Category: Short Stories

Short Story: Our Benevolent Friend Part 2

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

2.

Return

When our friend, benevolent and kind as it was, returned from the stars; he was greeted by unanimous contemplation from the peoples of Earth. Many waited for him to speak with an aura of excitement and fealty, others with bated breath, suspicion. Some knew not what to make of its grayish-blue, leathery skin, or its elongated, oblong features. The foreign, extraterrestrial frightened most for unknown reasons. But for the Doctor’s part, he was not fearful nor suspicious, he readied himself to greet his extra-terrestrial compatriot as though he seeing an old friend after an eternal interlude. He donned his most formally-casual apparel, and embarked an all-terrain vehicle to race for the ship’s desert landing-zone.

On arrival, he was struck cautious; the land was hazy, wet, smelled of fluids and materials foreign to even his well-traveled olfactories. The putrescence of biology labs mixed with the desert’s natural odors and hinted the scent of fresh vegetation despite its absence. Perhaps, he thought, it was a by-product of the ship’s landing procedures, the mist the ship exuded seemed to do so from vents alongside the ship. The strange secretion was continuous, deliberate. The Doctor prepared himself for the worst, feared his friend as foe. He hurried up the Pyramidal structure’s doorway– the same one he’d seen his friend enter before it had blasted off for the unknown.

The door opened promptly for the Doctor as he approached. He hesitated a moment, giddy and curious as a child yet with a cautious, adult air about him. His mind remained consumed by the strange mist, but his curiosity, gained the upper hand, compelled him inward against his volition. A hallway led to an open domed structure, the bio-luminescent rocks he’d seen once within an ancient crypt all around him. They were dialed to full-strength, emitted a bright, greenish-white light that flooded the ship’s innards. Viscous, transparent membranes barred the inner room from the massive engine pods behind them. The Doctor could only fathom as to their function, craned his neck to scan their tops near the dome’s apex.

Every area of the ship appeared to have been utilized for one purpose or another. Even where he stood, though comfortably situated, was filled with crystalline stalagmites that glinted and gleamed brilliantly in the bright lights. He scanned the room, stepped forward. His friend emerged from behind a crystalline tower, donned in the same, ancient Egyptian garments it had left in. The Doctor, betraying his misgivings, hurried forward to greet his friend.

“Forgive me my friend, the door was open,” The Doctor said in greeting.

“Ah, opened for you though,” It replied.

The Doctor smiled, “I must admit, I feared you wouldn’t return. I thought, perhaps this world was no longer intriguing to your learned species. I meant no offense, but–”

It raised a hand to silence the Doctor, spoke with its uncanny smile, “I understand. It is perfectly within logic to assume as much, but it is also the reason that my return was delayed.”

The Being motioned for the Doctor to follow, led him around the stalagmites and toward a small area of rock-like chairs. It motioned to sit. The doctor sank against the stone that gave way with a peculiar softness. He ran his hands along another, viscous barrier, now visible beneath him.

“Interesting,” the Doctor remarked.

“It is but one of many things I will teach your people to build,” the Being intoned.

“Yes, about that,” He began cautiously. “Your ship seems to be emitting something– a mist. May I ask; what is it?”

“Ah, the purpose of that mist is rather exciting indeed!” The Being said in good humor. “I took the liberty of beginning a Terra-form of the desert around the ship. I will turn the barren area into useful land as a demonstration of my technology and peaceful intentions.” The Doctor’s face was open in alarm. The Being addressed it warmly, “In short, there is no need to fear, Friend. I’ve noticed a large portion of your planet goes unused for anything in particular. Reforming it can help to rectify several problems, most notably the starvation and hunger of your planet’s minority, and its dwindling atmosphere.”

“So it is yet another benevolent gesture!” The Doctor exclaimed, as if in triumph.

“Quite.” The Being replied in kind. It explained, “Though, I must say, this is not all I’ll do to correct these problems. I have, in fact, several types of enzymatic catalysts that can easily be bred into your crops to allow for faster, more efficient harvests. Agricultural land can then be put to continuous use without fear destabilizing it.”

“My word, that is quite amazing,” the Doctor said. “And as always, a most gracious gift.”

The Being gave a throat chuckle with another, uncanny resemblance to its alien friend, “It is hardly a difficult thing. My people long ago encountered and conquered that problem. As for the pollution of your land, we must convey the plans of non-polluting transport vehicles, and urge that they become the standard means. Then we can focus on cleaning the land and air. There are many ways industry can be carried out. Unfortunately, your peoples’ way is one of the most detrimental. As an outsider who’s seen many these destructive ways cripple many civilizations, I can impart what data has been collected from it. In essence, teach you of the non-polluting, highly productive alternatives.”

“My friend!” The Doctor exclaimed. “Does your kindness know no bounds?”

The Being gave a small tilt of its head, “Perhaps. But not quite so finally, I will help your people to scrub the land and air, remove the garbage from your fills to be broken down into fuels, and recycled into useful products for the future. Of course, all these means will be given to your people in the hopes that your people will aid ours in something we can not do it alone.”

“Friend,” the Doctor said candidly, stunned by the benevolence before him. “You intend to grant unimaginable kindnesses upon us all– even to those that will surely oppose you. I am afraid to have to ask again, but… why?”

The Being held sincerity above the notes of sadness in its voice, “As I said during our first meeting, I wish for a peaceful universe. I will not deceive you however, many of my people do not feel it fitting to bestow such gifts upon you. They think it unwise given your young age as a species. However I, as well as a several others, feel it is our duty to do so. To no offense, we are a technological superiority, see it as our purpose to help you join our majority. We will do this. It will take time– a few years perhaps, but by then the face of your planet will have changed. Your people will live healthier, less wasteful lives. We will tailor our immunological gifts to your physiology, increase your life spans a hundred fold, give each you the chance to do what I have done.”

“You mean live forever!? A million years! Glory be, what could we ever do to deserve or repay these gifts?” The Doctor asked, his words dampened by his amazement.

The Being explained, “Friend, you live and breathe. That is all you must do to deserve them. Forgive me that these gifts have not come sooner, but as you know I was in absentia for millennia. They would have come sooner, and I feel sorrow for all the lives I might have saved had I could. Fortunately, it only fuels my desires to impart these things now.”

“My friend,” the Doctor said, sensing the Being’s soulful unrest. “Those ancient peoples should not way so heavily on your mind. Though I understand your sentiments, had it not been for those war-minded peoples, we would not have our greatest feats of history. Much of the last ten thousand years has been fruitful for our kind, despite the bouts of darkness between. I fear, had you intervened, we would not have developed properly as a people. I thank you for your restraint, on behalf of all of my kind. But Please, do not blame yourself. If you feel there is a debt to be repaid, I assure you, your return has already fulfilled it. More importantly, your benevolent promises, if sincere, will leave us indebted to you. One I know we cannot repay for ten-hundreds-of-thousands of years!”

