“One step at a time,” Spencer affirmed, took a deep breath, and threw open the vault door. Death’s pungence assailed him, a rancid bouquet that crept along his flesh, blurred his vision, and raced down his olfactory nerve where it scrunched his nose. Time, ever the merciless tyrant, cleared his senses to receive the nigh-limitless possibilities of sensory revulsion. The room stank worse than his sweat-drenched, vomit-stained, urine-soaked self. He shifted his weight, suddenly self-consciousness, resisted the urge to heave, and contemplated whether more substantial evidence of how hard he partied was caked in his crack.
Instinctively, his eyes drifted toward his former friend.
Not quite the welcome distraction he sought.
“What was his name? Wilco? Raphael? Randall? Yeah. Yeah. Randall.”—Spencer rambled, barely cognizant of his vocalizing his musings. At some level, though, he knew why words were necessary. That sojourn into realm of abstract dread, memories real or imagined, impressed on him the need to openly acknowledge reality.
Not all reality was worth reflection, he concluded. Like the corpse in the room. Still, Randall deserved a moment of silence, although he intended to make it brief. Not because he was apathetic—he did eventually remember his friend’s name. That, he concluded, was the fault of substance abuse. Even now, the world felt increasingly like molasses. Rather, because none would be helped if he, too, were reduced to a hot mess that steadily seeped toward oblivion. Pragmatic, he shared the moment with an assessment of the room for valuables. Nothing. Everything he required was in his satchel.
Ah, his satchel! Why did it hang from his hip instead of that hook on the wall? Allure City, death trap and menagerie without compare. Escape. He reached in, found his communicator, plugged it into his ear, and without another thought darted out of the basement apartment. With the door flung wide open, any neighbors who survived to abandon the perceived safety of their homes might regret their second chance.
“Spencer Tras requesting immediate tele-evac,” he breathlessly managed before a pressure wave knocked him flat. Ears ringing, he clung to the sidewalk at the top of the concrete stairs, amazed the bottom didn’t embrace him and a broken neck. Still dazed, he peered through the expanding cloud of dust toward the epicenter of the blast.
“IMMEDIATE EVAC,” he screamed.
<< Acknowledged, >> a voice intoned calmly, << Relay commencing >>
A flash of white light pierced the clouds, struck where was sprawled, and in the blink of an eye he was gone.
“Blegck! Eww. When we’re finished, drag our guest into the watercloset and scrub him til he’s spotless,” Czes demurred to a synthetic assistant whose plastic expression analog inexplicably twisted in horror.
As usual, Czes was a dapper in his cashmere ivy cap, rich brown jacket, diamond checkered vest, straight slacks, and blutchers—attire utterly anachronistic within the streamlined modernity of his well-lit surroundings. In spite of the bleak events, there was something in the scene before him—a chaotic, idiotic, laissez-fair canvas—that led to a lightening of his mood. Bemused, however inappropriately, he repressed an inappropriate smile his brown eyes couldn’t quite mask and added, after a poignant pause,
“Burn the clothing. Every scrap.”
Composed, he fixed a faux frown on his face and appraised his new arrival. The oaf sat on the floor, his impish face lit with the look of disassociated bewilderment that too often accompanied teleportation. He blinked, he rolled his eyes, and absently observed how the large disc of glass in the ceiling shimmered from the heat of the transporter array’s energy pulse. It was amazing how the beam pierced half a mile of ocean.
The distraction wasn’t working.
Hands shoved into his pockets, he opened his mouth to speak, paused again, and finally spoke, “Spencer, my name is Czes Schäfer. You’re safely aboard my private yacht, the Kithless. I’d like to extend my pleasure at finally making your acquaintance. However, before we formalize our introductions, uh, strip. You’re filthy. Utterly vile. Throw your clothing into the incinerator. Also, report. We need to know what is going on.”
As he awaited a reply, Czes grimaced, lifted a kerchief to his nose, turned, and initiated the procession toward cleanliness.
Verification arrived earlier, but things were hectic in the Tel Aviv office. An alien encroachment displaced the whole Iberian Peninsula and its fifty million souls while the resultant seismic activity threatened another half billion. The media went crazy, puppet leaders raved furiously, and nuclear strikes were authorized without hesitation. By an order of magnitude, the event was the greatest modern publicized tragedy in Earth-F67X’s history. In spite of that, chaos gave way to protocol at the numerous field offices of Mobius Corps and after a second, third, and eventually a ninth urgent notice someone was assigned to assess the Jadis breach.
<< Outstation Vega 5.8, codename Jadis, has gone silent. >> read the communique.
Cold, dark, silent:
Some exploit those words glibly, as when describing an empty room on a winter night from the comfort of an atmosphere-rich planet luxuriating in the circumstellar habitable zone. Yet light a match and feel warmth, glance out a window and bask in starlight, or sigh to end the silence. Indubitably, the words, like the theatrical sophists who spew them, become meaningless and their power is dispelled.
