James Scotson - Planets Falling

“Terminal 34.”

“Does his personal location match the location of Terminal 34 when the authorization occurred?”

“No.”

“Then who was there?”

“No one.”

It seemed a ghost had tried to kill Grey and Fen. “HM, I think it is time for you to take a nap. I worry that you are malfunctioning.”

“Very well Mr. Fromer.”

The light on the console went dim. Fromer began running a series of diagnostic programs to search for a glitch in HM’s considerable programming.

Fromer walked into medical. Verat, Gorian, and Iggy were sitting next to the capsules in which Fen and Grey were convalescing. Verat looked genuinely concern. Gorian was chewing her fingernails, Iggy’s webbed hand was on her shoulder.

Iggy turned to Fromer. The tinny voice from his speaker asked, “What have you found Mr. Fromer?”

“The best answer I have is unsatisfying I am afraid. HM activated the sequence on its own. I have deactivated it until we sort it out. If true, then HM could easily serve you eggs instead of noodles or blow you out an airlock into space. This means we will have to do eveything manually for a while. How are the patients?”

Iggy responded. “They will make it, although there was significant damage to their respiratory tissue. To avoid scarring, the doctor is regenerating their cells. It will take a few days.”

Verat wiped his nose and threw a wad of toilet paper into the refuse receptical. He was sniffling, accosted by the first stages of a common cold. All that technology at their disposal and they still could not overcome the mutations of that annoying virus. And now the interface was going crazy. What next?

“Mr. Fromer?”

“Yes Ig?”

“What is the probability of HM malfunctioning?”

Gorian stood. “I can answer that. Virtually impossible. HM has so much redundant programming that a mistake of that magnitude isn’t going to happen. I’ve gone over every line of her code. And she has a lot of code.”

“If so, then it was sabotage. Who here is a killer?” Verat’s knuckles cracked with a pop, pop, pop. He sneezed and threw another tissue into the trash.

Grey was breathless, suspended in a billowy haze. Was he dead?

“Son. Grey, my dearest little boy, wake up.”

“Dad?”

A laugh, then a strong slap on the back. “How are you Grey? You’ve grown to be one handsome man.”

“You’ve been dead for fifteen years.”

“Death’s too final a term. You live, you move on. Death is not an option.” He smiled, lifted his arms, and waved his hands. “Here I am.”

“Whadda you mean by that?” Grey had the curious sensation of tumbling out of control in a vacuum. It reminded him of a chaotic, untethered space walk — without the bulky suit and the panicked realization of possibly floating in space for eternity. Warmth massaged him. He thought, spoke, whatever: this must be the drugs they are giving me for the pain. I’m clearly in stasis. This feels really, really good.

His father answered. “Not drugs, Grey. You’re seeing past the fabric of what you consider reality. Welcome to the dream.”

“What happened to Uncle Fen? Is he — here with us?”

“Fen is fine. So are you. Your brain — the neurons, molecules, sparks — that lump of grey stuff isn’t recording this. When you return, all of this will be just a feeling. Your logical brain will reject it like an impulse. But your soul will remember. Like the feelings you got as a child, when you thought that something was lurking in the shadows. You used to drive me nuts, calling me into your room at all hours. Guess what? There really was something there in the dark. Still is. Always in the shadows, beyond your vision. Like the urge you have to jump across the table and kiss that lass, Gorian. Guess what? In another existence, you kissed her with all your might. Your adult brain refuses to accept that something exists where it shouldn’t be. It is a shame really. But it keeps us mortals tethered.”

“Not dead. Then where am I?”

A whisper answered. “I don’t know. But it is so very exciting, don’t you agree?”

Grey opened his eyes and felt his mass again. His arms and legs were leaden stumps. Chattering birds, genuine sunlight, and the smell of something like apple blossoms surrounded him. This was the chatter of a living world, not a deck on a spaceship. He was facing a hulking boulder; his legs and arms were bent uncomfortably underneath his torso. He groaned and sat upright. He had the distinct impression that he was not alone.

Voices and dust engulfed him and then there they were. Three humanoid figures with unbelievably long arms and legs were standing before him. The sounds they made were complex and complete gibberish. But somehow Grey understood them.

“Follow us,” the tallest, lankiest one beckoned.

“This is the most realistic and painful drug-induced dream of my life,” he muttered. Grey followed them down a well-worn path. If they understood him, they weren’t responding.

The path opened into a meadow. Warm wind tickled his face. Pungent wood smoke lingered in the boughs of trees — trees that were familiar to him. This was home. But quite different. It seemed younger, pristine, unchallenged. At the center of the meadow a chasm yawned. He recognized it as one of the millions of magma pipes that littered his childhood world — the ones he used to explore during his glorious boyhood. He expected Verat’s bleached hair to poke out, face smiling with that youthful mouth. He waited for young Verat to say one of those many outrageous things. Always laughing, no matter how horrible things were at home for the poor boy.

Long, spidery fingers grasped his shoulder. “Go in. You know where to go.”

He stood in the chamber waiting for his vision to adjust. Liquid dripped, echoing deeply into the veins of the planet. His surroundings resolved; he was standing in the very same antechamber that he’d decorated with fake bones and ceramic trinkets. The walls glowed with luminescent paint. Glyphs drawn in childish hand adorned the ceiling. Across the room was a small hole. He did not recall this diminutive passageway from his past.

Beyond the hole flickered a light, perhaps a candle. The same confounding alien language wafted out. He stooped and peeked. Before him was a voluminous cavern bathed in the warmth of thousands of green candles. The flames flickered, producing no smoke. A dozen of the humanoids were gathered around a glittering stone slab. On the rock was the supine, motionless figure of a small one, a child of their kind. This was a funerary scene, Grey realized. Strangely, the beings were laughing, celebrating. They grew quiet and one of figures adorned in a simple turquoise robe spoke. “Friends, the journey has begun. Let us praise the stars and the moon; the ground beneath us is prepared to receive this young one. She’s now with those departed we’ve loved and missed. Travel swiftly and safely little one.”

A voice behind Grey startled him. “So, what do you think? These people before you, as well as the humans, naurons, zenats, xyn, and dozens of other thinking species in the galaxy who you haven’t met, have a stunning commonality. Drink in the theatre, my son. It’s a drama occurring everywhere — every bit as profound as a birth. We see it in our dreams and dismiss it outright.”

Grey turned to see his father — not as he was when he died but as a young boy, the same age Grey and Verat were when Grey discovered this underground space. He continued. “Have you wondered why the vast majority of intelligent beings believe in an afterlife? Why do so many of us embrace a religion, searching for answers beyond our intellect? Is it a delusion, seeking solace about an inevitable end? No. It’s because we can all feel it. Deep within us. Our very living tissue is an affront to the laws of the universe. Life flies in the face of decay — against entropy as the physicists call it. Life’s existence pierces a tiny hole in the tapestry of space-time and opens a door to—” He stopped.