The Being, affected by the consolation, promptly rose with its awkward, “Come now, friend, we’ve a people to forward!”

In the days that followed the Being’s return, a strange and glorious sight overtook the desert around the ship. While the Being had stated a Terra-forming had begun, none dared dream the extravagance that appeared. In all directions, foliage and greenery crept out, ended abruptly. As if in moments, a dense rain-forest had sprung up.

Admittedly there was apprehension at this gift; despite it being touted as a token of kindness, the suspicious nature of Humanity questioned the assertion’s validity. Either from feeling undeserving, or as of yet unbelieving of their guest’s beneficent ways, there was extensive, public scrutiny and caution. Overlooking these concerns however, the scientific community feared for the indigenous desert life and the stability of the global climate from the sudden appearance of rain-forests in place of deserts. Some argued life could not adapt fast enough to the new conditions. Others said the significant change in climate would force an evolutionary adaptation, render desert life obsolete.

Despite the lack of visible, negative effects, questions arose about the desert’s necessity. Graciously, the Being met with world leaders and foremost scientists to discuss this subject and others. With its friend, the Doctor, at its side, the Being reached a consensus with the assembly to halt any further Terra-forming for a short time. If, in that time, no significant threat to the global climate appeared, it may proceed as planned, or else repeal the changes that had been made.

Among other things, this meeting marked the first time Humanity saw its guest speak for itself. There was not a single television channel or internet stream or post that was not devoted entirely to the Being during its meeting– as if, for once, the world collectively stopped to watch together. Many were humbled simply by its presence, others decried a hoax. Still more shied away, hid in the shadows to let come what may and re-emerge later on. Through it all, the Being remained cultured, mannered, ever-polite and warm. It was as if it saw Humanity as its kin, one it had not seen for far too long and had missed in the interim.

It was only days after the Terra-forming questions were first posed that others began to arise. What had become of their guest’s home-world? What would gift might come next? Was there truly no price to be paid in return?

These questions and more were asked, but only a few, broad answers could be given in reply. It was shortly after the first assembly that a second was formed to parrot the most pressing questions directly to the Being. It explained in short order, that its society had made many, great strides in technology during its hibernation. Though none so great as what would be measured between Humanity’s society and theirs, the advancements were important nonetheless.

Furthermore, it explained, to measure time as humans do was difficult. Given their long life-span and billion-year evolutionary path, to mark history the same would be misleading at best. Their star, billions of years older than earths, had already entered a white dwarf state, lost its mass and pull. Their planet therefore, revolved much slower than Earth, its years and thus their history much more complicated. Not only did this shifted star change the Being’s society, it also imbued them with their gray-blue skin over the eons from blue-spectrum light. The day their sun would die out in a supernova, was nearer than not, preparations were under way for a mass exodus.

These facts seemed of little significance to those whom wished their questions answered, but it was necessary in order to understand that the two civilizations nearly coincided in matters of formality. The only difference being the near three-to-one ratio of planetary time. Where a research grant on earth might take six months to process through formal channels, on the Being’s planet it might take eighteen months or more. Such was the languid pace of formal action upon the home planet.

These understanding led to a question on even the Doctor’s mind; what of the Being’s people, and their enemies? Again, time dilation factored into understanding. At length, the Being relayed That the governing council, once every year– or every three, depending on your perspective– was followed to a strict discipline. If council was held too often, it risked corruption; too infrequent and it risked discontent. The council leaders voted on matters of planetary importance accumulated over their previous, solar year, and decided the fate of their people.

However, in the previous council before The Being’s emigration, many controversial matters had been voted upon. Unrest was furthered by discontent mounting from previous years’ councils, and met a boiling point when a certain set of voices went unheard for too long. Many of that minority rose up, banded together to march on the council headquarters, and demanded an emergency session be held for the first time in their people’s history. When it was not, the unrest climaxed in violence that prompted a military response. Their enemy then, had not been one of another system or galaxy, but of their own people, was only rectified when the next, solar council had been held.

These recollections and explanations met the ears of the assembled parties whom listened with bated breath. Their fear was transparent– a fear that they had opened Pandora’s Box. The Being, either from instinct or telepathy, assuaged the fears: So long as we meant them no harm– which we could not have lest we lose everything promised to us– there would be peace between us.

With the fears put to rest, the Being told of what it had brought to this world: hyper-galactic transportation, teleportation, techniques and industries light years ahead of us. It was then that the Being, benevolent and kind as it was, told of the gene therapy that would soon be implemented to increase the human life-span, make then immune to near every form of disease and sickness known. Of these gifts, hyper-galactic transportation was relatively new to their race. As a result, they were only willing to allow its secrets to be revealed under certain terms: Because of Relativity, in which it is stated that nothing can travel faster than light, they had been forced to find a work around. This workaround came in the form of a specific type of ship engine, only capable of igniting in certain parts of space. In parlance, it was known as a wormhole acceleration drive.

“This,” the Being explained before the assembly, “Was the cause of my delay. Several requirements must be fulfilled before the drive can engage. Most notably, a certain, minimal amount of amount of particle-wave interference must be reached. In order to operate, the drive must generate what is known as a wormhole; easily explained in human physics as curved line beneath a straight-line of points A to B. The curved line effectively is shorter due to the curvature of space-time.”

“For all of this to begin,” it explained. “Massive amounts power are required in a stable point of space. This is difficult to place given the ever-changing, sub-atomic nature of the universe. You call this quantum physics. Unfortunately, any interference above a certain variable may translate through the open wormhole with the ship. This is troublesome because it may destabilize the wormhole, spitting the ship out before its intended destination, and possibly leaving it stranded.”

Though these things furthered already vocal concerns, The Being assured the humans given ships would be well-trained before taking the helm. It was then placed at humanity’s feet, the true compensation for this gift; “First and foremost, we need your help in finding permanently stable regions of space for wormhole jumps. This is the only… catch, as you would call it, to our gifts. Simply, the universe is an infinite place, and we graciously request your help in charting and exploring it.”

With humanity at their side, the Being’s people hoped to finally master their space-fairing pursuits.

It was after this assembly that an unexpected event occurred. The human population, hearing of the visitors return, and of the gifts its people wished to bestow, demanded a more public, informal appearance. The Being, gracious and hospitable as always, obliged. Until then, masses of skeptics and non-believers still shouted rumors of a hoax, or otherwise distrusted their alien guest. Furthermore, several activist groups had revealed a shocking divide in the population’s opinion of the Being and its gifts. Many wished counsel to help in solving the world’s problems, others condemned The Being as an incarnation of one of the apocalypse’s horsemen– the mythical beings that would bring about Humanity’s destruction.

