Across The Multi-verse

by I Ogunbase

  We make our way across the new London Bridge, named after the old one, which had been destroyed by the war that encompassed the world. It has been 50 years since "Maelstrom" but the scars on my back ache as if I had only gotten the injuries yesterday.

  "50 years. 50 years for each country to rebuild itself and re-discover who we were as a people. At least, so went the official story. We just wanted the end to it all. The hate, the bigotry, everything. America was, and for reconciliation sake I hope they have re-discovered this, a bastion of freedom and democracy and equal justice for every man. But somewhere down the line, that ideology had been warped for evil. For hate."

  "Why did they do it?" she asks.

  "Huh?"

  "America. Why did they start the war?"

  The question is something I've gotten over and over, especially from students and mostly young adults, trying to find their way in the world. It was innocent, thinking that there was usually just a blame to appoint to one person.

  "They didn't start it. It's better to say that they... 'co-opted' it. There was a spark that led to the fire and they just ran with it. The sad part was that, every other country had the same spark but somehow, we managed to get it under control. They weren't lucky, I guess," I say.

  I stop and look over the edge of the bridge, straining to see if I can see my reflection on the surface of the dark blue river. The sunset behind me casts the long shadow of the bridge on the surface and all I see is just a flowing darkness. The bridge itself, while structurally sound, could still not match the class nor fame of its predecessor. Britain had mourned its people, its infrastructure... but the pain of losing the bridge and the palace never waned. It just waxed stronger.

  I glance at the intern who had chosen to also look into the waters. She is one of the post-war children, now a young adult. Early enough to see the rebuilding begin anew. Her historical knowledge was young, bolstered only by the books she now carried. Still, she was one of the brightest students I knew. There's a bright future ahead of her, of that I'm sure.

  Before I can look away, I see her lips move and I hear the question come through.

  "I have heard about how the Thames used to be murky looking. But this is all I've ever seen. How could the world change so much in 50 years? I have seen the old maps. I have heard what happened to...to... Haiti? How could it be so different to 50 years ago?"

  "When you lose half the population, geographical ego stops being a factor. After Italy, Canada, Nigeria, Mexico and Germany... I don't even know if you've seen a map of those countries. After the fake treaty of 'locking' our borders and 'retreating' from the world, the rest of the countries came together to heal. We owed it to our people, our countries and to the revolutionaries who had come before us to warn about the dangers of hate and war," I reply.

  "Couldn't America be part of it?"

  I think on the question for a few moments before giving my answer.

  "They could be. They could have been. But a myriad of factors had dictated that it wouldn't be in our best interest to include them. They had forsaken the very ideas they had been founded on. They had become brash and proud and bitter. They had fashioned themselves the leaders of the world. Quick to act but slow to consider all options. They could have been part of us, but when their first words out of the war demanded reparations for an event they furthered... It was then we knew what needed to be done."

  "The 50 year agreement ends in 12 hours, sir... What happens when they re-connect with the world and see all that has been accomplished since then? What if they deem us evil for secluding them?" she asks, worry creeping into her voice.

  "And then we will tell them why. They would have no choice but to accept it.", I say stretching and indicating we keep walking down the bridge.

  "What if they don't accept it?" She asks.

  "Then we do what they attempted to do 50 years ago and almost succeeded doing."

  "...Which is?"

  I look at her as I feel the bitterness rise inside me.

  "We'll wipe them off the map."

  ~

  Beneath The Farm

  ~

  You ever get the nagging thought that comes through just before you commit an otherwise questionable action? Like you see a little kid with a balloon walking down the street and your mind says "Pop it" and you consider it. Like really, really, consider it. Do you ever end up going through with it. I'd like to think you do. I feel like it's the only way you'll understand why I did what I did.

  See, this is the story all about how I did something questionable. To be fair, 'questionable' is such a light-hearted term to class the shitstorm I've kickstarted. And yes, "Ha-ha", you're smiling, I'm not. Honestly, I'm unsure if by the end of this reading you will still be on my side. A hurricane rocked my world and my mind added some fuel to carry on the aftermath.

  I worked in a small little wind-farm, watching over the bank of a dozen or so windmills, spinning energy into homes and green businesses alike. Work is... or was, easy. Easy hours, good pay, and all the free time I really needed in the world. Apart from the morning inspection to check on each windmill, the rest of the day was usually free. A few Netflix movies, microwaved pizza and barbecue wings. Unless, of course, something went wrong. Which was rare.

  On the random faithful day all hell broke loose, I was tending to my little hibiscus plant, watering, trimming, the usual shindig before the wind picked up. The window shutters flapped furiously and I looked up and there it was, the beginning of my relative end. Our relative end.

  A hurricane.

  I ran out of the wind-farm's command post, a small building housing some computers, sensors, and communication devices, to see how bad it was, shielding my eyes and holding on to my overalls for good measure. I also tried to shield my face so that my 'layers' don't flap like bread dough in the wind.

  Yes, yes, I'm a bit on the fat side. I'll have you know I'm probably still stronger than you so stifle that train of thought.

