Preface
The following story is inspired by The Gospel According to the Apostle Matthew (chapter 16), the works of H.G. Wells and Gene Roddenberry, and a general love of science-fiction -- particularly time-travel -- and the music of the 1980s. Unlike stories in print, the use of technology has allowed a "soundtrack" to be interjected throughout by the use of hyperlinks. In addition, there is a link of historical reference and a few biblical references to enhance, and hopefully illuminate the reading experience. What you are about to read is a work of fiction, although the biblical Truths are accurate.
~
Paradise Now!
The floor and walls were a
white blur as Dr. Herbert Mellontas focused on the dying woman before him. But
he wasn’t there as her doctor. His wife had been diagnosed with stage three
cancer six months prior. He had watched her fade from a vibrate and beautiful
woman to a shell of flesh on bone – plugged into several machines. Each breath
was a gift. She was his gift. He sat next to her bedside and held her hand. His
head dropped next to her hand when she reached out to touch his face.
“My
Paradise,” his pet name for her. “You are more than the world to me.”
She
smiled and squeezed his hand ever so slightly. After a deep breath she hummed a
single note of delight. The blur in the room grew as his tears welled up. His
courage wasn’t enough to hold back to save her. She squeezed his hand tighter.
The two locked eyes as if it was the day they first met. Their first date,
their first kiss and their honeymoon flashed before his eyes in a mixed
montage.
A loud
sustained beep disrupted their moment. Nurses and a doctor rushed into the
room. One of them asked Dr. Mellontas to step aside but it was too late. Suddenly,
he was back home. There
was no point in striking the wall with his fist. The sheetrock had suffered a
few hundred dollars once before when unable to solve an equation. But no cash was found behind the wall for the repairman
who had been called by his wife. His wife. She wasn’t the focus of his target. Her
cancer was. But how can one hit a disease? The supporting beam, fixed like
Superman to his fist. Crack! And unlike the Man of Steel, the beam displayed
zero concern over a broken hand. His broken hand confirmed he was not a superhero. Nor could he solve every problem. And he wasn’t able to save her with brute force. His
Paradise was gone.
Herbert
abruptly woke up screaming and sweating. He reached over to the other side of
the bed. She wasn’t there. He carefully touched his hand with the other. To his
relief, it wasn’t broken. He clutched her pillow and wept. Sleep eluded him for
the remainder of the night. He forced himself to escape the bedroom. Lost in
his own home – now just a house without her – he found his way into his study.
He poured a whiskey as he deflated into a nearby chair. He stared out the
window but his reflection in the glass only reinforced what he needed to do –
find his Paradise.
With
blood shot eyes Dr. Mellontas passed by his colleague’s classroom. The halls of
Stanford University spoke volumes. The faces on the students of Professor
Hoffman seemed to indicate he taught his class as if each and every book of
literature ever written were open simultaneously. Dr. Mellontas resembled a
statue as if frozen in time as he listened to the English professor in his
thorough analysis of Milton’s Paradise Lost. But soon, he postponed the
philosophical content for another day. Today, he dreamed a dream in a way a
physicist imagined. He postulated and pictured all the days of the past, today
and the future occurring at the same time. All the pages open. All the hours
and all the minutes visible. He visited the impossible. For the time being, he
preferred to call it the improbable. Could he open a page of any year or any day
and begin reading? Like everyone, he could open the pages of the present moment.
History provided him the yesteryear. Now, knowledge of the third aspect of time
ended with inconclusive data. His calculations strung out across numerous
dry-erase boards in his study which placed him in a trance. Expressly reserved
neurons fired only to be extinguished and fired again. And he lost it. It was
too complex to wrestle with in the current environment. He needed undisturbed
focus. He grimaced. With books wrapped in the left arm of his tweed jacket, Dr.
Mellontas continued his previous course down the hall. His temples pounded down
rows of skin into his weathered brow. Half shaven, he scratched at his partially
peppered beard with incomplete thoughts. The occasional tug at his unkept,
nearly criminal and equally peppered mop provided little help. Nothing short of
murder would stop him from reaching the solitude of his study – his
intellectual paradise. Frustrated at the limits the human brain placed on him,
he slammed the door shut and blurted a command to his computer, “Music!”
An hour
later he heard a mouse in the form of a petite female student as she opened the
door, “Dr. Mellontas?”
Locks –
he forgot to lock the door, he cursed himself. With a grunt and a snarl he
grumbled a salutation unbefitting for a tenured professor. When he turned to
actually make eye-contact with the little rodent, who should be exterminated,
he realized his error – not recognizing the voice of his own niece. He quickly
adjusted his grizzly posture to resemble a human and cleared his throat to
provide her with an improved greeting – albeit, limited to the territory of
cordial.
“Uncle
Herb?” her timidity was slightly lightened.