The Being took it in stride, calmed The Doctor when angered by his own people. To it, the reaction was amusing– relieving even.

“Zealotry,” it said. “Is the sign of an intelligent people. There was once a similar demeanor in my own people millions of years ago.” These words comforted the Doctor. It continued, “The divide between the zealots and non-believers spurred us to seek the universe’s truths. This was the origin of our sciences, our research. It is comforting, as given our history, it means Humanity is indeed on the right path.”

It went on to explain that their own mythology had been rather amusing; they had believed the universe’s creation came from the sternutation of an omnipotent. By their own admission their people believed all of existence had been sneezed into being. This notion, though ludicrously held to heart for millions of year, was not entirely inaccurate of the human’s current picture of the beginning of the universe; the Big Bang. Similarly, the two theories stated an explosion of massive force propelled all of space outward. The Doctor and his friend agreed, in this way perhaps the big-bang did resembled a sneeze.

Whatever the strange machinations of zealotry might have been, it was clear that the two species showed striking similarities. Most importantly was their to deconstruct the workings of the universe. There was still much that The Being’s species had yet to learn such as the initial conditions of the universe of the Big Bang– a problem humanity shared. The completion of this research might finally provide a solution to their FTL travel problems. Even the Being’s less-educated people knew they could not hope to discover the answer alone.

The Being itself was fond of a vision it often spoke of to The Doctor; “Imagine if, for one, brief instant, every human dropped what they were doing, and turned their attention to the stairs. I believe we may achieve that here, once the others arrive. Every human is wondering one of two things: Are we to invade, or bring about a new, golden age that will send us across the universe together?”

The Being was fond of this thought, and his friend no less enamored by it.

“No doubt,” the Being once said. “When they realize we mean only peace, that event will take place. Petty land discrimination issues, and greed will dissolve into cosmic dreaming. Why kill or die in taking another’s land when you could have a free, bio-spherical dome upon mars, still visit Earth each day? The universe is a vast place, and there is no doubt somewhere in it for everyone.”

The true desire and will of its species seemed summed up in these words. Though there was hardly perfection in either species, their meeting was the bridging point that might eventually lead there.

As time crawled forward, and the others’ arrival drew nearer, Humanity’s fearful divide became more apparent. When the day finally came, and the first of the others stepped from their ship onto Terra-firma, Humanity paused all at once. Collectively, they held their breath; toed the lines between adulation and terror. The Being and Doctor, both present at the arrival, greeted them as old friends. The Beings exchanged a peculiar greeting; their hands, thumb out, over their cheeks with a bow, The Doctor attempted it in good nature. A tense silence ensued before the gesture was returned.

The Other spoke, its voice lower that the first, “My ship contains all the knowledge you seek. In time, it will be converted to a format accessible to you, duplicated and distributed freely for all that seek it.” It raised its arms high, bellowed over the crowd, “May our two races conquer the stars together!”

An uproar emitted from the crowd. The Doctor smiled with humble warmth, “Thank you, and welcome to our home.”

They bowed to one another, and the Being lead them to an awaiting vehicle.

What happened next is a matter for longer tales, best summed thusly; the two races, so different in ways, and similar in others, joined as one in search of cosmic truths. In the days and weeks that followed the second’s arrival, more of the Beings came to meet with world leaders, their kind, and other humans. In time, and as promised, they addressed the poverty, homelessness, and starvation rampant in the world. Once rampant, these things ceased almost abruptly, and just as Humanity questioned what might come next, the first, human-built ships went into production. In short order, the Terra-forming continued, the new industries and counter-measures rejuvenating the atmosphere while people zoomed back and forth in personal, electric aircraft.

In time, new technologies were devised, pollution all but eradicated. Certain, specific deserts of the world soon became lush jungles, saw Earth on its way to a new age of health and glory. Then, the first trials of the life-extending gene-therapy began. With its immediate success, Humanity finally exhaled, allowed itself to dream with the newcomers. Together, they envisioned star-systems full of Terra-formed planets of both species– and perhaps others– together in harmony.

Soon after the first ships were launched, their human captains now well-trained, Humanity took the helm to fulfill its promise to its benefactors: to map the stars for one and for all. When plans to Terra-form Mars began, it seemed the Doctor’s friend had finally seen its dream come to pass. Indeed, Humanity had largely turned away from pettiness. In admiration and longing, and with new hopes and dreams, the two species looked skyward to the stars.

Short Story: Our Benevolent Friend Part 1

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

1.

Discovery

An arid sun baked a desolate patch of sand somewhere between Libya and Lake Nasser in the seemingly endless Sahara. Around it, for a moment, people were scattered like ants tending to the entrance of their colony. Even smaller specks from their equipment and instruments outnumbered them twenty to one in the vast dune of the place. There was but a single anomaly in the uniform flatness and waves of windswept dunes to break the otherwise immaculate, golden sea; a blackness, no larger than a common automobile, in the center of the people and their instruments.

At a near enough proximity, the blackness became a hole– an opening to an underground cavern, where the refraction of light from dust occasionally swirled or spilled inside. The archaeological dig here hoped one day to prove what few scientists and archaeologists believed. These conspiracists, as they were sometimes called, believed they had stumbled upon the oldest, most comprehensive cache of ancient knowledge in existence.

Only time would tell what the diggers might uncover as they shoveled, pick-axed, and brushed their way deeper into ancient catacombs. Speculation and theory ran rampant; perhaps it was the lost library of Alexandria, or perhaps somewhere inside, was the chamber to the lost city of Atlantis. The academic ponderers kept themselves grounded, speculated it might be the tomb of the oldest, first pharaoh. One that predated Narmer, and even still the first Egyptian dynasty, thereby solidifying that the Narmer was not, in fact, he who unified the lands of Egypt in ancient times.

If such were the case, who then might have? The King Scorpion, speculated to have passed unified Egypt to Narmer? Or was it perchance, one yet unknown to the historical community? If so, was the loss of his name due to time’s ravages? Or was it from the tyranny of his rule? Had he decried the population were heretics, struck them down? Was that the reason for this tomb to be so far out of the way, buried where no-one could ever dream to look?

This last speculation had merit, if only for the nature of the catacombs’ discovery– seemingly the most fortunate mishap of man to date. Its serendipitous nature may have rivaled even the great, but wholly misconstrued tale of Newton’s apple and gravitational theories.

While it is common knowledge that both sandstorms and earthquakes are known to occur, their frequency within the deserts and lands surrounding Egypt are less known. Earthquakes are prevalent on the coasts, rare within the confines of the desert. Sandstorms inversely so. But on one particular day, the two seemed to coincide.

