Hinkley Point C springs a leak Aerospace implodes Dog leads flutter in the wind
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The tower lay on its side, stretched out for a half a mile along the desert floor, half buried by wind and sand, only the windows on the upper half still visible, like implacable black eyes. No one knew when it had fallen, but all the legends spoke of the time when it had pointed straight up to the stars, a long metal tube, its purpose, surely, to talk with the heavens.
A town had grown up, long ago, sustained in the barren dryness by the magic from the tower: the lake. No-one knew how this gift worked, but they knew the great ancestors had discovered the secret of endless water, pouring into the lake. Water was taken by the townsfolk and water must be given, a mantra every child learned at their mother’s knee. All wastewater was siphoned back to the tower, emerging, like a miracle, into clean lake water. Blessed Water. Not a drop was spilled, to knock over a glass of water was a dreadful act, to spit was a sin.
Later, the town was moved, and the palace was built on the shores of the lake, along with the merchant houses, men made rich by the caravan route that passed through the town, an oasis in a world of deserts.
Did anyone go into the tower? Of course, for the great miracle of the water needed tending to continue, but this was the job of the priests, men who braved the interior, for the heat inside the metal tower was ferocious, and at night when the sun had sunk, the heat rolled off the tower’s sides in blistering waves, as it cooled. Then the shaven-headed priests would enter the tower, dressed only in loin cloths, through the base and work their prayers to keep the life-giving water flowing.
Melissa had lived in the town near the tower base for all her twenty-four years, and she could not imagine any other life, for she had never heard tell of another way, except the stories she loved, passed on by the caravan traders, whispered and contorted by each mouth they passed through until they became wild tales, of fact and fiction melted in the same pot until one was indistinguishable from the other; stories of far off cities with unbelievable wonders, metal carts that powered themselves, towers almost as tall as their fallen one, where people lived in the clouds, or, even stranger, of places with lakes so big their far shores were invisible. So much water, but in a cruel twist, the gods had salted it. Her mother scoffed at these tales, ‘stories for children’ she said, rolling her eyes. But she believed the one about the giant lakes, because the undrinkable water was proof, in her eyes, that the gods punished the sinners. Melissa knew her mother was fond of stories of retribution and punishment by the gods.
Acara pinches the ridge between her dominant eyes, lids fluttering shut to match the other sets (which she rarely opens) as she sighs heavily.
“He’ll come around,” Taros says, placing a fore-hand on her shoulder. How sickening.
“And why, pray tell, should he?” I ask sharply. “I fail to see why she deserves protection from the consequences of her own actions.”
Taros shakes his head in disdain as Acara freezes beside him. “Don’t start, not now Ravello,” he snaps.
“He does kinda have a point,” Aurelia mumbles to my left and Acara’s eyes fly open in surprise, mouth slightly agape. I must admit, I too find it… unexpected.
Beginnings
from the Preface to Towards a New Grand Composition
“We did not sense the start of corruption.
Its tempo took hold so quickly and utterly.
We understood it too late”
City at the River Fort
12th Dominant Glacial Overture
60552/24th Fluvial Mineral Minuet
It had been a cold, wet and fruitless night, Peck failed to suppress a yawn.
“Since The Beyond tasted their malleable wits the human-apes have been slaves to its perversity.” Jynn looked to the cloud filled sky as if her thoughts sailed the cold dawn winds. “They mutilate every thing that they lay their grubby paws on, it is like an addiction for them. Earth and rock and metals transmuted to their will? Unthinkable! They adorn themselves with trinkets made of Mother’s precious stones, use Her precious ores in their devices! As if they were born to such nobility.
And plastic, urgh, plastic! Corruption made manifest, infiltrating all Her living matter. They even putrefy their own bodies with the muck. It is a heathen bio-chemical nightmare that will one day, mark my words Peck, will one day suffocate every last one of them.”
