I watch the
sunrise beam through the fog of sulfuric clouds on the horizon. Bowing
silhouettes ascend into the orb. I don’t think the mushrooms have worn off. My
roommate has crashed on the couch with her boyfriend and I can’t sleep.
Reading my palm
once again, I push past the financial reports, the hyper-content I’m not
interested in and search for a message from Outer-Spector.
Their messages
hide in the code. My roommate Clara and I both ate the mushrooms, but I’m the one who’s
awake. Suppose if I had warm arms to wrap in, I’d be asleep too. But it’s
better this way. Up and at ‘em.
Stimulating the gray
mushroom-glyph that appears on my palm, and the resonance shield surrounds me; the
hum growing louder until the shield becomes an opaque semi-circle.
“What is your
report?” the Vector-bot commands.
The mushrooms I
ate, enabled Spector Vision, which allows the initiate to see where the
death riders cling to the earth. Creating havoc as they work to complete unfinished
business before disappearing for good.
It wasn’t like
this before. People used to pass on. Not many do anymore and I witnessed a handful this morning returning to the sun.
The food has been laced
with radioactivity and chemicals from fertilizers far too long and part of the
reason for the disconnect.
My job is redirection.
But first, I have
to convince the specters their work on earth is finished. Many are too angry to
reason with. They’re lost and confused. I use alternate scene-boards to
manipulate what the specters witness, it shows their work is finished and it’s
time to move on.
If I can send them
into the Matrika, they will not return
to Earth, for their continuous cycle of destruction.
“What’s your
response?” the VB insists.
“I need another
round.” I glance at Clara, asleep on the couch. “Alone.”
*
The laser beams
over my eyes. This activates the molecules of the mushroom serum still in my pineal gland or third eye, and I become smaller and smaller until I’m walking hidden
passages that line the planet.
My mind travels alongside
the specters wispy translations I’ve created to define what I’m seeing or
sensing, really.
The specters swirl
around me, many appear to walk, two by
two, others with children, or entire families, complete with grandparents, and
dogs leading the packs. Disguised, they pretend to be human apparitions. As if,
we didn’t know.
I am concealed as
a Vector-bot encased in a light that distorts my cosmic outline. Not one of
them makes a noise, they’re no conversations, the dogs aren’t barking.
Steaming in one
direction, I follow their trek toward the Matrika
layer. The layer beneath the passages.
A green and blue
aurora borealis form; I’ve arrived. While I'm an apparition, I’m safe from
Matrika, the serum percolates within my cells. If we can’t clear the specters, humans
will stop being born on Earth. Sure, other planets in the system have clearer
channels, but this is Earth, land of green and blue, ha, we do keep the fantasy alive. Those in need of children believe
they can and pay the highest price for those hopes. —If you wonder who pays the
tab for this little journey.
When Matrika takes the souls, none return.
It’s a distorted magnet and a trap. Not exactly, the depths of hell the
mainliners joke about. Most believe Matrika
is the underworld. That’s where I’ll send them.
After death, humans
pass through the Sun so we can return. Once our designated tasks on Earth are
finished, we move on to the next phase of matter. But this Matrika hole disregards all that seeking out all bioplasmic
entities that have electromagnetic fields.
Aligning my
motivations, I coalesce into a one-thought form, the specters will understand.
The Vector-bots
are controlled by the human majority, there’re no hierarchies, my work helps
everyone. Just the way I like it. But there’s always the risk of being sucked
into Matrika for eternity, and no one has the answers to that; we can’t see
anything after zero-point.
Waving my right
arm into a circle, blue energy swirls up like a current, a torrent of pressure.
It’ll knock the specters to attention and hopefully, they’ll understand my directions to the
Matrika. The Blue Wave is a code, the original Vector-bots gave the human race.
But they warned us what would happen if we continued using radioactive
ingredients in our daily lives. Crimson
tides of woe.
Fissures like Matrika opened up in the ethereal layers.
I’m just glad the scientists won. Now we can do something.
My left arm sends another
coded beam; it pierces the pressure around the vicinity. The Matrika advances,
deep magenta, edged in crimson; she’s alive, and it’s beautiful, so much I’m
falling into its endless pit. I pull back.
At its center is the
black hole.
Vector Command
reels me back, but the pulse of alternative frequencies skip past and misses me.
I’m the anchor that shows the VB’s where the Matrika is.
I can’t lose
contact and refocus. The light I’ve brought with me bends toward the circling scarlet
pool.
I might be able to
close the well, but then we’ll no longer be able to send the specters this way.
And so far, it’s the only way to corner them and stop their destructive reign
over the material world.
When the droves
wind up here, my beam will send the scepters into the swirling the endless
night at the center of Matrika. It’s the only way. At least that’s what the
animation proved.
Something’s wrong,
a spattering of crinkling noise and a distorted static I’ve never heard before.
It scrambles my directive. The crimson spreads wider and wider, becoming darker.
I signal to VB, no answer.
The Matrika has
me. The specters are gone. I’m being pulled apart, but it’s not my body,
because my body is still in my living room behind the shield.
No, this is real,
but I’m safe. Vector Bots have a back-up in place if anything goes wrong.
I can’t be safe.
I’ve lost contact.
Hello!
Pulled and
stretched, an arc of light moves farther in the opposite direction, I appear to
be traveling, trying to catch up to the light, and I enter the black hole known
as Matrika.
.
.
.
How long has it
been?
Hello?
I had an assignment. I’m sure I’m still
alive, but I’m not really that sure? What if I’m stuck in this warped plane of
existence forever?
.
.
.
What am I’m
looking at, the world around me solidifies into pictures, then into cubes and triangles?
Triangle trees and pyramid shaped rocks. Hexagon clouds?
A sharp stab rips
through me. An alert system shrieks, and an orb of light lands nearby. Two
cubed-footed fluffy beings pick me up and throw me into a shoot, from what I
understand it’s for refuse or waste—or recycling.
And I land in a
fluid. Is it water? I can’t taste or smell anything to be sure.
Only my mind has
traveled here, the Vector-Bots will find me. I have to finish my assignment.
I’m flowing in a current.
There’s pressure,
and a hell of a lot of pain, and it’s so very dark. But then suddenly there’s
light.
It’s soft and warm
here.
I had a mission once, but I can’t remember. I’m
comfortably wrapped into a warm blanket, and open my eyes. Familiar eyes stare
back, smiling.
“Congratulations, Clara, the doctor says, "Yours
is the first rebirth we’ve had in almost a century.”
~ The End ~