An earthquake beneath the Mediterranean sea, felt as far as the Sudan, caused a tidal wave to wash over much of Cairo. It was a terrible thing to happen. Terrible, but revealing. Most of all, it was fascinating. As the ocean swelled, the shock-wave of the most catastrophic earthquake ever recorded occurred. The latter forced the former deep into the desert, threw sand into the air that caused a storm almost equal to that of the Earth’s shakes. The inhabitants hunkered down in their coastal cities, held on until the end might come. For many, it did. Others were more fortunate. The desert though, was soaked by the massive tidal wave that moved inward for hundreds of miles.

This waves destruction walled up sand in its path, collided with the sandstorm to strengthen its reserve. The latter raged forward in destruction where the water could not. After days-long floods, and still more, smaller storms the climactic series of events finally ended.

Clean up and rescues efforts were enacted immediately. Humanitarian aid was sent from all over the world in the forms of food, water, clothing, even helicopters. It was one such ‘copter, diverted from Libya, that was ordered to fly low over the desert and survey the damage. The hole in the Earth was first spotted then. The helicopter’s crew made note of it, continued forward until their fuel forced them back toward the cities.

It is a curious coincidence that a Doctor, who shall go nameless, was searching for a hidden set of catacombs when the seas rose and the dust blew. It was curious, but not altogether uncommon. When he received word of Earth’s peculiar opening, and travel in the regions had been restored, he bee-lined to the site. It took ten, harrowing days before his group uncovered the stones that marked the catacombs’ start, a further two days before the blocks were removed, and the passage was opened.

Gathering their instruments, wits, and their skepticism, the Doctor and his team climbed down into the shaft. They lit their way along with twenty-four hour flares that burned illuminated the passage, threw shadows of a the dozen bodies along its cramped, narrow walls.

At a brick wall deep within the passage, the Doctor and his team were forced to remove more bricks. One-by-one, they gingerly placed bracing devices to stabilize the tunnel, carved out, then heaved out the blocks. With the passage open again, they ventured forth, their shoulders scraping the side walls despite their single-file trudge. They followed the twists and turns for hours, dropped flares every few feet, and headed deeper into the Earth at a gradual slope.

Unlike most tombs and catacombs, these passage ways were unmarked, composed solely of granite blocks arranged in a usual manner. Their fervor was restored when someone speculated this lack of symbology might connect the Great Pyramid to whomever lay buried ahead. The easy air of speculation and banter returned. It was only another half an hour after this that a second brick wall, larger and wider than the last, appeared before them. Again, they placed their braces, carefully removed the bricks, and stepped through.

Nothing less than a spectacular, massive chamber, greeted them on the other side. Flares and headlamps reflected light off golden walls, supplemented a strange irradiation from an even stranger bio-luminescent rock scattered about the room. Again there was no writing, but the presence of stacks of gold coins, gold-plated pottery, and other artifacts bore the unmistakable glyphs of ancient Egypt. Though this dialect was new, or rather so old it was unknown, there could be no doubt of its lineage.

The room’s center was occupied by a most unremarkable slab of stone– at least, it would have been unremarkable were it not for its ornate surroundings. At its head, over-arcing others, was a statue of Nut, the night-time Sky Goddess. Beneath her to the left, Ra, the Sun-God, while at the right, a massive Ankh of life. Someone posited that this pharaoh must have been looked upon as the creator of life, bringing the sun from the darkness.

Something struck the Doctor; the pharaohs were all identified by the headdresses upon which their grave slabs were inscribed. But here there was none. It was not unheard of, but strange given the obvious reverence placed upon this particular ruler. Why had they not included this? Surely, he commanded their respect and loyalty. It was suspicious to say the least.

The Doctor gave the word that they must open the slab at once, an instinct that he would later recollect upon as his greatest compulsion in life. The others would agree.

Together the dozen men and women fought the top of the slab, pried it apart carefully. It slid sideways, was set to rest upon the ground. Shock once more flickered through the faces of those present; they found no discernible identity to whom lie inside the ancient sarcophagus within the slab. Again, not unheard of, but suspicious given the sarcophagus was cast in that same, pure-gold that lined the walls.

What happened next was nothing less than truly mesmerizing.

Slowly but surely, electricity began to arc from the walls of the chamber. Some fled in fear of electrocution, but the Doctor was frozen in place beside the slab. The electrical discharges grew in speed, strength, quantity, but only zapped from the walls to the sarcophagus. The room filled with the buzz and cracks, and blue light of electricity. In the center of it all, was the Doctor.

The ancient coffin began to stir, and with a light click and a hiss, it parted in twain. Its top rose slowly, as if on silent, mechanical hinges. After a moment of unfathomable uncertainty, the electricity stopped. The room was darkened, silent again.

A fine layer of dust and smoke had rose from the innards of the open sarcophagus, while the rest of the team inched their way back toward the Doctor. He led them the pair of steps forward, to look down in bewilderment at the coffins’ contents. It was a man, or rather, something man-like. Nonetheless it was there, perfectly preserved. The bio-luminescent rock shined off of a gray-blue skin, its brilliance metallic, yet leathery.

With a joyous cry, the Doctor exclaimed, “It’s breathing! Look, the chest!”

Indeed, the creature’s chest with a hypnotic, rhythmic motion. Silence fell once more, not a man nor woman dared to breath, fearing they might steal the creature’s last breaths. The eyelids began to flutter on the oblong head, and in an instant, snapped open. Two, bulbous eyes looked out upon the team and the Doctor, as it eased upright.

It spoke a garbled, indiscernible dialect of ancient Egyptian, seemed frustrated at multiple attempts of the same pattern of words. The team engaged each-other in debate of how best to explain their speech. It silenced itself at once.

After a moment, the Being closed its eyes, tilted its head downward. A moment later, its head rose again, and with a fickle gesture its hand, the rocks grew brighter, the room enveloped in a day-time light. It stood promptly. The slab hissed, clicked, sank lower into the ground. The group had frozen in curiosity, terror. The Being stepped across the chamber to a wall, waved its hand. A doorway appeared. It disappeared inside, returned momentarily, clothed in garments of an ancient, ornate fashion.

The group had watched in utter perplexity. Their minds alight with possibility, but their bodies and tongues too stunned and tied to move. The Being stepped for the doctor, its robes trailing behind it, and bowed its head.

It spoke flawless English, “What year is this?”

The Doctor fought his frozen muscles to explain the shift from Egyptian time to that of the Roman system. “It is possible you’ve been here ten thousand years.”

The Being pondered this for a moment. No doubt his species was aware of his presence here, why then, had they not come to check on him, the Doctor wondered.

“I will explain to you in a moment, the fallacy of this expectation,” he said to the Doctor, knowing his thoughts. “For now, I must inform you that I require sustenance.”