The shortened version of his name was never a favorite, but he allowed
only two in his entire world to address him in this manner – the young lady in
a blue jacket and holey jeans who stood before him and his deceased wife,
Eleanor. He allowed his heart to harden like cracked clay since he lost her. His
Paradise – she was his sole drive in his efforts to solve the problem of
time-travel. His face became distraught; a tear he had reserved for the love of
his life. He wished the past were attainable in order to save her. Others
before him had theorized the possibility which would have resulted in an
altered past, or as others had theorized: zero ripple-effect – nothing changes,
or an alternate timeline – one path diverged into two. But he had already
disproved the possibility mathematically. His world – the world had
become uninhabitable, not entirely from a physical aspect but in all that
mattered socially, politically, and culturally, and although he wasn’t
religious, morally. The clash of ideologies among nations, tribes, gangs and
even neighborhoods – versions of how each of these peoples thought paradise
should be achieved grew to such a heightened and dangerous level the present
climate invoked a stage of war of various levels or a pseudo-peace once termed
as a cold war. Therefore, he resolved to leave the world in which he suffered. Contrary
to his niece’s hope of a future Messiah, his blood drove him to desire paradise
now. He theorized this achievement by traveling to the future where mankind
would evolve beyond the need for all that leads to conflict, poverty, want and
hate. He mused for a moment while Everybody Wants to Rule the World played
in the background.
His niece stood bewildered in the doorway. Anna wore
little make-up. Her distress was clearly painted on her face, distress for her
uncle. Now was not the time to question it’s cause as she observed the myriad
of equations throughout his study. As she slowly returned the door to its
closed position she said, “I can come back later.”
With a confused gaze of wanting, mixed with the
drive to solve his equations, he nodded in agreement. He tossed any future
regret into a single point until it vanished into oblivion. Equal in force, his
focus was singular – time to move forward.
~
Midnight, and he rolled up to his drive in front of
his Tudor house on Cliff Road in Tiburon with a panoramic view of the San
Francisco Bay – the city lights were more numerous than the stars as they reflected
off the water and back onto the fog which slowly rolled through the Golden
Gate. Strings of light from thousands of cars were sown into both bridges. His
daughter got out of her car – she had been waiting for him. She stood next to
her vehicle with a look she used to receive from her own mother – now directed
at her father, “Anna called,” Grace said.
Her dad
stopped in his tracks, “Your cousin is a smart girl.”
“Yes she is,” she paused as they stood – and stared. He had long ago nailed a ‘NO TRESPASSING’ to the exterior of his heart years
ago, but hopped over the proverbial fence, “Now, are you going to invite me in,
or do I have to break out my key,” she pulled out her keys from her purse,
smirked at him while she took one step and another, enough to be face to face –
without further thought she hugged him as if it were Christmas. His response
was minimal.
As they entered she followed him into his study
which was surrounded by a library of books and accolades in various forms – the two
most prominently displayed were his Nobel Prizes in Physics. Grace was reminded
of the day, “Mom was so proud of you,” she picked up a picture of her mom with
the dates of her birth and death; the latter coincided with the year of his
second Nobel Prize. Her hair was a reflection of her mother’s chestnut, but the
latter was slightly greyed.
He turned toward his daughter. Memory of his love
sat on the edge of his lips in the form of a word; instead, he avoided its
release and targeted the door to leave but was blocked by his daughter who held
the doorframe with both hands.
“Anna understands,” she said and briefly waited for
a response but like a good poker-player he remained stone-cold, “Anna
understands most of the equations.”
While engaged in debates in his post-graduate and
doctorate days at his alma mater, he never lost. And although his theories were
challenged, no one could disprove them – at least not definitively. “Yes, yes.
Too smart,” an accolade of his own, but also a rebuke.
“We are—”
“Don’t say it,” he stopped her and set his briefcase
down, “Don’t say you’re worried about me,” without an allowance for her to
respond. He commanded his system, “Music,” it was his distraction – his wine, since
he did not allow alcohol or substance to cloud the one tool which would
accomplish his goal.
“Dad—”
He interrupted her again, “The one you should be
worried about is your brother,” like a dagger to the heart.
“He’s your son too. He was looking for an escape
after mom died,” she paused in remembrance, “And besides, he’s going to his
meetings,” she assured him with inadequate confidence.
He huffed, and added further injury, “Meetings! It’s
that husband of yours who should be going to meetings – in prison!” he grunted.
“That’s
not fair, and you know it—” she stopped herself from regret, and continued, “it
was an accident,” she stressed and began to cry but controlled the tears from falling.
“You
still listen to his music? What was the name of his band – Preparing a Feast?”
Her face
retreated but with a calming breath, “Close. Prepared for Eternity.”
“Eternity,”
he mocked. “Oblivion for me.”
“Dad—” she
began to plead.
But a
cold silence came over the room when he turned his back on her. He grumbled
under his breath, “But why did you have to marry the man who
killed your husband?”
The heavy tear finally dropped from the gravity of
heartache, and she managed to repeat something he had dismissed over and over,
“Forgiveness.”
He scoffed at her with an echo of the word as if it were
obscene. Silence filled the room like smoke from a fire. She made her way to
the doorway for air. She forced herself to continue, “I know she was your
world. You can’t bring her back – just like I can’t bring back—” she stopped
with an empathetic bluntness.
“But why so early?” he shouted. He spotted the current
issue of Popular Science with an image of Max Tegmark with the title
above, In Memory, and diverted the conversation, “Amazing. Isn’t it?”
