or creativity—except for one thing. Biddle knows how to please his master, Victoria.

  “I want them, Biddle! I want them more than anything. They’re from a distant galaxy—a galaxy that seems to want to interlope in our business, my friend. They are Saboteurs! Spies! I want them kneeling before me!

  “May I ask who they are?” the gnatlike man requests, kneeling in front of Victoria.

  “The young one is an entitled little child; the older one is a time traveler who should have been killed a long time ago! Neither of them has any value to my empire!”

  Biddle immediately moves to his master’s side, placing his magical fingers on Victoria’s back. “A little lower,” Victoria says. “Bring them to me?”

  “Do you want them right now?”

  “Yes, my little gnat-man! But I do not want them harmed; do you understand?”

  “May I ask why, your highness?”

  Victoria laughs. “I want them both to squeal; that’s why. Any more questions?” Victoria flashes a stern look at Biddle.

  Biddle shakes his head. “No, my queen. I don’t want to be reduced to the size of a real gnat. I will comply with your wishes.

  Victoria smiles, yet her thoughts turn to her father—her real father. Then she recites some verse:

  All males cut to size,

  Their hands, their faces, their minds, I despise.

  The entire species will meet a rather deserved demise!

  Victoria tries to abort a macabre sound emanating from the depths of her depraved soul. She stares into the mirror, smiling sardonically.

  “They’ll be mine soon!”

  CHAPTER 24

  July 5, 2378

  1:13:42

  “Wow! How did you do that, Zeke? I’m impressed!”

  “Elementary, my inquisitive friend Michael—I just used a technique called geomagnetic reversal. You see, Victoria is employing a strong magnetic field to draw our craft in. I just used my Bowie converter to reverse polarity. It’s been working rather nicely, if I do say so myself!”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What is a Bowie converter?”

  “Well my friend Michael, B stands for ‘ballistic’; O stands for ‘observing physical organic laws’; W stands for ‘Whirly,’ which is the name of Michael Whirly, who discovered how to transfer magnetic poles; I stands for ‘interstellar locations’; and E stands for ‘Ernesti
ne,’ which happens to be my girlfriend’s name. I know how much you’ve been yearning for all of that information.”

  Zeke’s explanation sends us both into a frenzy of slaphappy laughter.

  “You’re too much!” I exclaim, whacking Zeke on the back.

  “Got that right!” Zeke concurs. “Well, I have to say that was a beautiful job of circumvention. They’ll never find our craft!”

  “Anyway, are you going to tell me your secret?

  “Dark matter!” he ejaculates. “You can only detect it from its gravitational effects. My Bowie converter will erase all traces of the spaceship’s subatomic existence.”

  “Well, I really hate to tell you, TT, but I can see it. Like, it’s right there, man!”

  “Wrong again, little Eisenstein!” he says with an expression craftier than that of Eddie Haskell from Leave it to Beaver. “There’s a theory that I’m employing called the hidden valley principle. You see, this entire planet operates on dark matter. You know, it’s like bats using radar that we can’t access. The craft is totally devoid of dark matter, making it invisible to Vorashian optics.”

  “They can’t see it! Really?”

  “That’s right, Michael; it’s totally invisible to a Vorashian.”

  “That’s really frigid, man.”

  Ezekial and I begin walking toward town. We observe the chaotic, blustering, dirty streets of Victoria’s city, Poubelle l’oeil. As we walk, we pass tattoo parlors, male strip joints, and astrological signs predicting the future. Everything seems to be flickering, as if the world has a collective migraine headache. Bright light is converging toward me from every direction. And the smell! I feel like blowing chunks all over the dark, gloomy streets.

  I think there’s an unknown entity called quintessence; it’s created when changing energy collides. You know, particle-on-particle, manostink-on-manostink, almost like a prize fight between two sweaty boxers emitting stink from their very bowels.

  I see dust-filled streets and alleyways, people with vacant eyes, and smoky street signs blinking like lifeless drones, flying aimlessly in the sky. My shirt is becoming soggy with sweat as we plunge our way through the thick atmosphere of Vorashia. My breathing becomes shallow as I feel the need to place a handkerchief over my mouth.

  “This is a dump, Zeke; why are we here?”

  Zeke nods listlessly. He seems to be in deep thought, paying little attention to me. “There’s something really off here,” he utters as we pass a number of glassy-eyed people walking the comatose streets. He notes that glowing beams of light seem to pass from many of the people’s eyes.

  “What’s going on, Zeke?” I whisper anxiously.

  “It’s what’s called a corkscrew property. Photons seem to boomerang off other objects when they’re being manipulated. These Möbius strips spin like tiny whirling dervishes, creating sparkling, hollow beams of light.”

  “Did you just say ‘manipulated’?”

  Zeke places a finger over his mouth. “Shh!”

  As we walk on, I notice more oddities related to their behavior. Their dress is flashy, and their smiles seem orchestrated. Almost every action appears stage-managed; it’s as if they are characters in a play, carefully monitored and directed.

  I glance at Zeke, who has taken out an instrument I’ve never seen before.

  “Initially I didn’t pick up on it, but there is an obvious disconnect, as if the people are just mannequins mechanically going through their paces. People are walking and talking, but there is still something amiss.” Zeke whispers.

  I nod in agreement. A slight yet distinct feeling of paranoia creeps into my consciousness. It’s as if I feel some sort of current running through my body.