  I heard it first, you know... before seeing it. Through the howling of the wind, the groan of something tipping over sounded louder over it. I looked up, after some struggling and through squinting eyes, and I saw one of the windmills tipping over towards the building.

  So I ran.

  In the other direction. I mean, common sense, right? I ran as fast as my legs would move but the sound of the windmill smashing into the building was still loud enough to cause me to dive to the ground, hurricane and all. Luckily, I dived just behind my van. Unluckily, the van rocked back and forth like it was about to fly off with nature's bastard child.

  I screamed. I cried. I shouted. I waited, bated breath and oily sweat and all.

  And as soon as it had began, it was done.

  The wind died down slowly, the van stopped rocking and I tentatively got back to my feet. The wind-farm was a mess. About half of the windmills had either bent or were broken to the ground. Pieces of their massive fans were littering the countryside and I whistled. I took a glance back at the building and sighed, walking briskly back to it.

  The number to call when this sort of thing happened was in a random drawer in the room, though I was unsure as to how it would all work. The windmill had completely flattened majority of the small building, before rolling away with the wind. As a result, what had been a small, nice look compact post now looked like a broken down shack in dire need of renovation. The stairs that usually led into the building were broken and blown away, with splinters remaining.

  In any case, I cautiously make my way around to the flattened bit, trying to see if there was anything I could use to prop my self up to the command post when I saw it. A small hole, hidden by rocks and debris. I stared at it longer than I should have and I figured out why I was staring at it.

  To the side of the hole was a metal ladder which, from my angle, seemed to go down into it. I moved closer for a better look and saw that the ladder seemed to extend endlessly down into the depths.

  So you know what I said about nagging t
houghts? That was where it began. A small incessant voice in my head telling me to go down the ladder. Almost in the most seductive way I've ever heard the voice speak to me. I started clearing out the debris, moving wood logs, splinters and rocks away until the hole was free of obstruction.

  I looked back up at the command post, thinking of whether or not I could reach it. I mean, I know I couldn't, not without something to climb but I didn't even try. My whole attention was on the damned hole.

  So, I simply returned my gaze back to the ladder and walked towards it.

  I crouched and placed a hand on the ladder, taking one extra glance at the wreckage and after what seemed like minutes, I began the climb downward.

  ---

  ~

  Exodus

  ~

  "Hey Ma. Hey Pa. Heya Jack, Julie, Christopher. Hey... erm... Cousins. I'm sorry. Names are hard these days with replacements coming in every two years. I try to keep track and write down the rest of the names but it eventually goes missing, you know. No matter how hard I try.

  I still want you all to know I love you, though. And I miss you all. But, at the end of the day, we're at the mercy of the World Council. I'm not sure who decided on keeping us moving every two years but I reckon they are probably have a laugh at us.

  Two years is not even enough time to get settled in a new place. Did I tell you about the last place I got shunted off to? Man, was it a riot! They put me in a housing structure with all females. All females. There's a story there, Pa. Man-to-man. I think you'd be proud. Or disgusted. Either way, best two years of my current life.

  Still a hit and miss though.

  It kind of sucks that we only get to send messages to each other whenever there's a change going on. Kinda tragic I only get to speak to you once a year. Makes me always wish that we lived in better times, you know.

  I can't believe Julie is sixteen now. She's becoming a big girl. Send her my regards and my "Happy Birthday" messages, however belated they might seem. Let her know her elder brother is proud of her.

  I can only imagine how you must feel, Ma. In two years, she's going to be moving out too like I did. In two years, you won't be able to see her face anymore. I think I'm beginning to forget, to be honest.

  Anyway, I befriended one of my new neighbours. Well... Old now. Jonathan. Grizzly old guy with more white hair than I've ever seen you with, Pa. Turns out he was lucky to come by some books, or so he says. He liked to call me over on Sundays to tell me stories.

  Jonathan likes to speak about a time when countries existed and borders separated each other. I like those stories. Not for the reasons he presented though. He liked to go on about how amazing it was to have an identity. To be able to call yourself a "British" or whatever the heck that is. British. Such a weird name to call yourself, you know. He would go on and on about how the British people dominated half the planet like the conquerors before them. The Romish... sorry, Romans. And the Mongolans, I mean... Mongo-lians. I hate the names but I love the stories.

  It makes me dream of a time where we could have been together. All of us. We won't be separated by the World Council. We'd be in a big house with those screen thingies, Televishun?. It sounds impractical.

  Imagine that, a life before Holo-viewers. Do you understand how mad that would be? We'd be using why-fires instead of the Light Connection Stream. We'd have different street movers, instead of the generic hovercaft commissioned by the council. I believe Jon called them "cars". Stupid names.

  I still find it hard to wrap my head around the fact that there are over 10 billion sectors. 10 billion. Each with houses and stores for taking in everyone moving into that sector for the next two years. It must have been one heck of a job, you know. I mean, fuck them for this but still... I gotta give them props for the successful attempt, right?

  Anyway... it's not important. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I miss you guys.