“What’s that dad?”
He picked up the magazine and waved it at her, “He lived
to a hundred.”
She tilted her head back for the answer, and returned her concerned focus on her father, “Dad,” she regained his attention –
partly, “Anna—”
“What?” he grunted, “You know little of my work.” He
kept her off-balance. Besides, you know I never subscribed to his multiverse
theories,” he mumbled with the magazine still in hand, “Another version of
Eleanor would not replace mine. Hell! She might even be as insane as your
grandmother.”
“That was unkind,” she rebuked him.
He shrugged it off and he turned toward the window as
if to escape in the darkness of the bay and surrounding city-lights.
She persisted, “Anna—”
“Anna should mind her own business,” he interrupted.
“Your right. I don’t understand how your mind works,
but Anna believes—”
Dr. Mellontas had a bad habit of speaking over
someone else, especially family who persisted with the imposition of faith, “Belief.
Don’t talk to me about your Jesus freak-show!”
Her
expressions weren't on their typical path, but he ignored
the minor inclination to provide an apology. More silence. More smoke. Grace broke the awkward tension and placed a hand on
her dad’s shoulder which he quickly shrugged off. She took a half-step backward
but persisted with two steps forward, “Anna saw time-travel calculations – to
the past,” she paused, “she said they were incomplete, but it makes us wonder—”
her dark blue eyes opened wide.
A blank stare crossed his face to relay his intended
silence on the subject. But underneath his cold eyes he realized his niece had
only seen his old equations. Equations he discarded but allowed visible for
self-pity.
“Dad. What are you planning?” she finally blurted.
Escape was not an option, “Your cousin
is wrong,” he leaned back onto the corner of his desk and huffed, “I gave up on
it months ago.”
“Then why—?”
“I keep it to remind me of the failure. To help me
with my current theories and hopefully something new to publish,” he lied.
“That’s great!” she quickly applauded, “A third
Nobel Prize?” she asked.
“Probably not,” he said.
“Well, I’ll be proud of you no matter what,” she
countered.
He believed he satisfied his daughter’s curiosity,
“It’s been a long week.”
Grace smiled, “Of course. You need to rest.” She
approached her dad and kissed him on the cheek. As she began to leave the room in
the direction of the entry she added, “Just—” concern filled her expression,
but disregarded verbalizing it. After a brief silence she respectfully said, “—I’ll
let myself out.”
She was gone.
He was relieved. His work never left the forefront
of his mind, “Computer,” his holo-screens activated. He paced the room and
dictated new calculations, corrected old ones, and danced his hands across the
three-dimensional space of the holo-screens to rearrange variables and nested
parentheses. Modified ideas prompted new ideas. His determination fought the
need for sleep, but fatigue would be the victor. He provided commands
to run variations of his latest Inversion Causality Equation; he dropped his
head like a rock off a cliff and soon fell asleep.
~
The next morning he opened his eyes to see failure.
He didn’t want to admit his equations, his input was incorrect – but that the
computer had failed. Coffee was the answer, and it was waiting for him in the
kitchen. He tortured his brain further. He could not turn his theory into the
correct equation: that effect could not only be seen before cause, but also
experienced prior to it. He stared into the blackness of his coffee as he
stirred in a little cream. As if in a trance, he stared. And it came to
him – he could see Time as though it were no longer linear but circular – he
stood outside of the cup like a god, as if standing outside of Time. With the increased charge of neurons
firing he bolted to his study and shouted new commands at his computer – once
again he altered one equation after another and added an entirely new one. The
one which would change everything. Within minutes his theories and equations
were proved correct. He tested them again, and again, and again until he was
certain. He was beside himself – he even humorously pictured himself actually
standing beside himself. He transferred the data to an encrypted data-disc and ran
to his bedroom to pack. This information had to be delivered and downloaded
into his private lab in person; he didn’t trust the Quantum Internet.
The first available flight from SFO to BOI was not
until evening. Time was not on his side. With a wave of his hand he deactivated
the holo-pad which had emanated from a wristband on his right arm. Driving was a possibility, but he would just arrive at the same time if he waited for the
flight, “How ironic,” he chuckled in frustration, walked toward the window, and
sent musings across the bay. It had been awhile since he had time to kill, as
he rarely allowed himself the luxury. He found his way to an infrequent
location of the house, the balcony, and activated his pad to book a flight. A quick coffee. Perhaps, the black elixir would proved the answer to the mystery. He loved coffee as much as
nostalgic music which reminded him of The Mill in the City which he hadn’t
visited in months – it was only a slight detour to the airport.
With his computer bag securely wrapped around his
body like a bike-messenger, Dr. Mellontas entered his favorite coffee house on
Divisadero in the mid-afternoon only to discover no-vacancy. Determined, he
order a dirty chai latte’ and turned to see the population of the establishment
had not changed, “You’re welcome to sit here young man.”
He hadn’t been called a “young man” in decades. But
it was an elderly woman with long silver hair and a pleasant face who offered
him a seat across from her. He politely accepted, and strategically with a
quarter turn of his chair he pulled out his pad and took a sip of his tasty
beverage.