Hands went to pockets and backpacks, offered the Being masses of energy bars, sandwiches and other, easily accessed consumables. Someone collected them, handed them over. The Doctor passed forward a large jug of water. The Being sat, gestured for them to join, and promptly devoured each morsel. With the fury of a man denied sustenance for ten thousand years, it shoveled the food in with table manners at home only within the tomb.

It finished, wiped away bits from its leathery skin, and thanked them, “I have not eaten in millennia, I was beginning to feel it.”

Chuckles emitted from the group as an air of elderly storytelling descended upon them from their guest.

“I must confess,” the Being began. “I expected to be roused much longer ago than this. But I am satisfied to be here now. I will relay to you my own history, before I ask that you relay your own.”

The Doctor was satisfied with this, as were the others. Each of them sat in their various ways, looked on the Being with undivided attention.

It continued, “I came to this planet thousands of years ago, from a place even further away than that in light’s time. There was a war on, and many whom wished not to fight were allowed safe passage and sustenance enough to last them their million-year life-span. I, being a social adept, wished not to live alone, but left as such in any case. My ship’s automated scans located a world– this one–, which read that possibility of intelligent life had begun to evolve. As a curious mind, I wished to observe this evolution. I landed here, rather unsuccessfully, and took a detachable pod to look-over the planet.”

It seemed to bear a happiness in its chest that seemed familiar, yet uncanny in its alien features; “I traveled every passing step of it time and again, making observations. Then, one day, appeared an intellect of rather knowledgeable species. I began to teach them, much as you would an animal. As time carried on and their intellects grew, I further advanced their knowledge in all walks of life. In gratitude, they asked for help in construction of a shrine. I wished for no shrine, but granted them the means to build one. In this, they built a massive pyramidal structure, resembling my ship. The technology I had given them however, was not cohesive with the primitive tools they used to construct it. And so, we broke them down, used their parts.”

A note of sorrow seeped into its voice beneath the warmth of recollection, “More time passed and it came upon me that, perhaps one day, I would no longer be with the people I had found here. Either in death, or for some other reason, I might no longer be capable of imparting things to them. So, I had them print the entirety of my ship’s databases onto their scrolls. Perhaps you can answer later, what became of them.”

The note of sorrow became a chord, as if a symphony were harmonizing it together beneath its voice, “Then, one day their came a plague that spread across the planet. Resources in certain areas grew scarce, and other civilizations I had not seen to became envious. In-fighting began, but I wished not to witness it. I also however, wished not to leave. So, I set upon building my freezing chamber. Those who worshiped me, as it soon became evident that some did, aided in the construction of this place. The assumed luxury served a purpose I chose not to regale to them– the electricity might baffle them, but I couldn’t allow that it might one day be used for their warring. And so, after my chamber’s completion, I buried my ship and laid myself to rest, waiting to be awakened by a war-less civilization.”

There was a moment of quiet introspection before its gaze shifted outward with a warm smile and its uncanny face, “And here you are.”

The team exchanged some manner of shame. The Doctor, as with the others, contemplated how best to explain. He did his best to retell the expanse time, Humanity growth, and its ills and deeds. In short order, the Doctor had built a rapport with his ancient acquaintance.

Finally, tired but elated, the Doctor raised a singular question, “What will you do now?”

The Being thought intensely, replied with a succinctness, “I must un-bury my ship–” It hesitated at a slight air of disappointment that rippled over them. Someone asked if it would return. “In due course, of course. It shall only be a year. Our technology is well off enough that even ten thousands of years ago, I was able to make this destination in a few months time. I will update my data-banks, see what has become of my civilization. Then, I shall return to you and your cultures, in the galactic name of peace.”

The Being stood, stretched, its movements curiously human. The others mimicked the motion as the Doctor spoke in earnest, “My friend, you’re a most benevolent being, but may I ask; upon your return, will you reveal yourself to the masses, tell your story?”

It smiled its best smile, “In due course, of course.”

And so, the great ship lifted from beneath that tomb, rocketed skyward and disappeared into the heavens. The Doctor and his colleagues watched, eager for the day it would return and bestow upon them more curiosities than man could quite conceivably imagine. No doubt with a life-span such as theirs, eons of progress had commenced during its hibernation that now required a renewal of knowledge. With each passing night and day, the rumors of its existence spread and humanity slowly glances skyward– searching for our benevolent friend on return from the stars.

Short Story: I Remember…

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

I remember the ships that hovered over our world in conquest. I remember it as if it had only just happened. Though it was decades ago now, nothing is so vivid in my mind. They came from the sky on glowing trails, like someone had hurled fire-bombs at us. An apt comparison given what came later. The only difference? They never hit the ground. They never had to. They came to a rest, searing heat and all, just above the tops of the tallest buildings.

I remember sitting on the couch, then later, standing in the streets, seeing the giant television in then times-square that revealed we’d been beaten, or rather surrendered– the beatings came later. I can’t remember those. I don’t want to. What I do remember was wandering, guided by my mother’s hand, through New York’s chaotic streets. I’d never known the scent of fear– real, pure, human terror– until then. It was palpable on the tongue, stank like the homeless did, like we all do now.

My mother… she had a gentleness that died with her, as if the world took such a soft creature to protect her from the wrath her child’s generation would bear. Even now, I remain glad that the madness of those first days claimed her. Though I was terrified and alone for a long while, I knew even then it was safer to be dead than subject to the horrors to come.

The first mistake we made as a civilization was existing. That was all it had taken to bring them from the skies over Alpha Centauri, have their forces launched across the openness of space to our backyard. Before the tele-streams and internet died for good, someone had calculated that they’d left their home system for Earth sometime around the broadcasts of Kennedy’s election, hadn’t arrived until the late 2010’s. It led to our second mistake.

I remembered being eight years old…. Christ, it feels like a life-time ago now. Maybe it was. Eight years old, with a gun shoved into my hands. It was a nine millimeter, fifteen round magazine with a thumb safety, and heavy. I remember that much. With that tool came the first beatings from my own kind, to instill in me how to hold it, aim it, kill with it. All because some armchair-genius had calculated the invaders expected our technology to be stuck in the sixties. What a fool.

It was only later that we learned, collectively, that our technological prowess would have never matched theirs. Not in a million years. They didn’t have to speak, or scream, or fire weapons. They simply arrived and the planet was already conquered. When we took up arms in resistance against our governments’ fealty, we spent immeasurable amounts of ammunition trying to kill them. They took full magazines from whole battalions of armed militias, their bodies riddled with holes, but bled not a single drop of fluid from their leathery hides. They were modern-day Khans, each of them, but even his conquest paled in comparison to theirs.