On Jadis, the words possessed visceral meaning. There was insufficient atmosphere to conduct sound; no magnetosphere, tidal force, or molten core to generate heat; no light sufficient to penetrate the shadow of the gas giant and surrounding dust cloud in which the ice world lurks. It is utterly cold, despairingly dark, and unyieldingly silent.
Given the failure of facility designated Outstation Vega 5.8, the bleakness could not be overstated. A black site located on a planet known as Jadis, it was deemed impenetrable to assault. Yet its blast shields were rent and automated security protocols corrupt. Instead of air, near-vacuum permeated the depressurized subterranean lair. Undeniably, this was the culmination of collusion—treachery and intrusion combined in an operation intended to rob what rightfully belonged to Mobius Corps.
Nobody alive remained. Frozen bodies littered the halls; frosted-over glass vats, which held clones infused with Tristan Singh’s DNA, were bolted to the walls of a laboratory’s storage unit that seemed to stretch on forever; and a partially awakened replica lay in a state of lifelessness on a gurney in the revitalization room.
In the darkness of that isolated chamber, an orange ember materialized and illuminated a forgotten gold link. Indistinct, it blossomed and intimated origins in the negative space of shadows. Therein danced an opium-fueled vision, where bloody eddies mixed with fire and broke against a basalt cliff. Stretching onward as far as the mind could contemplate, the noxious tide thirstily rolled over the upraised faces of the eternally damned. Drowning, burning, screaming, choking, the violent in life were condigned every moment of misery. No relief came, nor would it come. Atop the cliff loomed a silhouette—half horse, half man—armed with a fork with which it cast back into agony the undeserving seekers of a gentler fate. Its head turned slowly, a halo of tentacles whirling in the background like hair wild in the wind, and the creature stepped from wall to room. There, its massive form, stooped over the ice-preserved corpse, was barely contained. Further defined, it was clear the semi-equine physique was a pretext composed of ooze-slick segments that grasped at and slithered around another like a menagerie of woke intestines. A claw, or a mouth, or crushed gravel embedded in the translucent membrane—it was unclear—swept down, plucked the bangle off the floor, and plunged it into Tristan’s chest.
Tristan practically leapt off the thin rubber mattress. Red emergency lights flickered in his periphery and he heard the distant buzz of backup generators. It was all very disorienting. Still, his training kicked in, he closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and assessed his situation. No non-ambient noises, so he was clearly alone. He heard the ducts rumble as the air pushed through; felt it pass over him, crisp and cool. He had to be underground. His heart slowed down to a reasonable pace. Satisfied, he opened his eyes, let them adjust to the dimness, and tried to stand. Restraints. Leather straps around his wrists and ankles. With a swift jerk, he wrenched his left arm free. Another arm tore through the leather like it was made of lint. He freed his legs. Finally, he stood.
‘Earth,’ he thought.
The trek home was long overdue.
Instinctively, his eyes drifted toward his former friend.
Not quite the welcome distraction he sought.
“What was his name? Wilco? Raphael? Randall? Yeah. Yeah. Randall.”—Spencer rambled, barely cognizant of his vocalizing his musings. At some level, though, he knew why words were necessary. That sojourn into realm of abstract dread, memories real or imagined, impressed on him the need to openly acknowledge reality.
Not all reality was worth reflection, he concluded. Like the corpse in the room. Still, Randall deserved a moment of silence, although he intended to make it brief. Not because he was apathetic—he did eventually remember his friend’s name. That, he concluded, was the fault of substance abuse. Even now, the world felt increasingly like molasses. Rather, because none would be helped if he, too, were reduced to a hot mess that steadily seeped toward oblivion. Pragmatic, he shared the moment with an assessment of the room for valuables. Nothing. Everything he required was in his satchel.
Ah, his satchel! Why did it hang from his hip instead of that hook on the wall? Allure City, death trap and menagerie without compare. Escape. He reached in, found his communicator, plugged it into his ear, and without another thought darted out of the basement apartment. With the door flung wide open, any neighbors who survived to abandon the perceived safety of their homes might regret their second chance.
“Spencer Tras requesting immediate tele-evac,” he breathlessly managed before a pressure wave knocked him flat. Ears ringing, he clung to the sidewalk at the top of the concrete stairs, amazed the bottom didn’t embrace him and a broken neck. Still dazed, he peered through the expanding cloud of dust toward the epicenter of the blast.
“IMMEDIATE EVAC,” he screamed.
<< Acknowledged, >> a voice intoned calmly, << Relay commencing >>
A flash of white light pierced the clouds, struck where was sprawled, and in the blink of an eye he was gone.
. . .
“Blegck! Eww. When we’re finished, drag our guest into the watercloset and scrub him til he’s spotless,” Czes demurred to a synthetic assistant whose plastic expression analog inexplicably twisted in horror.
As usual, Czes was a dapper in his cashmere ivy cap, rich brown jacket, diamond checkered vest, straight slacks, and blutchers—attire utterly anachronistic within the streamlined modernity of his well-lit surroundings. In spite of the bleak events, there was something in the scene before him—a chaotic, idiotic, laissez-fair canvas—that led to a lightening of his mood. Bemused, however inappropriately, he repressed an inappropriate smile his brown eyes couldn’t quite mask and added, after a poignant pause,
“Burn the clothing. Every scrap.”