“You’re Dr. Mellontas – yes?” she asked.
He hadn’t quite accepted the prominence which the
media had thrusted upon him, “Yes,” he returned to his little world. After a couple
focused minutes, he relented and turned toward the woman whose gaze was still
fixed on him, “Pleased to meet you.”
“But I haven’t offered you my name,” she said calmly
with a subtle smile, “I am Clara,” she waited for a response, “people come and
go.”
“Hmm?” he supplied with minimal effort.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He heard the question but didn’t quite listen as his
attention was on a classic song, Mad World. Other than the music, most
people in the coffee house were silent. Is anyone listening? Familiarity was
the only cause for conversation; it was highly unusual for strangers to break with
this tradition – break from their respective technology – even those with
familiarity. He hoped silence would persuade the woman to find engagement
elsewhere, like a good book.
“Everyone is going somewhere,” she said with the
same calm smile.
He surrendered, “Yes – I suppose.”
“And where—”
He launched a stern look, at first; but there was
something about the woman’s face. It was kind, thoughtful and introspective.
His cynical mind briefly hung onto the words of the song being played: “Bright
and early for the daily races – Going nowhere, going nowhere.” He echoed the
latter two words of the stanza.
“But everyone is going—” she countered.
“Yes. Yes you said that—” he interrupted, stopped himself and turned off his pad to focus on solving the social equation
before him. He turned the question back to her, “And where are you going?”
Her smile shined brighter yet with what appeared to
be a sad remembrance, “No one’s ever ask me that except for my late husband.”
He provided his condolences.
“It was a few years ago. We had planned to
move here but,” she paused and shifted direction, “So I was ‘going somewhere’ –
for him.”
“Where did you leave?”
“Manhattan,” she took a sip of her coffee, “And
you?”
Should he reveal his
plan? Who would believe it anyway – other than his esoteric niece and daughter.
Instead, he decided to be more philosophical, “Away from Chaos.”
“Of course you’ve read John Milton,” she stated.
“And where were you educated?” he seemed to be
surprised yet pleased at the mention of the historical figure.
“Self-taught my dear.”
“Fascinating,” he took another sip of his coffee,
it’s swirl confirmed his true focus.
She returned to his previous response, “But one
cannot escape Chaos. It’s a matter of how we learn from the world around us –
especially the tragic.”
Suddenly, his late wife came to mind; he felt like this
woman could read his soul – if he believed he had one. He avoided the depths of
this topic and replied with a gruff sigh as he disengaged eye-contact. And with
clumsy success, altered the subject. They continued to talk but the topics
faded into the trivial until they were both silent. After realizing his coffee
was cold he checked the time.
“Well, it seems I must go,” he stood to leave, placed
his pad in the security of his bag and gazed at the elderly woman one last
time. Her faced craved for his curiosity, so he asked, “Is San Francisco your
final destination?”
“Not at all,” she smiled at him with a peace he had
only seen in his daughter and niece. Clara
provided the answer with one word, “Paradise.”
Dr. Mellontas looked at her intently. From the look
on her face, she hadn’t meant it as a metaphor. He didn’t have time for
further inquiry just in case her meaning was one he preferred to avoid.
Instead, he provided her a polite ending salutation and walked out of the
coffee shop with a focused yet thoughtful countenance.
~
Time is relative when traveling on a plane or worse
in a car – solo – even if it was AI-driven. Just before his near nonstop journey
reached Marsing his view overlooked the Treasure Valley to observe an extreme
imbalance between storm clouds and the ground which caused the September pre-dawn
sky to light up with lightning. The incredible sight reminded him of the
neurons which fired in his brain as he balanced the negative energy of his
frustration with the illumination of his dream.
He reached his private 300 acre ranch among the
rolling hills of Ola, Idaho – over an hour northwest of Boise – by mid-morning
on a Sunday. He loved the green valley, and farm homes acres from each other,
and the rolling hills which secluded his house and new barn from the Ola
Highway below. The “NO TRESPASSING’ sign with the threat of prosecution added to
his desire for privacy. Above the front door was a wood plank from an old barn
with the word Paradise carved into it. As he entered his modest ranch
house he dropped everything and voiced a command of attention, “Milton.”
“Sir. It is good to hear your voice again. It’s been
37 days since your last visit. How was your trip?” a voice nearly as close to a
human’s replied, “How is Grace?” he inquired, “And how is my nameless
counterpart?”
He ignored the pleasantries but the last, “Still
nameless,” he respond, “All security protocols functional?”
“No one has entered the property line sir.”
Mellontas added with a heighten sense of enthusiasm,
“Good news! We have work to do.”
“Shall I transfer to the Exo?”
“Of course. Did you repair the holo-emitters?” he
asked as he approached an interior door, entered a code and placed his hand on
a pad – the door clicked open. He took a flight of stairs down into a large
basement where Milton stood in his Exo-skeleton form. A few small servers were
tucked in one corner while a row of outdated flat-screens with news from around
the world lined an upper wall directly above one large holo-screen. Light
emitted from several locations in the corners of the ceiling to project a
3-dimensional image of a large disc-like ship – the holo-emitters allowed him
to see the inner mechanisms. He walked ceremoniously around the hologram with
delight and stopped at another door with the same security access. Milton
followed. A long corridor led to another set of stairs which opened to a secure
barn near the house. The barn was spotless – not one grain, or bale of hay; it
contained one large object covered by large tarp.