Their tactic was simple. To remember it now almost makes me laugh, but I can’t. I haven’t known joy or laughter, or anything more than fear for decades. I doubt there’s a human that has. As it was explained by a former-scientist just before his untimely execution, these humanoid creatures have some type of reinforced cartilage across their bodies– like the stuff our noses and joints are made of, but so strong it can withstand the force of bullets. They were walking kevlar, and because of their gel-like skeletons and regenerative abilities, nothing short of a nuclear weapon could stop them. Believe me, we tried them all; grenades, bombs, TNT, nothing worked. We learned that the hard way. Every one of them is like a walking terminator. Every. Single. One. Like those terrifying machines, they have only a goal to achieve– whatever it is– and they eliminate anything in the way of it.

Evidently, Humanity’s a part of that goal, because I remember the day their darkest weapon was revealed. As if compelled to by my own muscles, my body, fraught with the peril a rat faces in a sewer– and stinking like one at that– I encountered one of these invaders.

I was in an alley, running for my life after my militia detachment suddenly fell to the ground, began to seize, writhe, foam at the mouths. A few others and I managed to escape, but were split up. I had learned long ago not to scream nor draw attention. Even so, one of them must have sensed me, pursued me. It cornered me in an alley.

They don’t so much walk as float. Though they have two legs, it seems they’re useless. Their arms work though. I’ve seen it, felt it. They drift, lame, wherever they go. Queer-looking face tentacles take the place of mouths above three-fingered, malformed-hands with claws attached to arms longer than their legs. They make a god-awful sound– like someone’s ground metal against a cheese grater in your ear. It’s paralyzing. Both from fear and an auditory pain that seizes your muscles. It’s not even their greatest weapon– the one they conquered us with, or that I saw that night with my own eyes.

I remember sometimes doing things, even at a young age, and not remembering why I’d begun to do them or how. It was as if I simply materialized into the middle of an action, forgot everything about it. They have this way of doing that to you; making you freeze, drop your weapon, lie. For years, we thought we were gaining ground on them, and had received numerous reports about their deaths. We’d heard the war-stories of units that felled them in battle, and even I suspected the scientist’s words had been erroneous, that they could be killed.

How wrong I was. How wrong we all were.

They were lies; every story, every battle scar, ever supposed death of an invader. They’d fabricated the memories in the militia’s minds, used them as walking surveillance drones. They kept mental links through some kind of ESP, allowed them to spread their stories through the militias. Those stories flared into hope for victory, spread like wild-fires around the world. My best friend, the only person I trusted, was one of their plants. What she and I shared… it was the closest thing to joy left in the world. Even still, we could never smile. All of it was lies.

It’s been decades since they first came, and now all hope is lost. We know now what happened, even though we can’t remember how, or why we missed it. I remember hearing from a medic after a patrol that a person will sometimes forget the moments before and after a traumatic experience, sometimes including the trauma itself. It just sort of gets buried in your mind, so impossible to cope with you literally can’t. You fabricate things to put in its place, or else lose time altogether. It has something to do with an electrical overload in the brain that doesn’t allow memories to consciously form.

All I know is what happened after the raids. As if in a flash, we went from believing we might one day win, to knowing there was never been a fight to begin with. They simply appeared– walked in the front door as it were, and we were disarmed. Not a single one of us took up our weapons to fight. We couldn’t. We’d been brain-hacked, mind-controlled not to.

Now, I stand jam-packed with three-hundred other humans in a cage no bigger than a dozen feet squared, like cattle on a killing-floor. I don’t know where we are, or where we’re going, but I remember how we got here. I remember smiling and joy and happiness that once made days of sadness and sorrow worthwhile. But now all I know is despair and the sickly putrescence of two-hundred-odd other bodies smothering me. I forget my name, my friends’ names, even my home. But somehow, I remember my mother’s gentleness. I miss her. I miss the warmth of summer sun, and of childhood– what little of it I had– and the taste of fresh-water. I remember all of the good that came before the bad, something I cannot forget despite the doom we all face.

Maybe one day there will be hope again. Maybe not. All I know is that I remember it….

Short Story: The Power

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The Power

Harlan Mackie was the thirty-five year old front-man for Twisted Ballistix, a band that had already seen its hay-day and obligatory fifteen minutes of fame. Like Most, Harlan and the rest of the group had squandered their fame in their youthful lust for money, drugs, and women. Now, pushing forty, they’d done and seen more than most, and tired of the scene. But none of Ballistix was quite so burnt out as “Mac” Mackie.

He’d done all of the things the others had and then some; blown cash, toured foreign countries and waters, and soiled his share of women. Through it all, he’d aged each day with more weariness than the last. Long before Ballistix was featured in No Moss, the counter-culture music rag that dribbled on everyone’s reputation, he’d seen their decline on the horizon. Only Mac predicted their shift from 80’s glam-rock to blues-inspired jams and graveled crooning would see their popularity wane. Even when it did, he was the only one to mind– maybe, to notice.

While Shift (the drummer), John, and Jake, (bass-guitarist and guitarist respectively) had taken to the change with ease, Mac still clung to the delusions of the high vocals of the Glam-era. His voice begged to differ, had dropped octaves since his youth. He knew what was happening, couldn’t stop it with all the fame in the world; he was getting old, washed up.

He sat in the green room of the Tower-Blade theater in Chicago, hometown of the Blues. The others of the group had already left for the side-stage, there gear waiting for them on-stage. Mac knew the way there without having to be directed. They’d played Tower-Blade twice before, once during the glam-era, and once immediately following Ballistix’s reincarnation. He’d been left to his warm-ups, as usual, given privacy to psych himself up.

Instead, he psyched himself out. He hunched over the lighted bureau back-stage to stare at himself in the mirror. His eyes were deep purple, baggy. His long-hair, already peppered gray, was ratty from more restless nights than he cared to recall. There was nothing more to be done about it, he was finished, through– not even willing to finish out the Tower-Blade gig. Don Mclean had been right; there was a day when the music died, even if Mac couldn’t quite place it anymore.

He tore a scrap of paper from a pad, scrawled over it. The words themselves weren’t important, but the gist was that he was finished, gone. He grabbed a roll of duct-tape from a road-kit, tore off a strip, slapped it atop the note and smacked them both against the mirror. He grabbed his leather jacket, long a staple of his life– even before the Glam-era of eye-liner and finger-less gloves that had accompanied it and helped to make him a star.

He hesitated. He wasn’t a star anymore. He was a has-been, a burnt-out caricature of himself that he doubted anyone would miss. The music was gone. What else could matter to him?

He tossed the jacket over the back of a chair, turned away. He made it to the door before a deep baritone called out to him.

“’Ey Mac, you forgot your jacket.”

Mac whirled ’round, petrified at the lanky figure of a black man, roughly his age. Mac blinked twice. His mind swam. If he’d been stoned, he’d’ve sworn he was hallucinating the legend of John Robertson, Blues-God of Chicago that’d been one of the tour-de-force performers during the genre’s creation.

