The Book of Ralph

by Christopher Steinsvold

  Her big blue heart beat faster as her lips opened wider, revealing the dripping blackness inside her mouth. She had wandered from her train of thought and got lost in anger. A male grunted, and she returned to explaining.

  “Now, as a safety protocol, we’ve been recording the communications of your White House officials for the past week or so, but, of course, we had no intention to actually listen to these recordings, except in an emergency. And, of course, Father knew this. We are his children, after all. So, once we knew Father was lurking on Earth, we ordered the engineers—we have millions of engineers—to scurry through all those boring White House communications. They quickly noticed a mysterious being named ‘Ralph’ again and again in the e-mails and phone calls of President Shepherd, Francis Holliday, and Samantha Weingarten, amongst others. This was right after that mysterious cylinder came down from the sky and landed right next to your White House.” She looked at Ralph. “A little chicken noodle soup for the oversoul, Father?”

  Her tone made my mind cringe.

  “Then, right after the night of my first broadcast, all this chatter about the enigmatic Ralph had died out. That is, until this morning, when Samantha Weingarten talked to someone who used the name ‘Ralph’ in a phone call. All we had to do was determine your location at the time of the call, and lo and behold, the call was made on the property of one Ralph Waldo Emerson. And that’s how we found you, Uncle Markus.”

  My eyes closed as my mind shut down.

  The last thing I heard was laughter.

  XL

  ⋈ ⋈ ⋈

  I awoke to the sound of large wings flapping gently and slowly. I was floating, gripped by my upper arms, flying in zero gravity. I was naked and sensed there wasn’t a single hair on my body. I felt clean, numb, and weak, but well rested and neither hungry nor thirsty.

  Two female Kardashians were holding me and flying down a long, cylindrical tunnel. I didn’t know how much time had passed or where I was. I had the strange sense my bowels had been completely evacuated and believed my body had undergone medical examinations and, I suspected, operations or experiments. I felt I could remember if I concentrated, but a wiser part of me decided not to.

  I coughed, and one of the females looked at me and gave a feeble smile with pitying eyes. Her companion glanced at me, cold and unconcerned. The walls of the tubular tunnel were black, with small circular lights every ten feet or so, irritatingly bright.

  I sensed my escorts didn’t know what to make of me, but they weren’t afraid. When we reached the end of the tunnel, they released me. While escorting me they flew slowly, warily, but as soon as I was delivered, they soared away like bats on fire.

  I was alone, and someone wanted me to stay there. I could have followed the females and gone back, but I would’ve been caught and taken right back where I was. I didn’t feel trapped, nor like a prisoner. I was in an alien ship in outer space—‘escape’ was meaningless.

  There was a closed circular door, scarlet red and six feet in diameter. I tried opening it, but failed. And there was—what I could only describe as—a computer terminal sunken into the curved wall of the tunnel. The monitor had a white screen and clearly some sort of keyboard, but with fewer keys than a human keyboard. All of the symbols were angular and blockish, not a single smooth curve or semicircle to be seen.

  Each symbol was white, and the circular keys were black. However, the keyboard was clearly old, some of the symbols had been partially worn away, and one symbol had been completely worn away from overuse. I found myself staring at the keys, as if I was unknowingly searching, though I hesitated to press any of them.

  I recalled what Francis told me in the White House, the morning after the arrival of the cylinder. We briefly chatted about Ralph’s numeral system.

  “It turns out, our symbol for one, the single vertical dash, is their symbol for two.”

  “So what’s their symbol for one?”

  “Just a single dot, a period.”

  If these aliens were truly Ralph’s offspring, then, naturally, Ralph’s children would use his numeral system. Furthermore, you would expect of any alien keyboard, that all the numerals would be grouped together for convenience. I scanned the keyboard and noticed the top row of keys set slightly apart from the row below it. To my intellectual delight, the symbol on the uppermost key of the far left was a single dot:

  •

  Following what Francis said, this had to be their symbol for one. And fulfilling expectation, to the immediate right was the key containing their symbol for two:

  │

  I was strangely comforted by this, and by the fact that they counted (and presumably read and wrote) from left to right. To the immediate right of their symbol for two was a triangle, which I had to guess was their symbol for three:

  Δ

  The symbol for four was a square:

  □

  And the symbol for five was a pentagon:

  ⌂

  But I was left to wonder what the symbol for six was. It was the only symbol that had been entirely worn off from excessive use. There were two uneasy questions. What was their symbol for six? And why would it be completely worn off from use, especially when the other numerals were still legible?

  My first guess was their symbol for six was a hexagon; that is, a six-sided figure. This kept with the pattern of a triangle for three, a square for four, and a pentagon for five, etc., but this answer was unlikely. One must discern numerals quickly and without confusion—but a pentagon and a hexagon are too easily mistakable to be practical together as symbols for five and six, respectively. So, I correctly eliminated the hexagon as a symbol for six.

  Their symbol for seven was a square with a triangle resting flat on top, like a stick figure drawing of a house. And their symbol for eight was a square with another square resting on top, like an angular form of our symbol for eight. Their symbol for nine was a square with a pentagon on top. As Francis had said, their symbols were geometric and nonarbitrary, so I was confident I could figure out the missing symbol for six.