“Shall I sir?” Milton asked
“Please.”
Milton uncovered an exact duplicate of the ship as
seen previously by the holo-emitters but thrice the size – 22 feet in diameter
and seven feet in height. It was metallic and nearly seamless with a convex
ring surrounding its circumference; and two small windows were visible fore
port and starboard – if a front or rear could be determined – one above the
centerline and one directly below. Several
large and long cables stretched from below the craft toward the interior wall
of the barn and several pieces of equipment isolated by an Oz-like curtain.
Mellontas stood back in admiration, “The meta-solar array?”
“Link has been in continuous operation since your
last visit. All systems powered up sir,” Milton reported.
With heightened admiration of his creation, he
simply said, “Good.”
“Will we be making any modifications?” he turned his
attention away from his master and toward the disc-like machine.
Dr. Mellontas was transfixed on his ship, “Huh? Oh,
oh yes. Only minor. Mostly software modifications,” he paused, “in here,” he
pointed at the messenger bag which held the secrets and the means by which he
would travel. They both returned to the room with the holo-model where they
quickly began to test his new equations. “Music!” he commanded, and the song OrdinaryWorld began to play. He was reminded of the suffering and greed in the
world and how cold wars had become holy wars. He paused momentarily to think of
the words, “But I won’t cry for yesterday – There’s an ordinary world – Somehow
I have to find, …” though he resumed his work. He needed no reminder as to his
motivation. The two – human and robot – worked in tandem as the scientist’s
mind was in sync with the mathematics of the music and his equations.
Hours later and after numerous simulations and
adjustments to the ship which the Exo-robot performed, the sun began to set, as
displayed on one of the numerous monitors. But they were so engrossed in their
work that Dr. Mellontas forgot to eat dinner let alone enjoy the beauty of a
red and orange painted sky. He paused to watch one of the world new agencies
report the heightened tension between two nations, the death toll of a 13-year
war among three other nations. The reporter continued to relay stories of rioting
at many state capitals in the U.S., and the rise in homelessness at exponential
rates. The terror and trauma continued. Just then his holo-phone chimed with an
Amber Alert displayed over the screen-saver – an image of his wife. He focused
on the beautiful photo as the alert continued to buzz and provide information about
the abduction. It buzzed again – the details of a 12-year old girl with dark
hair and hazel eyes displayed on the tiny screen. Times like this were softened
by his wife; she had a peace about her he never understood, but fully enjoyed.
He simply said her name, “Eleanor.”
Milton interrupted, “Sir. Shall I end the
simulations?”
Still in a trance, “Huh?” he rubbed his hands over
his face and through his hair. He observed the time, “No. No, the future
cannot wait!” he looked at Milton and laughed at the paradoxical statement but
returned to his work. The next few hours were filled with road-blocks which
caused him to doubt his calculations. Finally, the alarm in his internal-clock
chimed and he was forced to concede to the robot’s previous suggestion of rest,
“Perhaps you’re right Milton. Unlike you, I need sleep. I’m past the need for
mundane tasks to stimulate my cerebral cortex,” he looked at the large
holo-screen, “Continue running simulations. We need to cover every possible
scenario for contingency preparedness.”
“Yes sir,” Milton obeyed.
“See you in the morning—later this morning.” He lost track on time.
~
Mellontas strolled downstairs with his usual coffee,
this time sealed in a large carafe. He saw Milton standing as if filled with
pride. He scanned various screens to confirm success, “Optimism Milton.
Optimism is dead. But the contrary is true with my equations and your
steadfastness. Your never-ending energy to produce results,” he glorified in his
technology, “Now, to test it on the real thing.”
“One second sir?”
“It only takes a second.”
“What’s that sir?”
“To say good-bye,” he completed the reference to a
song about how quickly the dance between nations with control of the atomic
bomb can change the world.
“Yes sir,” Milton returned.
Mellontas entered his ship from the underbelly – a
simple hatch slide open, Milton disconnected the cables from the ship, and it
closed again without a visible seam. The interior was lined with various
touch-screens along a short entry-sized space which preceded the control seat.
Above the seat he could see out the small windows – one above his head and the
other at his feet. He waved his hand over the front controls to engage the
holo-screen. He powered up the rest of the ship which lit up the interior like
a Christmas tree. He looked out a Milton who monitored their progress from
another control panel. The exterior had only one light which began to slowly
rotate around the ship as a mini-centrifuge. The acceleration of the single
light rapidly circled the ship which gave the appearance of a single white line
painted around it.
“Ready?” he asked Milton through a reliable 2-way
radio – he embraced all types of technology, as long as it was still
functional.
“Affirmative,” Milton responded.
“Engage the Graviton-Inversion,” soon the rotating
light pulsated. Immediately, the ship wavered and fade in as quickly as it
faded out. Dr. Mellontas looked out the lower window at Milton, “Results?”
