Paul Hughes - Enemy

It began.

The Alpha Point began to radiate a harsher light, and the pulses of energy quickened their pace. The Big Bang was about to see its fiery birth.

And from all around them, from behind the approaching Enemy masses, the collapsing spherical wave of destruction that was the Judas reformat virus that was tearing the Stream into non-existence emerged, in its ferocity imploding the Enemy nearest to it. It fast approached, a wall of innate blackness.

Rock and a hard place.

It was time.

((MARA, BEGIN—))

And one of her nacelles was ripped from her, the ravenous Enemy brood falling upon her, unmindful of the certain death that bore down upon them…

((MARA!))

(GO, SIMON! FORGET ME! JUST GO—)

Mara was no more. The Enemy upon her, they tore her pattern from existence with a bloody ferocity.

He was alone.

Hell in front, hell behind, in his heart, in his mind.

Simon.

What…? Who…?

Do it, Simon.

A voice in his mind…

((magdalene…?))

Do it, Simon. So you can be with me.

((maggie?))

So we can be together again. Do it.

((MAGGIE?)) The Enemy raced toward him.

The reformat virus drew near.

The Big Bang was starting.

He spun around, facing the oncoming horde and the wave of destruction.

Do it, Simon.

Invert your Shadow.

The Big Bang was furious in its rage behind him, as matter met antimatter, as the force was magnified by the pattern energy gathered by the Enemy. By the countless souls that began to upload into the quantum singularity of the Alpha Point.

Invert your Shadow.

The voice echoed in his shattered mind.

And reflected in the fast-approaching wave of hell he could see her face, as once it had been, before all of this, before the nightmare, before the Enemy, before the Judas, before the pain. She smiled, beckoned. She beckoned to him.

Come to me, Simon. Do it. Invert your Shadow.

All the pain, all the heartbreak, all the suffering. For the infinite dead. For the patterns trapped in the hell of Omega for all of eternity. He could change it. He could rewrite it. In his death would be the life of the new universe.

He could live again.

Do it, Simon. Sleep, Simon.

Yes, Maggie. Sweet, sweet Maggie.

I love you.

He inverted his Shadow.

Deep within the blackness, an infinity of possibilities beckoned, each with its own pain, each with its own joy, each with its own darkness, each with its own beauty.

Somewhere in time—

—creating a fire—

—building a pyramid—

—hanging on a cross—

—discovering a new world—

—starting a war—

—dropping a bomb—

—assassinating a president—

—leading a nation—

—ending a life—

—becoming a savior—

—the Judas survived.

Seattle, Washington.

Rain. Why does it always have to rain?

You know you like it better that way.

He relented and turned his attention back to the book before him and the tepid cup of coffee that graced the tabletop. He took a sip nonchalantly, turned the page, read. It wasn’t bad coffee, besides being piss-warm and possessing the color of a muddy trench.

Why do I drink this shit?

Seattle in the springtime. Rain. Coffeehouse. Classic Nirvana. The weblink babbled incessantly. President Jennings had just signed an historic peace accord with Indochine Francais and the Siberian Corporate Alliance. The weblink showed the president and his family waving to the assembled masses at the United World building. The country was at peace; the world for once was at peace. The people were happy. He couldn’t really blame the weblink for the nation’s jubilation.

Then why are you like this?

Eyes. Watching.

Stop being so paranoid.

The swirl of people in the busy coffeehouse obstructed his vision, but he knew he was being watched. Somewhere. Someone.

He turned the page.

He knew someone was approaching, but did not let his downward gaze falter. He found solace in the black and white print.

“Hesse?”

A woman stood before him. The question hung languidly in the rain-cooled air. Their eyes met, and for a second Simon Hayes was speechless.

“No. Hayes.”

She nervously laughed. “No. The book. It’s Hesse, right?”

“Y—Yes. Hesse.” He indicated the novel he held. “Demian.”

“I love Demian. ‘I have ceased to question stars and books—’”

“’—And I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me.’”

She smiled a smile that could shatter a man’s dreams, a kind of smile that you search for your entire life and sometimes never find. She extended her hand and sat down at Simon’s table.

“Magdalene Flynn.”

She had the most beautiful pale blue eyes. They looked almost gray. They reminded him of the storm outside.

She shook his hand and the contact was like electricity. Hayes was visibly disturbed. Her eyes. Her hands…

Have I lived this? Do I know you? Have I loved you before?

“You’re Simon Hayes, aren’t you? The Deus Ex Machina Simon Hayes. I saw you on the link.”

“Yes, Ms. Flynn. I am that Simon Hayes. Listen, have we—”

“Call me Maggie.”

The name. He knew he had met her before.

“Maggie.” He mouthed the name and found it felt at home issuing from his voice. “Maggie, do I know you? Have we met before?”

Her smile weakened, her brow furrowing with concern. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Hayes. I didn’t mean to—”

“Have we met before?” His voice was forceful, but not harsh. “I could almost swear that I’ve met you before.”

“No.” She frowned the frown of someone who feels that they are intruding. “No, we haven’t. I was just wondering, could I have your autograph?” She extracted a battered, dog-eared copy of Deus Ex Machina , the original, first edition print.

Simon snapped from his unexplained reverie. “Of course, Maggie. I didn’t mean to scare you, and I apologize. It’s just—Well, you look like someone I think I once knew.”

“Déjà vu? Yeah, I have that all the time.” She produced an ancient ink pen.

He opened the book to the front inside cover and scrawled his standard autograph-seeker greeting. “To Maggie: Deep within the blackness, an infinity of possibilities beckons. All the best, Simon Hayes.”

“I haven’t seen a first edition print of this in years.” He laughed to himself. He was about to hand the book back, when he opened it up again and wrote something else underneath his passage. He closed the paperback and handed it back.

Maggie Flynn read his inscription. The statement he had added was simply “Thank you.”

“Oh, Mr. Hayes, thank you. I’ve read Deus so many times, and never imagined that I’d meet you. I fell in love with it years ago in modern literature class. I used it when I argued my dissertation. I teach it in my own modern lit class. We’re contemporaries, you know. I used to write poetry.” She smiled shyly.

“I used to write poetry as well, believe it or not.”

“I believe it.” She looked into his eyes for too long, and they both hastily looked away awkwardly. “Um.. Yeah, I wrote poetry. And you wrote novels. And, well, here we are, Mr. Hayes.”