  By chance, I glanced at the monitor again and paused. I stared at the monitor as a harrowing thought overtook my mind.

  The monitor was blank white, but what I saw in the reflection made me wonder if I was already dead. The three symbols on my forehead reflected back at me in darkness. As if possessed, I mechanically pressed the blank key for six three times, instantly seeing the Kardashian numeric for 666 on the monitor:

  ⋈ ⋈ ⋈

  In the last book of the Christian Bible, the end of the world is described. It tells of a beast in the thirteenth chapter, a beast with two horns like a lamb who speaks like a dragon. The beast works great signs to seduce humanity, signs like fire coming down to Earth from heaven. These signs deceive the people of Earth, and they mark themselves with a number on their forehead to show allegiance to the beast. That number is 666.

  It was also the password to open the red door, and beyond it the beast was laughing.

  XLI

  BEAST

  The red door swung outward at me, revealing a room the size of which was impossible to determine. Looked at one angle, it was a seven-foot-high room whose length and width extended out beyond sight into darkness. From another perspective, it was not a room at all, but a seven-foot-wide chasm between two sheer walls—with abysses upward, forward, and downward.

  Like the door, the room was scarlet. The shiny surface looked slippery, yet gripped my skin. I floated in and braced myself with my feet on the floor and my palms on the ceiling.

  The laughing beast floated twenty feet in from the entrance. I recognized his collar from the press conference—it was Dekon. His laughter grew and echoed about me.

  He did indeed laugh like a dragon, and I wondered how long he could maintain his ugly laugh. Dekon was not a demon from hell. He was a beast, and in my mind, he will always be the beast, but he was no beast of the Apocalypse, though his imitation was severe.

  Seeing Dekon’s eyes wa
s an event. His large, round eyes were simply black, as if each eye was a permanently dilated pupil. His knife-blade claws drew attention away from his face, and I had no doubt Dekon could kill me like a pest. But I was not there to die. I was there to be intimidated. This was an interrogation. And I was about to antagonize my inquisitor.

  A river of strange confidence rushed through me as I watched the beast laughing. Somehow, his laughter made me stronger, and the strength infused my mind. The air vibrated with power, and I imagined myself inhaling it directly into my heart. I stared straight in his eyes and prepared to do something I knew Dekon didn’t expect. I was entirely ready to die, because I was exhausted from fear. I took one last deep breath and smiled.

  And then I laughed. I laughed ferociously in the beast’s ugly face. I laughed at the beast who sliced Alice apart for exactly the same thing. I just didn’t care anymore.

  Dekon stopped laughing. My laughter, however maniacal, was genuine, and it shouted out of my throat wildly.

  The beast approached me swiftly by bouncing diagonally between the ceiling and floor. When he was close enough to murder me, I shut my mouth.

  “Do you know what I am?”

  It was the first time I heard Dekon speak. His smoky voice was softer than expected, and his heavy breath somehow smelled sweet. As he circled me, the thick bristles of his fur brushed against my naked skin and tickled me with fear.

  “I know what you want me to say.”

  “Then you must say it.”

  “You’re a demon . . . the beast.”

  “But you do not believe it.”

  “Not at all.”

  Dekon paused, then said something in his native tongue, a command, and a pristine televised image appeared on the ceiling near us, ex nihilo. A female Kardashian looked at us with a wide smile. Next to her was a human convert, a mother, standing with her young son, both naked. The mother held a long alien knife by her side, and the child was weeping. All three had been waiting for this, just in case Dekon needed them. They were in a type of white cubicle, and gravity implied they were in a ship still on Earth. In the background, I could hear faint human screams.

  Dekon said something to the female Kardashian. He used a single word of English in the middle of his alien sentence—the word was ‘Jesus.’ The female Kardashian, still smiling, whispered something in the ear of the human mother. The mother frowned, looked down at her son, held him by the back of the neck, closed her eyes, and quickly slit his throat.

  As the blood cascaded from the boy’s throat, the televised image disappeared, and Dekon stared at me while the reality set in.

  “Do you doubt me?”

  “What did you say to her?” I asked breathlessly, half-surprised I could speak.

  “I told her to tell the human mother to slice her son’s throat for Jesus,” Dekon said flatly, staring at me. I wanted the power to silence him forever.

  “You are a sick, evil creature who deserves a long, painful death, and if I killed you right now, I wouldn’t feel a drop of guilt.” I swear he smiled when I said it. “But you are not the beast of the Apocalypse. That’s just a bunch of bullshit. You’re acting, and it is very convincing, but I know it’s all an act.” Again, I managed to surprise Dekon.

  “What do you know?”

  “I know you want to cause chaos for us.”

  “What did Father tell you?”

  “Ralph told me what you’re really doing here. He told me everything.”

  “Not everything. He did not tell you he was our father.”

  “. . . You’re right. He didn’t . . . How did you know I didn’t know?”

  “I didn’t, but now I do.”

  “Dekon . . . I know why you’re here.”

  “I doubt you.”

  “Fuck you,” I said, expecting to die.