“The test was successful. You travelled one second
into the future within a zeptosecond.”
Unlike Milton’s expressionless face and
body-language, Dr. Mellontas grinned from ear to ear as he rocked back in his
non-reclining seat. He powered down the ship, disengaged from the holo-screen
and made his way to the exit, “Graviton-Inversion? I’m not one to embrace laymen’s
terms, that sounds too lengthy. Milton, how does ‘Time-Drive sound to you?” he
stood at the base of the ship and gently applied the palm of his right hand its
base as if it were a salute or a way to thank the machine – the technology
which would take him to paradise, “Now.”
“Yes sir.”
“Pack the essentials and survival gear.”
“Shouldn’t we conduct more tests sir?”
Mellontas rarely allowed his enthusiasm cloud is
judgment, but like the habitual silence between his daughter he felt suffocated
by the current time, “Yes, yes. Of course.”
They returned to work, “Remember sir, we need to
allow for topographical changes. Even this region of the continent has been
known to be affected by tectonic activity.”
“And that’s why we built her,” his admiration for
his achievement had been off the charts. He never wanted to replace his
Eleanor, but it was the first time he referenced the ship affectionately in the
feminine pronoun.
He returned inside. The two continued to test for
hours as they applied as many of the previous simulations as they could, but
within shorter periods of time. The robot mostly remained at the control panel
while Mellontas barked orders from inside the ship. Occasionally the robot
would require entry into the ship to make modifications and returned to his
control panel. Upon the insistence of the Milton they stopped for lunch.
While Mellontas ate a sandwich, his robot stood next
to him, “If you need a power-cycle—?” he asked as an incomplete question.
“I fully charged before your arrival,” Milton
assured him.
“Of course,” he took another bite. He looked at him; he should be at work. His gazed turned into theorizing. There was something about his behavior, and it only took a bit for him to finish his
bite, “We finished, didn’t we? I knew it. I was happy with the results just
before lunch, but I knew you wouldn’t let me leave until—” he paused for a
response, “Are you satisfied?”
Milton responded in his usual dry tone,
“Affirmative.”
Mellontas stood, “You knew I’d leave without
eating,” he shook his finger at the robot, “You son-of-a-bitch!” he smile with
approval.
“My origin is not from a female Canis lupus
familiaris. In fact, you created—”
Mellontas chuckled, “Shut up Milton.”
“Sir,” he acknowledged.
“You loaded my gear?” he marched toward the ship.
“Affirmative.”
“Checklist complete?”
“Affirmative.”
Mellontas turned to face Milton. He looked into his
cold blue eyes within the polished titanium cranial unit and placed his hands
on either side of his shoulders. Milton tilted his head in the way he was
programmed as if to simulate inquiry. Mellontas cleared his throat, “I could
always count on you – Milton. You know what to do after I’m gone.”
“Sir. Affirmative,” the simplicity of the response
preceded by respect forced Mellontas to drop his head in sadness. The robot
returned to his control panel.
Inside the ship the hands of Mellontas danced in
their precise and measured memory as the ship followed his lead until it was
time for the two to leave. He guided his hand across the holo-screen as if to
wave good-bye to his century – he was reminded of turning a half-century
earlier in the Spring. He could see Milton waver in and out of space and time
until he disappeared altogether. Several seconds later the ships’ computer
powered down. Before making a visual observation he checked the condition of
the ship – everything seemed to check out. Outside the lower window, Milton was
gone as was the barn and the house as he had ordered it destroyed. The laws by
which he travelled forced a one-way trip, and he didn’t want anyone to discover
his research or equipment, or Milton.
“Now, when am I?” he laughed at the incorrect, yet
correct grammar. He turned on the monitors behind him and added audio. He wasn’t
quite certain how far he travelled; he had been unable to perfect precise destinations
in time, nor their locations. It was of little consequence, not quite like the
distance between the continents separating the Atlantic Ocean for the explorer and
his three ships eight centuries prior. Mellontas’ journey would always result
in seeing land, which in this case was 3.4 centimeters greater in elevation. He
waved his hand to engage the Quantum Internet for world reports. Something else
had replaced it but his computer was able to establish a link, or was it the
other way around? This was concerning but he ignored his anxiety only to
discover the planet’s population had decreased by twenty-percent. His internet
searches revealed a great war between nearly every nation which had resulted in
a super-power realignment in ways which made the former Soviet Union seem like
the Peace Corps. Reports from his screens provided information about whole
slave nations. While he listened and watched he continued to perform specific
historical searches. The sea levels had risen enough to flood Venice in eight
meters of water and any other sea-level town or city. Many cities were solely
utilized as Tent cities – including all major cities up and down the west
coast. His house – he confirmed, the entire Bay Area was
either flooded by homelessness or the ocean waters. His frustration grew and
grew as he watched video and read news articles about wars on nearly every
continent and entire police stations overrun by massive street violence. In the
background he heard the song It’s the End of the World as We Know It.