  “Privacy is an illusion,” I once heard my father say. I remember rivulets of fear pulsing through my body as he said it.

  “Have you ever heard of a system called Peeper?” I say. “It’s an optical infrared system that can cut through your brain waves like a sharp knife. Translation? Something’s going on here.”

  Anyway, as we walk on, I sense a tone that I’ve never witnessed before. Suddenly I’m bumped by a man with a flashing smile and glassy, insentient eyes. “Excuse me!” responds the man in a monotone, robotic fashion.

  Have you ever felt spooked, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on why?

  Zeke’s expression has morphed into a sort of hypnotic glare; that’s the way he gets when he’s thinking, like, really hard.

  We continue walking, scrutinizing mechanical behavior, looking for apparent significant nuances, trying to pick up something familiar about their behavior. I stare into a storefront window, observing a mannequin that looks exactly like the man who bumped into me. It has the same smile and same clothes. And the mannequin’s role in the storefront window was to display movement.

  “He’s nothing other than a product,” I say to myself, walking quickly.

  “Dear God, if you want to move quickly, it costs $49.95 in Victorian vesos,” says Zeke.

  “Wow, this is eerie, Zeke.”

  Zeke wraps his arm around my shoulders. “This entire place is bugged.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s like we’re all a part of a video game. Each and every person is a character. I’m guessing that the viewers can see everything—even us!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Michael, we’re being watched! We’re the only people here who aren’t being manipulated by some sort of obtrusive control!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Zeke whispers cautiously. “Watch them closely; sometimes they move quickly. They stop abruptly, and their reactions have a similarity. It’s as if they’re limited by the program that operates them. Our presence is being completely ignored by these mannequin people.” Zeke speaks so softly I can hardly hear him. But I know he is serious as a time traveler going back for seconds, and that’s really dour.

  I shake my head, trying hard to display little or no effect. My father talked about things like this, but he didn’t think it could ever become a reality. Ironically, I find myself wishing he were here with me right now.

  Zeke glances at his watch. “The mathematical rules that exist support my theory that we are in Conway’s Game. The computer is used only so we can watch the game unfold on a screen. In reality, the game is revealed in some sort of mathematical cyberspace.”

  I nod. “sounds bizarre, Zeke.”

  “We have to be discreet,” Ezekial whispers. “They’ll know we’re not one of them!”

  “Someone’s watching us right now!” Zeke whispers once more. “Our every move, our voice and tone—everything is being monitored; trust me.

  “Aren’t you being just a little bit paranoid, Zeke?”

  Zeke’s eyes shift from side to side. We begin walking rapidly, reaching an alleyway at a gallop. Zeke’s eyes deftly dart, veering like prying periscopes, scanning for enemy predators.

  “We need to get out of the game or we’ll be stuck here for life!” Zeke says.

  “Let’s run!” We break into a quick sprint. Zeke and I begin running down the street, trying hard to avoid the automatons in front of us.

  “Don’t knock anyone down; we can’t draw attention to ourselves,” Zeke says.

  “What’s that young girl doing?”

  “She’s waving to us!” Zeke says. “Dear God, what do we do?”

  CHAPTER 25

  July 5, 2378

  1:44:45

  “Hey Zeke, I think I found it.”

  “What?”

  “You wanted to know where they develop their heat, didn’t you?”

  I nearly threw up when I glanced downward a few second before. Not more than ten feet from where the young girl is standing are some large cavernous holes clawing downward into tunnels inside the bowels of the planet Vorashia.

>   I glance at Zeke and we have a quick but sickening meeting of the minds. “Geothermal. Call it Geo-exchange or Geo-sickening.” I proclaim. But no matter what you call it, I witness intense smoky ghosts coming from the infernal, horrid apertures in the ground. I hear loud GSHPs—ground source heat pumps—swelling with some sort of burned substance blistering down below. I can’t figure it out at first. But I wonder if the planet is feeding off of bodies of some sort. But, who are they? Where did they come from? Who could possibly be this cruel?

  “Zeke, I don’t like this,” I say. “This is creepy.”

  Zeke nods. “Why in the hell do you think we’re here?” he says. His demeanor actually reminds me quite a bit of Bone’s.

  “What the heck is down there, TT?”

  Ezekial starts coughing, shielding his mouth from the feverish fumes coming from the voluminous holes in the ground. His eyes peer downward. “There are blue stones coming out of those furnaces. The human body contains something called boron, Michael. This operation looks like cremated remains—human remains that have been burned using intense heat and force. The bodies are being used to create blue diamonds, and they’re functioning as some sort of process to create heat; intense heat can be manufactured at forty-two hundred Kelvin.”

  I shake my head in absolute disgust.

  “It’s another form of cannibalism, Michael. Whoever is responsible for this—and I think I know who it is—is really sick!”

  “In here!” the young girl shrieks, waving her hands. We rapidly scamper toward a run-down building covered in peeling paint. We fling open the rattling door to find a winding staircase leading into a small vestibule where I see four entryways. The bohemian girl flings open the door and ushers us into a small room. Three males are inside the premises. Two of them lift their heads, not showing much emotion at all. One of the bearded men has his nose buried in a book titled The Ocular, while two others continue with their conversation.

  “You’ll be safe here!” the bedraggled girl proclaims. “Well, for a while, I hope.”