Soon after her first hunt with Jynn, Peck had come to know this sad melody by heart. When The Many or The Heralds or The Fang beat them to a Prize these tired and indignant verses were hauled out, for anyone in earshot. A means to lessen the sting of defeat through the judicious application of medicinal words, like calendula on burnt fingertips.
“Of course, glass is their utmost abomination! The utmost audacity! A flagrant desecration. They think it possible to halt the motion of sand! Burn it, petrify it, make it immutable for eternity? The grains yearn to move, to pulse and to flow as they have done throughout time.
All this music needs to be heard, transposed and understood.”
“I was only five when I lost my mother, not that there was much to lose. Yara, for that was her name, had been reduced to nothing by Oumaima’s magic. A couple adopted me and I lived in their forest home somewhere between here and the west coast. I don’t know exactly where. I’m disorientated by all the changes here since I left the island sixty five years ago. The couple were kind, and insisted on getting me educated. But all through those years I missed my mother, and I became weary of the mischief done by the island’s interior. It poked at my flesh, disrupted my studying, disturbed my thoughts.”
I don’t mention how I also missed Tin Hanan, the queen of my world for the first five years of life. The woman doesn’t mind me talking about the island, though. She seems to understand perfectly why she has to lock her doors and close the blinds at sunset. She has to stay here so she’s accepted it. The island is the beast she lives with, and on. It gives her her livelihood, her existence, and as long as she’s careful it doesn’t harm her. She asks me what happened to the other fourteen passengers on the circular boat.
Prologue
Part 1
The resurrection of the Father
Session Three. Read from Part 2 – In the beginning
Father Ellis Simpson woke to the sound of nothing other than his laboured breathing, a state of quietude which lasted only a few seconds before a soul shattering agony leapt at him like an avenging demon, invading every muscle, sinew, and bone in his body. He could feel a grand mal tinkering with his cognition right at the edge of his perception and he reflexively glanded Topiramate 11 to suppress it, but his system had nothing for pain.
A green light flashed on a panel in front of him. It was so bright he could glimpse it through his tightly closed eyes. Forcing one eye open, he saw it was more than one light. A series of letters in a readout panel read: “Hibo capsule opening in:” The numbers next to the message were counting down in seconds and showed just over two minutes to go.
Tentatively moving one emaciated arm to test the lid of his capsule, Ellis sucked in air tasting of chlorinated faecal droplets as the grinding of unused joints added to his distress. He gagged.
“Good morning, Father Ellis,” said a soft, female-sounding voice. “I am Maribel, your ship’s intelligence. I observe you are in some pain, so I will administer some aid for that.”
“Please,” grunted Ellis. He tried to turn his head to the speaker on the left wall of the capsule, but stiffness forbade more than a few millimetres of movement. A faint hum preceded a growing glow of relief, and he relaxed in his cocoon.
“You have been hydrating for four hours, so with analgesics you should be able to function once your capsule opens,” Maribel informed him in her gentle, sing-song voice. “However, I should caution you not to make any rapid movements until you have fully acclimatised in about ten hours.”
“How long have I been under?” Ellis asked.
“One year and nine days,” Maribel said.
“A year!” Ellis jerked forward and winced, instantly regretting it as his body complained. “We were supposed to be travelling for five months.”
The original mission parameters were for the ship to accelerate at one gravity for two months, then decelerate to their destination for a further three months. Five months in total. A year must have taken them beyond the Oort Cloud into interstellar space.
Lady Heera’s presence radiated authority and grace in the matriarchal society of the crystal city. At the bustling core of the civilization, she and her husband, M, laboured tirelessly, seamlessly blending the realms of technology and spirituality. Their endeavours captured the interest of the galactic community, enriching the entire Atlantean civilization. Lady Heera’s sway over the twelve families of Atlantis was unmistakable; her every utterance bore the weight of a sword. Through her actions, she infused her people with the conviction that each possessed a divine spark, underscoring the sanctity of every individual.