He debated with the chorus of the song as he rubbed
both hands through his hair, “And technology should’ve—” he stopped, and bowed
his head in grief, “Why?” Suddenly, a proximity alarm alerted him. This
particular sensor was limited, but he didn’t want to find out who or what
approached his position. Nothing appeared on the three external nano-cameras. He
waved his hand over the holo-screen and the surroundings around the ship quickly
disappeared.
This time he allowed the ship to travel further.
Soon, the blurred light-show outside his windows stopped to reveal a herd of alpaca
stampede away from his ship. He deduced the show must’ve startled the animals. But
these specimens appeared smaller than what he had once read. He no longer allowed
the distraction; as before he engaged the monitors and the cornucopia of
instruments. It appeared to be midday but soon an enormous object arose over
the western ridge and soon nearly covered the valley in shadow in all
directions aside from a sliver of light on the eastern and western horizons. In
just the same time the object took to rise, it set in the east.
“Curious,” he said with some concern. He failed to
make a connection to any type of internet. At least there were world reports
from an unfamiliar source. But it seemed there was only one source, as all the
screens displayed the same virtual gender-neutral face and hairless head. It
was a three-dimensional avatar of a news reporter – but it wasn’t the typical
broadcast. In fact, there was little of current events but instruction on how to
brush your teeth, order a meal from your dispenser or how to interact with the
something called the Node – which he surmised was some kind of central computer.
Soon, it provided a person’s tasks for a given day followed by what
sounded like propaganda positive reinforcement. The message repeated in several
languages. Finally, it seemed to provide another schedule – the sun synchronous
orbit of the Global Cooler – in addition to the weather forecast.
He craved more information but continued to struggle
with a connection to the global internet. Eventually, he found what appeared to
be a log-in page which he couldn’t decipher. A voice commanded him to utilize something
similar to his holo-screen. He was hesitant and surmised future technologies may
have advanced to a degree as to track his location without his consent. It was
good he remembered Milton had installed a 1,600MHz GPS blocker – if satellites
were still utilized for communication and information. Success came when he saw
the same gender-neutral face appear in a 3-D image on his holo-screen and
simply asked, “Game?”
“I need access to the internet,” he said.
“Connection established,” it said. It repeated,
“Game?”
“No. I need current data on the status of the geopolitical
climate.”
“Please elaborate,” it said.
He cursed and dropped his head in frustration.
“Game?” it asked again as its face changed color to
a soft-mint.
Witless virtual drone.
“I am not a drone,” it said.
Mellontas leaped out of his seat, “What did you
say?”
“I am not a—”
“But how?”
It seemed to examine him briefly, “You appeared to
have difficulty. Therefore, the particles within your holo-screen were utilized
for a neural interface. It was required to better serve you,” the face turned
to lavender.
He waved both his hands at the holo-screen in an
effort to disconnect – but without success. After a few seconds of panic he
reached below the console and pressed a few buttons in a specific sequence.
Within the same number of panicked seconds all the monitors powered down
including the holo-screen. Unfortunately, he needed the holo-screen to pilot
the ship, but he was apprehensive to reactivate it. A complete reboot would
take some time. The latter was his only option. During the several minutes he
brought his ship back to life he periodically peered out the two front windows.
Just as the final sequence was complete he noticed the herd of alpaca returned
and approached his position as they crested a hill to the south – this time
followed by two humanlike figures covered in black clothing. He wasn’t able to
distinguish their faces, but they straddled fast moving hover vehicles.
Quickly, they altered course and began to head in his direction until they
stopped about a hundred meters away. Their faces were still indistinguishable,
but he figured they either stopped to observe or were fearful. External cameras
were offline.
One of them pulled out a device and spoke into it. The
other pulled out a black object with a red tip and started to point it at the
ship. Mellontas couldn’t tell whether the body-language portrayed an intent to
scan or to aim. He didn’t want to wait for the results – it was time to leave.
The reboot was complete; he waved his hands over the holo-screen and soon the
scene outside blurred and disappeared. Several seconds later he waved and
rotated his hands in and out of the holo-screen until the blur of lights came
to a stop.
He looked outside to see the alpaca and black
figures were gone. In fact, nearly everything was gone. He managed to reengage
the external cameras which revealed: no animal life and no trees. Just dirt and
rock – dying grass and sage. Wind whipped dust over the surrounding hills which
soon approached his position and disrupted his view. He adjusted the ship’s
proximity sensor to maximum which provided negative activity. Connection to any
news reports or an internet also proved negative. He continued to check for a
functional satellite in order to determine the current state of the region, of
the world – nothing. The bleak view began to mirror his resolve, but his
stubborn nature acted like the involuntary contraction of his heart. Like
muscle-memory, he followed the procedures he and Milton had developed for
exploration outside the ship. He needed to establish if the air was still
breathable. Sensors indicated the nitrogen and oxygen levels had dropped by 34%
since his century of origin; it was now a requirement to wear a protective suit
beyond the avoidance of dust. He accessed the EV-monowheel
Milton had modified for extended use and rugged terrain. And he grabbed a weapon from the secured locker; he
hated the idea, but it was necessary.