He took a few steps over room, his black suit-jacket and tie pressed and loose beneath black fedora. He had the deep-set eyes of Robertson, even the gravelly baritone, but it couldn’t have been him– Robertson’d been dead for thirty years, maybe more. He’d had a mishap with an especially potent strand of Heroin, made it to the hospital just in time to die in the ER. Everyone one that’d played the Tower-Blade– indeed, anyone that played the Blues– knew of Robertson’s death. The OD’d started in this very room, at an after-party for one of Robertson’s “Welcome Home” performances. It was the last time Tower-Blade had let anyone throw after-parties in the building.

Even so, the very reflection of Robertson in his prime seemed to make its way toward Mac. The latter’s jaw was slacked above his stony muscles and bones. Robertson extended a hand to the leather jacket, lifted it off the chair, presented it to Mac.

“Can’ go on without’cha your threads, man,” he said. The Robertson look-alike– as it had to have been– met Mac’s eyes, “You ain’t lookin’ so hot, Mac-Knife. What’s the digs?”

Mac’s mouth closed just enough for him to shake his head, “You… You’re…”

“Dead?” He asked under the brim of his fedora. He laid the jacket back over the chair, “Yeah, I s’pose I am ’bout now. What is this, ninety-eight?”

“Oh-three,” Mac said.

“Damn,” Robertson said as he removed his fedora, began to traipse the room with an upward gaze. “The new millennium. Never thought I’d see it.”

Mac blinked, “You didn’t. You were dead in seventy-three. OD’d in…”

Robertson met his eyes again. His words were slow, a serious rise to one of his brows, “In this very room.”

“You’re a… a ghost then, right?” Mac said, in disbelief of his own words.

Robertson’s signature, crooked grin appeared for a moment. He put a long, chocolate finger to his lip, looked to the floor as he stepped over to Mac’s chair. His hand fell to the chair-back, and he crossed his feet in a lean, began to gesture widely, then in small sweeps, with the hat in his other hand.

“Whad’ya know about science, Mac-Knife? Physics, Biology, space-time ‘n all that?”

Mac shrugged, shook his head, too torn between disbelief and utter shock. Robertson straightened enough to step past the chair, set his hat at the bureau in front of it, then lean against its side with a hand in the pocket of chinos, the jacket draped around it.

His other hand illustrated as he explained, “Ya’ see Mac, there’re these moments in time, in our lives, where we just sorta’ fit into place. Physicists call this a Nexus, it’s a point where a bunch of things coalesce– sort’a snow-ball together, to roll down hill in one big conglomeration together.”

Mac blinked, swallowed, “Uh… okay.”

“I can see your confused, but I’ll simplify it for ya’,” he drew the other hand from his pocket, gestured wide to the room. “There’s three events in my life that occurred in this room, that changed its course forever. Bein’ the man that I was, it also changed history. At each’a those events, you can trace that snowball’s path through history to the present, through all the people that were effected through me– My death was one’uv ’em.” He dropped the extra hand again, “Now, the other two, were quite a bit more subtle. They weren’t the kind of thing you see too easily, ‘less you know what to look for.”

Robertson hesitated, slid his other hand in his pocket, scratched at a heel with the opposite foot.

“Now listen close, Mac-Knife, ’cause one’a these concerns you directly, and the other’ll make you understand why. The first, is somethin’ that’s brought me here to ‘ya today.” Mac gave a small blink as if prepared for Robertson to continue. He drew his left hand from his pocket, began to gesture between them, “Good. You’ll be needin’ that curiosity.”

He went silent, sank into memory that brought on an old vernacular that immediately swept Mac into the past with it. Robertson began, “Ya’ see, I was a Blues-man, one’a the first. I knew all the other boys when they were the firsts too. Me ‘n the Kings, Muddy, and John Lee, and more than you could name; we was the soul– the heart of a poor-folk taught all their lives they wasn’t worth nothin more’n the sweat on their brow. But ya’ see, we disagreed with that notion, ‘n like the ancient troubadours, we didn’t know nothin’ more than to sing about it with screams ‘n cries from the only instruments that knew it better than us.”

Mac suddenly felt the sweat bead on his brow, heard the distant sounds of wailing guitars that cried out over the throaty shouts of young blues-men trying to find their place in the world.

As if Robertson felt it too, he commented to the effect, “Ya’ see, thing is, back in them days, we didn’t have a place. Nobody’d heard’a the blues, and no-one gave a thought to the poor-folk ‘less they’d had to step over ’em in the street. ‘N all of sudden, here we were– ‘fore the Brits and their invasion, the rock-pop scene, hell, even ol’ Chuck ‘n his duck-walkin’– screamin’ for someone to help us find our place in the world.”

Mac finally found his words over the sounds of past Blues-men that wailed in his head, “But you’re a legend, John. You always were.”

Robertson gave a giggly laugh, his pearly whites bright as ever in his brown mug, “Maybe I was, but no one starts out that way, Mac-Knife. Hell, you know that better’n anyone. Me ‘n the boys? We was trash, not fit to shine the shoes’a the folks we made rich with our suff’rin’.” He nodded to himself with a look at his feet, “Hmm… yeah. Yeah. That’s what we was. ‘N you see, that’s where the first of the events’a my life comes to play. Year was… uh.. ’63, I believe,” he did a mental calculation. “Forty-years to the day, if I’m not mistaken.”

Mac knew the year, “’63? That was right before all the marches and protests.”

Robertson was pleased, “Tha’s right. One’a the first times black-folk rose together, said they wasn’t gonna’ take it anymore. ‘N you know what happened here, that night?”

Max shook his head, “I know you were here.”

Robertson’s brow gave a buck, “I was. ‘N I wasn’t.” He removed both hands from his pocket, “Ya’ see, we was just workin’ on carvin’ ourselves out a spot in the world when it went ‘n got crazy on us. All’uva sudden, people were risin’ in the streets, throwin’ their own cries and pleas. We didn’ think they needed us no more. Or at least… I didn’t.” He put a finger to his mouth again, waggled it outward for a few turns, “Nah, I was wrong ’bout that. ‘N I knew it then. Ya’ see, me ‘n one’a my guys– cat by the name of Tempo-Jones– called ‘im Jonesy in those days– had a sit before the show. ‘N all we could hear in the background was the roarin’a the crowd.”

Mac heard it too. It wasn’t in his head this time, it was the audience waiting for Ballistix to take the stage, start a night of screaming blues. Mac shuddered, ready to bolt.

Robertson held him in place with a smile, “Yeah, that was how I felt. See, I didn’ think then, what I know now: It takes a legend to lead a crowd, be their… their representative. ‘N the best man to do that’s the one that can be heard over their own roar to scream for ’em.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed, “I don’t understand.”

