Descendant

by Jeffrey A. Levin

  “I’ve caused so much pain, my friend Mags. How can I walk away from that?”

  Mags’s eyes are like roaming charcoal-black orbs consuming all of the world’s emotions. He’s like a huge affective vacuum cleaner. His vibrant soul seems to merge into the atmosphere, floating unencumbered like a saint gazing into the darkness, observing one star shoot across the sky.

  “You’re not the same person anymore, my friend.” Magdiel smiles, staring off into the heavens.

  “He’s watching you, Michael. You’re not alone.”

  The next morning begins with a bang—not quite a big bang, but a series of explosions nevertheless. My eyes shoot open like those of a startled deer in headlights. I’m still lying in the exact same position I was in the previous night as I listened to my buddy Mags. But then my evening’s reverie turns abruptly into an early morning nightmare.

  I take a quick teleport to my business, Eisenstein-Proto Technologies. Moments later, I’m walking through the front door to the ominous sound of horrid, rumbling thunder. My neutrino dinger has been going off incessantly, sounding like a wounded ancient alarm clock. I call my dinger Nolan, or sometimes Nolee. I have this strange habit of naming all my tech stuff; that way it doesn’t seem so damn impersonal. Nolan was this really cool friend of mine when I was growing up, and now he’s bonded with my dinger forever in immortal perpetuity.

  What the hell? She won’t stop, will she? I stare at my Nolee. I see an image of my daughter, Molly, with the caption, “I’m coming for both of you!”

  “You’re late!” Proto exclaims, her eyes glued to her hair trigger. “Information on demand… nothing better,” she quips.

  “What’s up with the sky?” I ask. “Looks like a revolution is going on out there.”

  “It’s more than that. No coincidences here, Proto; she’s sending us a warning—Vika style.”

  Proto squints. “Someone’s not happy; that’s for sure.”

  We both stare out the window.

  “The sky is lighting up like an Xmas tree, exploding lights and all. Someone wants to be noticed,” I say.

  “It looks like a meteorite has eluded the Wesley Belt,” Proto quips, still studying the information on her Invis Screen. “Apparently Merker—the name scientists have given the meteorite—exploded at 4:15 a.m. upon impact, somewhere close to America.

  “A meteorite can’t avoid the belt. Who’s done this?”

  “Who do you think, slick?”

  “There’s no doubt,” I whisper.

  Proto shoots me one of her famous “duh” looks.

  “So who shot Merker down?”

  “Rocket snipers. They blew the damn thing to bits, thank God!” Proto says, still staring at the whirling numbers blinking onto her screen like little wounded soldiers.

  I stare out the window. The sky oddly looks like a big, puffy black eye; after all, the moon seems to have been hit as well. Swirling dust floats in the air like a huge smoldering campfire. Our endless array of Visi-Visions (VV) is pounding out news stories with voracious appetites for fearmongering; furthermore, a rare array of languages representing every country on the planet seems to be contributing to one large panic clusterfuck.

  Then, from out of nowhere, odd lights permeate the sky like gigantic fireflies on ultrasteroids. They flash in and phase out, causing a dizzying mania of blinking lights.

  Proto glares at her little stash of information, which is darting before her like a data storm parade. “They’re space military craft,” she says with no affect at all. She turns around, staring at me. “You poked the bitch, didn’t you?”

  “She’s discovered that I’ve removed the chip from my head. All her signals are being mixed. I had to retaliate somehow, right?”

  “It’s a fucking meteorite, Michael. That whining evil bitch has actually manipulated a hundred-ton rock hurtling toward Earth.”

  “How did she get it through the Wesley Belt?”

  Proto is breathing heavily. “I don’t know. That’s the problem, Michael. Like, what the hell did you do to her, Michael? Did you…?” Proto makes a lewd expression with her mouth and hands.

  “No, of course not!”

  Proto shakes her head. “She’s pissed about something.”

  “I think she’s just been inhaling all of that dark energy on Vorashia.”

  Proto shakes her head. “It’s gotta be more than that… probably a man. That’s the one universal dog whistle. I don’t care how many light-years this bitch lives away from us.”