Composed, he fixed a faux frown on his face and appraised his new arrival. The oaf sat on the floor, his impish face lit with the look of disassociated bewilderment that too often accompanied teleportation. He blinked, he rolled his eyes, and absently observed how the large disc of glass in the ceiling shimmered from the heat of the transporter array’s energy pulse. It was amazing how the beam pierced half a mile of ocean.
The distraction wasn’t working.
Hands shoved into his pockets, he opened his mouth to speak, paused again, and finally spoke, “Spencer, my name is Czes Schäfer. You’re safely aboard my private yacht, the Kithless. I’d like to extend my pleasure at finally making your acquaintance. However, before we formalize our introductions, uh, strip. You’re filthy. Utterly vile. Throw your clothing into the incinerator. Also, report. We need to know what is going on.”
As he awaited a reply, Czes grimaced, lifted a kerchief to his nose, turned, and initiated the procession toward cleanliness.
. . .
. . .
Verification arrived earlier, but things were hectic in the Tel Aviv office. An alien encroachment displaced the whole Iberian Peninsula and its fifty million souls while the resultant seismic activity threatened another half billion. The media went crazy, puppet leaders raved furiously, and nuclear strikes were authorized without hesitation. By an order of magnitude, the event was the greatest modern publicized tragedy in Earth-F67X’s history. In spite of that, chaos gave way to protocol at the numerous field offices of Mobius Corps and after a second, third, and eventually a ninth urgent notice someone was assigned to assess the Jadis breach.
<< Outstation Vega 5.8, codename Jadis, has gone silent. >> read the communique.
. . .
Cold, dark, silent:
Some exploit those words glibly, as when describing an empty room on a winter night from the comfort of an atmosphere-rich planet luxuriating in the circumstellar habitable zone. Yet light a match and feel warmth, glance out a window and bask in starlight, or sigh to end the silence. Indubitably, the words, like the theatrical sophists who spew them, become meaningless and their power is dispelled.
On Jadis, the words possessed visceral meaning. There was insufficient atmosphere to conduct sound; no magnetosphere, tidal force, or molten core to generate heat; no light sufficient to penetrate the shadow of the gas giant and surrounding dust cloud in which the ice world lurks. It is utterly cold, despairingly dark, and unyieldingly silent.
Given the failure of facility designated Outstation Vega 5.8, the bleakness could not be overstated. A black site located on a planet known as Jadis, it was deemed impenetrable to assault. Yet its blast shields were rent and automated security protocols corrupt. Instead of air, near-vacuum permeated the depressurized subterranean lair. Undeniably, this was the culmination of collusion—treachery and intrusion combined in an operation intended to rob what rightfully belonged to Mobius Corps.
Nobody alive remained. Frozen bodies littered the halls; frosted-over glass vats, which held clones infused with Tristan Singh’s DNA, were bolted to the walls of a laboratory’s storage unit that seemed to stretch on forever; and a partially awakened replica lay in a state of lifelessness on a gurney in the revitalization room.
In the darkness of that isolated chamber, an orange ember materialized and illuminated a forgotten gold link. Indistinct, it blossomed and intimated origins in the negative space of shadows. Therein danced an opium-fueled vision, where bloody eddies mixed with fire and broke against a basalt cliff. Stretching onward as far as the mind could contemplate, the noxious tide thirstily rolled over the upraised faces of the eternally damned. Drowning, burning, screaming, choking, the violent in life were condigned every moment of misery. No relief came, nor would it come. Atop the cliff loomed a silhouette—half horse, half man—armed with a fork with which it cast back into agony the undeserving seekers of a gentler fate. Its head turned slowly, a halo of tentacles whirling in the background like hair wild in the wind, and the creature stepped from wall to room. There, its massive form, stooped over the ice-preserved corpse, was barely contained. Further defined, it was clear the semi-equine physique was a pretext composed of ooze-slick segments that grasped at and slithered around another like a menagerie of woke intestines. A claw, or a mouth, or crushed gravel embedded in the translucent membrane—it was unclear—swept down, plucked the bangle off the floor, and plunged it into Tristan’s chest.
. . .
Tristan practically leapt off the thin rubber mattress. Red emergency lights flickered in his periphery and he heard the distant buzz of backup generators. It was all very disorienting. Still, his training kicked in, he closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and assessed his situation. No non-ambient noises, so he was clearly alone. He heard the ducts rumble as the air pushed through; felt it pass over him, crisp and cool. He had to be underground. His heart slowed down to a reasonable pace. Satisfied, he opened his eyes, let them adjust to the dimness, and tried to stand. Restraints. Leather straps around his wrists and ankles. With a swift jerk, he wrenched his left arm free. Another arm tore through the leather like it was made of lint. He freed his legs. Finally, he stood.
‘Earth,’ he thought.
The trek home was long overdue.