Robertson nodded, “I ‘spect not, but you will.” He slid his hands back into his pockets, wiggled a foot along the heel of his wayfarer, “It was ten years to the day that I shot-up a dose a dope that made me soar so high I didn’t come back down. Thirty-years to the day, as it is now. Those are two’a three events that I was talkin’ about. The first, ‘case you missed it, was me realizin’ that the people needed me to cry out for ’em. The last, was me havin’ done my job. The Brits’d already invaded. Chicago was a Blues town. ‘N the poor, black-folk’d had their say ‘n now people were listenin.’ They didn’ need me no more, ‘n I didn’ need to be creatin’ what me ‘n the boy’s’d created anymore. I was finished with the world, and it in turn’d finished with me.”

Mac shook his head, “That’s not true, John. People still love you. You’re still a legend. Your work still affects people, it changed the world.”

Robertson waggled his finger at Mac with a smile, “See, now you’re catchin’ on, boy. You’re getting’ there, but you’re not there yet. Ya’ see, cats like me, we got somethin’ more in our veins– more’n blood, more’n soul, more than anything you can think to name. I always called it “The Power.” The power to get up on that stage, ‘n wail the blues with my git-box, ‘n echo the cries’a of the people for them– ‘n I did it louder’n meaner than any other man could’a.”

Mac nodded, “That’s what I mean. You are a legend. The people still need you.”

“As an icon, a legend,” Robertson agreed. “That’s how they need me now.” He scratched at a cheek, presented a few fingers through the air as he explained, “’Ya see, that third event that I was tellin’ ya ’bout? That’s what’s happenin’ right now, right here.” Mac squinted at him. Robertson cocked his head to one side, examined him for a minute. “Lem’me ask you somethin’ Mac-Knife; in all the years you been performin’ how many times you lost time? Been so in the groove you ain’t sure where it ends and you begin? I’d wager it’s more’n you know.”

Mac looked to the floor, thought about it. His eyes returned to Robertson’s with a shake of his head and a shrug, “Yeah, so? That’s what we do, innit? We try to get lost in that groove, take everyone with us?”

Robertson’s smiled weighted his cocked head further to the side, “Yep. You’re right.”

“So, what’s your point?”

Robertson’s head kept its tilt, but his arms crossed and his eyes gleamed, “You know the power I was talkin’ about. I know you do. We all do. That’s why we’re in this business.” Mac made a half nod, as if to affirm Robertson’s words. “And you know, that power, it’s somethin’ none of us can explain. Somethin’ we don’t quite control. It just works through us. Works us over sometimes, right?” Again, Mac nodded. Robertson’s head straightened, “It was ’71, two years before I collapsed from that shot’a dope, that I was leanin’ in the very spot I’m in now. I was ramped up for a gig, ready to scream the blues, when the power overtook me. It was better’n any dope I’d ever had, ‘n I suddenly found myself here, with you, with all’a the knowledge I’d ever need to make my point– like I’d lived more’n forty years in seconds.”

Mac shook his head, confounded, “No, that can’t be. You’ve been dead … and this… I just, I don’t understand.”

Robertson smiled, “This is one’a them Nexus points, Mac.” He finally straightened from the bureau, “Ya’ see, I’m bound to give up my power at some point. No man on this earth can defeat death. He’s a miserable bastard that hunts us down no matter how long it takes ‘im. But the kind’a power I got, the kind you’re gonna’ have; it can’t just appear. It’s gotta’ be handed over.”

Robertson stepped over to Mac. He stepped back on instinct, “No, I’m done. I’m leaving.”

The old blues man met his eyes, “Tell me what’s happening in your world. War, right? Lot’s’a poverty? The sick ‘n dying screamin’ out for someone to listen? Someone to echo, loud as they can, so the others can hear? To use their power for good? Isn’t that why you got in this game? To be the Tom-Cat, loved by all ’cause’a the screamin’ you did for ’em while they were screamin’ for you?”

Mac grit his teeth. He wasn’t sure why he’d gotten into it anymore. For that matter, he wasn’t sure of much, except that he couldn’t keep living as husk, a has-been, a burn out.

Robertson lifted his hand, placed it on Mac’s shoulder, “All you been lookin’ for’s a way outta’ your predicament. ‘N now you have it. Sing the blues, ‘n feel it.” He jabbed a finger into Mac’s chest, “Feel it. If not for you, then for the people that need to be heard. You’ll be a legend. One the world needs. You’ll change history, just like I did. Like the boys did with me. All you gotta’ do’s accept the offer.”

Mac steeled himself with a deep breath; everything Robertson had said, everything he’d felt himself, all of his worries and cares seemed to hinge on his answer now. It was as though he’d been shown the way to revival, all he had to do was take the steps along its path. He wasn’t sure he could. But he wasn’t sure he could turn it down either.

He bit at his lips, took a deep breath, “What do I do?”

Robertson smiled, lowered his hand, “Well, that’s the question, ain’t it?” He turned around slowly to grab his hat, “We all asked it then; what do we do to find our place, our way? Truth is, we had to carve it out. ‘N we did.” He lifted Mac’s jacket from the chair, “I expect, like we did, you’ll figure it out. You just gotta’ get there.” He handed it over, “Don’t forget your jacket, Mac.”

He extended an apprehensive hand, retrieved the jacket from Robertson, their eyes locked, “Wh-what if I can’t do it?”

“My momma’ always said, ya’ never know ’til ‘ya try.” He glanced sideways with a bittersweet look, returned his eyes to Mac’s, “I kept that in my heart, followed it all my life. Who knows– maybe you can too.”

He lifted his hat to Mac’s chest, handed it over, and stepped away. Mac whirled to follow him, “Wait! John! How do I do it?”

Robertson was halfway across the room, smoky and transparent looking. He glanced back with a crooked smile, tipped an invisible hat forward, and disappeared.

“Mac?” A voice called behind him; it was the equally aged figure of Jake, his Paul around his neck, waiting to be plugged into scream. He gripped it in one hand beneath a plectrum, “You warmed up?”

Mac stared for a second, then looked to the hat, “Y-Yeah. I’m coming.”

Jake squinted at him, “Where’d you get the hat?”

Mac was breathless, “John Robertson.”

Jake snorted, “Pft, yeah, alright joker. C’mon, we gotta’ show to play.”

Mac slipped into the leather jacket, took a deep breath, then set the hat atop his head. A rush of power floored him, coursed through his veins as his ears honed in on the sounds of the distant crowd. He suddenly understood. He reached forward, tore the note off the mirror, balled it up, and tossed it away. He turned for the stage, disappeared from Tower-Blade’s green room.