  We witness more explosions in the sky. It looks like the fourth of July.

  “Shit, she’s blown up something on the moon!” Proto screams, still glaring at her Invis Screen. “It could be one of the installations the grays have been using. She’s just trying to scare us, Michael. The bitch just wants you to dance on a string—her string.” Proto moves her poodle around her Invis Screen. “We haven’t seen the end of her,” she deadpans. “She’s just sending us a message. My guess is that she’ll go away for a while.”

  “She’s never going away, Proto; trust me.”

  Proto stares at me for a long time. “Our government has been relying on Eisensteins for a long time, Michael. You’re an Eisenstein, aren’t you?”

  A long silence ensues.

  CHAPTER 54

  April 21, 2401

  12:42 p.m.

  Even swine and villains get sick. But weakness wasn’t Victoria Vorashian’s MO. She was one evil wench, right? Besides, once she had a man in her sights, she was going to devour him, dead or alive. Yet her head felt like an inner explosion of intense heat. She felt so hot she could hardly breathe. The explosions on the moon were small potatoes; Victoria had something else in mind.

  Victoria stares out her window. She coughs, placing a cold pack on her aching head. She is fully aware of the nuclear thermal rockets, the bio techs, and the sustainable biospheres that have been created to allow life to occur.

  Victoria scans the blue orb called Earth. She observes it through her new special glasses. After all, she has never seen Earth and its splendor before, even from a distance. Victoria’s headset conveys a message to her staff that she’s not feeling well; she wonders when the landing procedure will commence.

  “Now,” Vock responds, shutting off his message system temporarily.

  “The atmosphere is totally incredible, completely terraformed. And the rocky surfaces are gone as well. The moon could be such a remarkable place to live and thrive!” Victoria muses. Even Victoria is shocked at how Earth has managed to hijack an iceteroid that hangs in the night sky, ensuring the survival of the moon’s atmosphere. This tiny orb would be able to maintain helium levels and the proper amount of swirling gasses to provide a healthy terraformed world.

  Vock switches on the necessary controls.

  They’re descending. Vock observes the damage that was caused on the moon by Victoria’s first blast. After all, allowing the grays to maintain a military base on this moon was dangerous. They needed to be destroyed.

  Now the flag of Vorashia hangs on the moon. It simply says, “VICTORIA.” Earth’s moon is now her property!

  Victoria can feel her heart pounding; adrenaline flows through her veins. Yet she is sweating profusely. What did Abraxas do to me? Did I not treat him properly? Is he jealous of my dalliance with Cerberus?

  Victoria peers outside her magnified telescopic window. She witnesses lights, streets, and people. Yet she knows she is going to need help. Her heart is beating so hard she feels as if it is going to implode! Did Abraxas poison me somehow? Could it have been Cerberus? What did I do? Does Cerberus want to take charge of our little scheme himself? That revolting, vile foul! Who does he think he is?

  “I’m going to destroy that sickening, execrable, ugly bird!” Victoria says, feeling her head get hotter and hotter. She pushes the red button on her wrist. Then her eyes
roll back in her head and she passes out.

  Vock lands the Vorashian skyrocket safely on a space rocket strip provided compliments of the American Isles government. But they never expected her envoy to land, now did they?

  Biddle responds to his blinking emergency wristband. The crazed gnat scrambles into Vika’s quarters, appearing bewildered. Vock glares at him as if he is an unwelcome insect that he can exterminate with one sweep of his hand.

  “Victoria! What happened?” The gnat exclaims in his squeaky, tinny voice.

  “There’s still a heartbeat.”

  “What do we do?” Biddle inquires frantically.

  Vock thinks for a second. Really? Should I? Then he stares down at the important data on his wrist.

  “Looks like we have a man who might be able to handle this,” Vock exclaims, peering at the names on the network that display disenfranchised people who could have leanings toward the Vorashian cause: dissidents, malcontents, and, in certain cases, convicts that would love to dis the American Isles in any way possible.