  He paused, then calmly said, “In two days we are leaving Earth. Whatever happens, you will not return. If you do not tell me what Father told you, then in two days you will die. There will be no torture. You will not be given the chance to beg.”

  Exasperated, I asked, “Two days—why not tomorrow?”

  “The queen’s protection expires in two days.”

  Lost in the circumstances, I wondered if he was making it all up. I didn’t understand why I had the queen’s protection in the first place. I raised my voice. “Why would her protection expire at all? After all, she’s the queen. Why don’t you tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

  “It seems the being you call ‘Ralph’ told you much less than everything.”

  “Then answer my question.”

  Unexpectedly, he answered, and his answer explained more than I expected.

  XLII

  SATURNALIA

  “Your ancient Romans had a holiday called ‘Saturnalia.’ Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  “Pathetically, humans no longer celebrate it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, you do not. Saturnalia was a time for gift-giving and the allowance of certain immoralities, like gambling and public drunkenness. But most importantly, there was role reversal. Slaves would become masters, and masters would cook and clean for their slaves. The slaves were even allowed to openly insult their masters. And here is where you have your answer, Uncle Markus. During our three days on Earth, we are celebrating our own version of Saturnalia.”

  “So the queen is . . . a slave?”

  “All our women are slaves. But during our Saturnalia, they rule over the males. It is . . . most humbling. Do you understand?”

  I did. It explained why the queen’s protection expired when their holiday ended.

  Ralph had never mentioned anything about Saturnalia, but he didn’t have to. It was a detail in a larger scheme that I already understood. The plan was to become what they hate, for the sake of their own humility—a plan I still considered insane. But, their Saturnalia fit well with the plan: males became slaves, and females became the oppressors. The whole event was necessary to keep their twisted society from unraveling.

  “What have you done with Lieutenant Barber?”

  “I don’t know who that is,” he said. I was certain he was lying.

  “He was in the house where we were captured.”

  “Ask the queen.”

  I glared at him and moved closer.

  “Why did you attack Seoul?”

  “I didn’t. Seoul was destroyed because the females are in control, and they have no idea what they are doing. The queen couldn’t be bothered to learn your geography, and so Seoul was melted. Oh, but she had to read all about Andy Warhol . . . couldn’t get enough of him. This is what females do when you give them power.”

  The strange holiday also explained why the queen kept Dekon on a leash like a pet at the press conference. And it explained why the queen so maliciously enjoyed laughing at Dekon with Alice.

  “You were not supposed to kill Alice, were you?”

  “The human reporter? No, that was forbidden,” he said with palpable guilt—not guilt for Alice’s death, but for having forsaken their Saturnalia. “In fact, this room we are in is a punishment for me.”

  The disappointment in his tone made me realize that Alice’s death saved millions of lives. There were humans who would’ve been seduced by the power of the Kardashians, no matter what. But millions were still undecided. And I’m sure, when they saw what happened to Alice, the undecided decided not to convert. From the standpoint of public relations, their press conference was a disaster, and it was all Dekon’s fault.

  “Why did you kill her?” I asked.

  But Dekon did not answer. He inched back and stared at me.

  “You knew her,” he said, astonished.

  I nodded.

  “Father knew her . . .” he said in a whisper.

  He moved backward further and glared at me, suddenly afraid—of me. He retreated again, glancing furtively in all directions—searching for an enemy. Like a cornered animal, he attacked. In les
s than a second he was on me, shaking my shoulders violently with his huge hands and throttling my neck with his thumbs, his claws inches from my skin.

  “Tell me what you know. Tell me what Father is planning. Tell me or you will regret it for the rest of your painfully short life.”

  It was so obvious, I was barely afraid. Just underneath the surface of his rage was a gushing wave of raw horror. Dekon was not afraid of Ralph—he was terrified.

  XLIII

  KNOWLEDGE

  “Dekon,” a female voice shouted from nowhere. “The festival of the burning star has not ended. Release Uncle Markus or we will grant you a far worse punishment.”

  Dekon flung me away. Until then, I assumed they called me ‘Uncle’ as some form of mockery, but they used the term seriously—why?—yes, Ralph was their father, and yes, Ralph deemed me a ‘brother,’ but they talked as if I was really Ralph’s brother. In any case, the label gave me some protected status, so caution led me not to pry.

  Dekon was paranoid—he wondered if, somehow, Ralph had tricked him into killing Alice, as if there was a deep plot against him and Alice’s murder was just another part of the plan. Again, Ralph’s words floated through consciousness: I’d be embarrassed if you knew how much thought I’d put into this.

  But that was absurd. Ralph had begged Alice not to attend the queen’s press conference. So there was no way Alice’s death was part of some deeper plan. But Dekon didn’t know this, and he was smart enough to know that Ralph was a thousand times more cunning than he.

  “Tell me what you know,” Dekon said, regaining patience. Feeling little allegiance to Ralph, I told him what I knew. I sensed no harm in it.

  “I know nothing about a plan to attack you.”

  “There’s no interest in what you don’t know. Tell me what you do know. There’s a reason why Ralph made you a brother . . . Why?”