  I've been relocated to Sector 10A3421. Which is much farther than I was. I hear there is snow over here. I don't think I've ever seen snow. Jon says it seems that they are pushing our batch out west. He seems particularly excited about it. He believes he might get to see his country of old, or something of the sort.

  I smile but I don't talk against it. It holds no meaning for me.

  I honestly can't wait till the video transmission update for the Holo-viewer drops. It beats having to send long text messages. Especially, with this service riddled by poor connection. Whatever, really.

  Anyway.

  My viewer is almost dead and the connection is about to go down, so I'm going to press send now. I'll be waiting for a reply sometime. I'll tell you all about it when I get to my new place.

  Bye guys.

  Love,

  Your only son, Martin."

  ~

  Bio-Etherealism 2

  ~

  I find myself adjusting my tie nervously as the hall maintains an eerie silence. There is nothing to say really, and I have discovered that much myself. While the theory on hell being the new plane that humans are drawing souls from, it is circumstantial at best. For all I know, maybe there's no hell. That aside, I keep my mouth shut. I figure it would be best to let the questioners process it for themselves first.

  "Mr Devram," I look up to see Questioner Judy staring intently at me, "Why do you believe humanity is pulling souls from hell?"

  Her voice is quiet but there's a sharpness to it that wasn't present in her earlier questions.

  She's finally taking me seriously. Some progress at the very least, I think to myself before responding to her.

  "That is a subjective statement as the research needs to be completed and hopefully corroborated by research from a few other fields. My current belief and thesis rests on the preliminary findings of one of my more religious counterpart, Dr James Brugeoise. He-"

  "Mr Devram. Just because you keep listing names in your answers does not mean we plan on calling them into this room to give evidence for you. I do hope you take note of that," Questioner Catherine says and it is then something occurs to me.

  How do I know your name?

  My face must have shown confusion because the next voice I hear is from Sir Mark Bradford, cutting through my thoughts.

  "Well, obviously, he thought otherwise."

  The crowd snickers, albeit nervously and I return my gaze to my table, staring at just one spot. This is something I do whenever I see or hear something that fazes me. This is one of those moments. I have never seen or heard about a 'Questioner' called Catherine Siker.

  Oh, now I know her last name. Great. Absolutely great.

  "I understand, questioner."

  I take a deep breath and push the thoughts away from the forefront of my mind before continuing.

  "My colleague, in his research about planar levels held strong to the belief that there are three main planes. The human soul plane, the heavenly plane and the hell plane. He believed that every other variation was a branch off from the above three, not apart from but perhaps a different version of them. He conceptualised that, due to our very human nature of evil atrocities, the hell plane was closer to ours than the heavenly plane and as such, makes it easier for the denizens of hell to crossover to ours or vice versa."

  "This all hinges on our belief in religion, does it not? What about if I do not believe in a bearded man in the sky, or some other nonsensical thoughts such are those? As it is well know, I subscribe to the belief that humanity makes its own fate. How will all this apply to me?" Questioner Mara asks.

  "I believe the theory holds regardless of your beliefs, questioner. It is similar to a person saying they don't believe in gravity, and yet gravity affects them all the same. The soul property exists. That much is now fact. Everything else after that is still being researched and validated but my thesis and that of my colleague rests on the solid ground of the dire state we are now in."

  "Let's take a break here. Say, 15 minutes and we will reconvene after," Sir Mark Bradford says getting to his feet.<
br />
  I exhale and remain seated, placing my hands on the desk. I sigh and watch as the room empties a bit.

  ---

  I inhale deeply before exhaling once more, as I try to calm my nerves. The prospect of being thrown into a jail cell on account of my work held little fear to me. There are bigger issues in the world than that. In addition, a selfish thought would be to accept the jail-term as a means of escaping the soon-to-be increasing number of deaths. My attention gets pulled back to the spot on the table. A little etching I had made when I first sat down, before the questioners all took their seats.

  In my peripheral, I see a pair of shoes come into view, stopping a few metres away from my table. I sigh and glance up to see who is standing in front of me and I lock eyes with the young questioner who has been quiet all through the entirety of the first round of questioning. Being so close to me, he really looks far too young to be on the panel. I open my mouth to ask a question as to his identity but I stop as his right hand goes up.

  Like a switch being flipped, the room's noise and background chatter stops so suddenly. It occurs to me that I have never been in a situation with no sound and I have to say it isn't pleasant. I look around wildly, noticing that time seems to have stopped, or maybe slowed down to a speed so mundane that it is imperceptible. I swallow and return my gaze to the questioner who looks at me almost amused at my reaction.

  "I hope you don't mind. I find this to be better for sensitive conversations," the young questioner in front of me speaks in a voice so clear and pure I almost mistake it for singing.

  "Who, who are you?" I ask, wiping the sweat on my forehead away. There is panic growing inside me and I am trying to suppress it down with all my will.

  "I am of no importance, save for the fact that I should not be here."

  "Here as in...?" I prod cautiously.

  "Here as in here. I am unsure of what I am. But I do know I do not belong here. Your thesis is on the right path but is missing information. You have also mentioned that. Your religious friend is not wrong, but he's not right either. He is also missing information."