  “Here’s our man, Biddle; contact him and then send a shuttle to pick him up. His name is Dr. Hector Xaviera. Now go! I’ll give Victoria some of her revival meds; let her sleep it off for right now.”

  Biddle nods. “Is my master Victoria going to be all right?”

  “Biddle, if we don’t get help soon, she’s going to die!”

  As Vock stares at Dr. Xaviera’s résumé, he realizes that the man is a malcontent who hates Americans. He actively protested the America’s annexation of South America, landing him in American jails on many occasions. Dr. Xaviera is sort of a science aficionado—one who claims to hate the American Isles and wouldn’t mind it if they were blown off the face of Earth.

  “Good!” Vock whispers. “Let’s see; he was born in Challapampa, the home of the labyrinth Chinkana, and is presently living in Puno. Okay, that will work! We have more of our people living in a biosphere at the bottom of that lake.” Vock is about to send an electronic message to their base in Lake Titiquaca; then he places his hand over Victoria’s forehead. Her face is still moist, and she is out like a light.

  Vock’s mind wanders. He thinks of his own family. What will be our future under Victorian rule? His thoughts race. Do I want a life of slavery for my family and future generations? If I am going to make my bold move, I will have to do it now! I have to make provisions and get back to Vorashia in order to…

  “I have a different plan,” he whispers, nearly inaudibly.

  Who can I talk to? The name Eisenstein shoots into Vock’s head. Eisenstein is a reasonable man. Of course! I will call him! Vock prays that the great scientist will understand the predicament that he’s in.

  Vock closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying desperately to prevent his hands and fingers from trembling. He dials 21-17-49-32-33-101-5-6-6-4. Vock waits. There is staccato beeping. Damn! The interstellar service is asking for more coordinates. Vock studies the list of numbers that he has stolen from Victoria’s quark files.

  “Damn! Why do they need to make this so complex?” He tries again. 54f-165x-99aa-103fe-46mnt-88le-02mtx-1-4x-93dex. He hears a vibrating sound, followed by another electronic voice.

  “More coordinates,” he utters. He fears that he’ll be discovered. I must work fast! Let’s try this again! 33Xbt-192 sxu-44mte-93-x52-106.5yt41-90.3xxt3-6999hlp

  Vock hears another sound. Michael Eisenstein answers the phone. Vock observes a simulation of Michael enveloped in a six-foot 3D hologram standing right in front of him.

  “This is Michael Eisenstein; can I help you?”

  Vock feels his hands shaking. His entire body is wired like an exposed nuclear transmitter. “My name is Vock Vadas. I live on the planet Vorashia. I am the pilot who just landed the Vorashian space rocket on your moon. I want to defect.”

  CHAPTER 55

  April 21, 2401

  5:46:17 p.m.

  The world is going crazy. Victoria’s space rocket takes off. A number of explosions occur as her rocket leaves abruptly from the moon! There’s a Vorashian flag flying over the crater Tycho. All American Isles military bases on the moon have been destroyed. American Isles citizens are going crazy.

  CNN, CNBC, and Tyson, radical left, are sending their own rovers to the moon to cover the story of the century.

  Proto and I figure that the spiral galaxy is the only place that can generate the dark energy power that Victoria needs to destroy Earth. Yet we know something that no one on earth knows, for we have her blueprints, her actual plans, compliments of Vock.

  Who else is involved? Proto’s research has tracked Victoria and tied her to two rogue interstellar characters: Abraxas Eurynome and Cerberus Asmodeus. “Little is known about either of these characters,” Proto says, wrinkling her nose.

  “Does anyone else in the world know what the hell is going on?” I exclaim. “Networks and journalists are spraying half-truths, untruths, and just plain sensationalism all throughout the planet!”

  It’s perhaps the first time that I’ve ever seen Proto rattled.

  “Something ain’t kosher!” I declare.

  Proto nods. “A Vika faux pas—and she doesn’t even know it!”

  But no matter how you look at it, we have the upper hand.

  Newsflashes scroll over all seventy-seven of our screens.