Elohim approached the priest M and lady Heera; he’d avoided for long time. The guilt and shame along his broken promise to limit the cruelty and inhuman experiments on animals by the scientists who are working under his command were out of control. He was more desperate than he’d thought, led him bringing the twelve families together in that day, with all their continuous conflict.
Emma looked out of the shuttle window tears forming in the corner of her indigo-blue eyes.
“Goodbye Freya and thank you,” she whispered softly to herself, dabbing away the tears.
She took one last look at Mars, the red-brown earth, spiky grasses, and soft, smooth, pebble-like mosses, the only home she’d ever known, as the silver-grey craft deployed upward thrust and briefly hovered over the landing pad before embarking on its flight to Jupiter.
Freya felt uneasy as she drove down the pitted, dirt track, a mist of fine red dust in her wake. She’d been to the yard a few times with Richard, it wasn’t far from town but far enough to feel isolated. Lyc’s OK when you get to know him, she heard Richard’s voice in her head, trying to reassure her. Sure, he’s rough around the edges and more cyborg than human but he’s put his past behind him since the accident. He’s a model citizen now, pays his taxes and everything. Anyway, you can’t beat his yard for the variety and quality of the scrap he’s got, and his knowledge of cybernetics is second to none based on experimentation on himself. I don’t know any scientist worth his salt who would do that. She could see Richard grin at her distaste. Somehow Lyc and Richard had formed an unlikely friendship over the years, the space pirate, and the government scientist and not a week went by when Richard wouldn’t visit the yard for something or other. Freya preferred to stay at home, yet here she was today. She smiled thinking about what Richard would’ve said if he knew. He would certainly have teased her for it mercilessly. She stopped in front of what looked like a large aircraft hangar, orderly piles of space scrap, grouped by type, to the left and right. Lyc stood at the entrance, a tall, imposing, muscular man, his cybernetically enhanced left eye scanning his visitor. His past was chiselled on his face and a large, jagged scar ran down his right cheek. Knowing he would be wary of strangers and most likely armed, Freya waited until she saw his shoulders relax before getting out of her Mars rover.
Tim stared at Mandy in shock, ‘Pete? Your Personal trainer? How long have you been seeing him?’ he asked, as if the most important thing was the length of time; short equals bad, but a long while equals much worse, as if time, love and betrayal were a maths problem: solve for x, for fuck’s sake, he thought.
‘You know we haven’t been getting on. I told you last year, I couldn’t live like this. I never see you, you’re always at that bloody lab. Pete and me, well… he sees me, Tim, really sees me’. Mandy was standing by her suitcases.
Oh, Pete sees you. I bet he does. Tim was tempted with a sarcastic comeback about her general lack of invisibility and the pec-flexing Pete’s x-ray vision, but his flippant remarks were another thing he knew annoyed her and anyway, he mostly felt shocked and…numb. This had been a while coming, he knew.
‘I’ll come back for the rest, another time’ She moved closer to him. ‘I am sorry. I really am. But I think you’ll realise it’s for the best one day’.
“What?” he whines, rubbing his side “What’d I miss?”
Acara frowns, opening her mouth, then seems to think better of trying to chastise him. “I asked for an update for the Overseer’s report.”
Callista chuckles “You’re kidding…right?” Acara just stares at him blankly. “Huh, you’re actually serious. And you decided to start with me… why exactly? Cause I ain’t got nothin’ to tell you sis.” He narrows his eyes at her, “Which you should know better than anyone.”
“What do you mean? I thought you were helping Auri reshape a few of the climates to better suit her creations.”
“That was 10 cycles ago Acara – 10 cycles.” He conjures a small globe and a sphere of light, sending the globe around it in a high-speed imitation of time. Cradling it between his palms he nods his head at it, smiling softly as the miniature world speeds through orbit. Acara glares at him, no doubt seeing his illustration of an obvious fact as insolence. Callista up at her and his smile falls slightly. The spheres disperse. “Do you know how long it takes to run those simulations?”