  The Chinese media station reports, “Shijie jiangyao jieshu! [The world is going to end!]” The North Korean outlet states, “Geu seki daegari won-hae!” A feed coming live from Madrid says, “Este es bluenisimo!” Fox News reports, “It’s the Democrats’ fault!”

  Proto places a pencil in her hair, shaking her head. “There’s a lot more!” she shouts excitedly.

  “So let’s see; we’re facing earth’s annihilation, and the politicians would rather snipe at each other?” I say.

  Proto snickers “Well, at least you and I will be all right.”

  “How so?” I inquire as I munch on an insect fruit bar from the bowl on the table. “Tasty!”

  Proto sticks an electronic stylus in her hair.

  We turn our attention to the Dapper Vision tittercasts.

  “Titter telecasts are being broadcast all over the world!”

  North Korea shoots out a test missile into the ocean. North Koreans celebrate the power of new young leader Dimmy Dip. The reports blast over all our seventy-seven screens.

  Pope Ladico promises to go on a new worldwide tour, beginning in Poland and moving on to South Africa, South America, and then the American Isles!

  The Mayans and the Hopis have embarked on a celestial dance and will not stop until the Sky People return through portals into their Zones of Spirituality.

  I shake my head in disgust. “Does it ever end?”

  Proto cackles, “There’s more!”

  We glare at the myriad screens. A Uniwave spectral announcer broadcasting from Israel blares, “The Carmelite nuns are dancing with the Kabballah righteous thirty-six. It’s a miracle!”

  Proto and I observe the endless stream of tripe being broadcast throughout the world. “So you don’t like my T-shirt—‘Moon me’?” Proto inquires in her best sarcastic, apocalyptic voice.

  “Don’t you dare do it,” I say. “You do know what ancient rock artist John Lennon said about the universe, don’t you? We all shine on, like the moon and the stars and the sun.”

  Proto scrunches up her face. “He didn’t know Victoria Vorashian, did he?”

  “Ya know, Proto, “I’m sorry to say it, but if we get through this, I’m selling all my virtual reality stock. You can have total ownership in our company, and—”

  “What will you do?” Proto asks, sneering caustically as she munches on an artificial apple brain bar.

  “I’m going to teach at a small university and just—”

  “Drop out?”

  “You’ve got
that right. Or Maya and I are going to hide in a fourth-dimensional Austrian mansion, hunting for bad guys.”

  “Sounds likely,” Proto says in her best deadpan sarcastic voice.

  “We need to find some answers, and I know just the place. Remember: your father’s folder won’t do us any good unless we can find it.”

  I stare up at the moon, wondering where Ezekial is when I truly need him. Proto places her arms around me. “You’re not so bad after all,” she quips.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Well, two can play at your game.”

  “What game?”

  Proto points to the moon. “You do know the adage that ancient singer Keith Richards once made famous?” Proto smiles mischievously.

  “I didn’t realize that he said anything at all …”

  “Nope, wrong again, dunce cap! Between hits, he uttered, “There’s the sun … there’s the moon… and there’s the Rolling Stones.”

  “I think I get your drift. We’re hitting the road, aren’t we?”

  CHAPTER 56

  April 24, 2401

  12:07 p.m.

  O you great God, whose name is unknown.

  —Pharaoh Unis

  None of the Gods know his true form.

  His image is not unfolded in the papyrus rolls,

  Nothing certified is testified about him.

  —Hymns to Amun

  There’s an old proverb that says evil is inside us. We’ve all tightened nooses around our necks at one point or another. Anyway, we’re here in Thebes. Yes, home of the royal mortuaries. Thebes is perhaps one of the most cryptic, eerie places in the world. Modern-day Thebes is the home of a cult called the Amuns. As a king, Amun was revered greatly. The name Amun means “hidden one.” His image is always painted blue, signifying invisibility.

  In the early 2300s, a group of Egyptian cultists formed a religion around this demigod; this was over 150 years ago. Now the religious cult rivals what used to be called the Illuminati. And they’ve taken it to a further extreme. These evil, misguided creeps live under the city in endless tunnels, caverns, and secretive grottos.