His boots touched the nearly dead earth. His
breathing was loud, and his peripheral vision reduced inside the suit. After he
secured the ship, he hiked up and over a few hills to the southwest. As he drew
closer he dismounted, caution lowered his stature to a walking crouch like a gorilla, and
eventually to a crawl until he reach the crest of a hill which overlooked the Ola
Valley. The desolation reached as far as
the eye could see. It appeared the earth swallowed up the highway many years
ago. With the assistance of a high-powered monocular interfaced with his visor,
he scanned the valley in closer detail, and saw a group of a dozen or so figures
dressed in various shades of grey in pursuit of two others with torn and
tattered brown coats. The two prey were quickly cornered and overtaken. Among
the dry and arid land he witnessed the unthinkable as they beat both their
half-naked, half-burnt bodies into submission. Someone who seemed to be the
leader, slaughtered the one with what appeared to be a machete. In quick chaos,
they ripped what was left of his clothes and began to feast.
Mellontas gasped at the sight – mouth opened yet
covered by both hands. The sadness quickly turned to fear as he recoiled from a
tall figure who seemed to emerge from the ground as it approached his position.
A bright glare reflected off a pair of goggles and it was dressed from
head-to-toe in what appeared akin to blue denim with brown leather strips.
Reluctantly, he pulled out his weapon and pointed it at the menacing figure. A
second figure in similar dress emerged. The first raised his hands in a
surrender-like fashion and spoke in what sounded like English, but not quite,
“Harmno,” it repeated.
In his frantic state, Mellontas nervously waved his
weapon at the two, “Back away!” he shouted and slowly backed up until he
tripped over a rock and fell to the ground.
The stranger who spoke stepped closer toward him and
repeated the same word, “Harmno,” followed by, “Yumus lee.”
Mellontas held the weapon with both hands, but
anxiety delivered a shot which missed them both. They backed away slightly.
Suddenly, they darted their heads about as if they heard danger. His suit had
muffled the alarm, but when they both vigorously waved him off and again yelled,
“Yumus lee!” It was a warning and not a threat. The threat came
from two grey figures on either flank. Suddenly, a third grey figure attacked
one of the blue denim people from behind. They twisted in chaotic circles. Mellontas
fired the weapon toward the sky. The crack startled the predator who slightly
retreated in fear. He turned the weapon toward one of the other menacing grey
figures who ignored the warning and charged him. Mellontas cried out just
before the hammer reached the primer; the pistol cracked its thunder, and his
attacker was dead. The other two retreated down the hill as if running from a roaring
bear.
Mellontas dropped his weapon as he trembled, and looked closer at the denim pair, “Oh God!”
With hands raised, the two denim people slowly approached
his position. One of them reached out a hand as to help him up. So far they
hadn’t shown aggression, so he accepted the offer and was quickly raised to his
feet. The other was already examining his weapon. With the muzzle in hand, it
was gently returned to him. Both of them removed their respective goggles which
revealed one white male face covered by weather-worn skin; the other was a
dark-skinned female with soft dark eyes and younger skin with experience drawn
into her forehead. She spoke, “Thaku,” with her hand to her heart then opened
to him.
Was that her name? But she spoke with a tone of gratitude. He gathered his composure and replied,
“You’re welcome,” he turned toward the dead figure, “Why did they attack us?”
They looked at each other with curiosity as if they
didn’t understand. The man said something to the woman he was unable to
interpret.
Mellontas tried a simpler approach and softly
pounded his chest with the palm of his hand and stated his name. He repeated
the introduction until the woman seemed to understand.
She mirrored the gesture with a single hand to her
chest, “Jahzara,” and pointed at her friend, “Ansel.”
He acknowledged their progress, but the complex
sentences were far from understanding. And he needed answers. He looked at the
dead attacker and quickly looked up; more would return in greater numbers and with
more weapons. He stooped down and grabbed a handful of dirt and point at it and pointed at the surrounding area. He made a lump-like motion and flat-like
motion as if to represent a mountain range and a valley.
The two looked at him quizzically, but after several
attempts, Ansel’s expression changed to realization. He picked up his own
handful of dirt, “Samhe a der,” he waved his hand in similar fashion and
direction as did Mellontas. He seemed to have communicated the devastation had
reached into other regions. With their language limitations they continued to
utilize non-verbal communication. From their discourse, Mellontas gathered that
the attackers were from a warrior-like faction who sought to capture Ansel and Jahzara
who recently escaped their pursuers in an effort to rejoin their faction to the
east. When Mellontas inquired about towns and cities, Ansel drew pictures in
the dirt of tall structures and pointed as if they were far away and hadn’t been
seen in years.
Suddenly, his new friends turned and motioned him to
get down. He followed their lead back to the crest of the hill. Down in the
valley below they saw a large vehicle hover across the land from the south. The
cannibal warrior-like faction scattered but were no match for the charging
mechanical predator. Ansel pointed out, “Skimmers.”
A word Mellontas immediately understood but not the
significance beyond his own observation. Ansel motioned for silence. Jahzara
glanced over at her protector, “Wemus lee,” she whispered. The Skimmers’
vehicle devoured the warrior faction by either capture or death if they
resisted. Although it appeared the Skimmers’ vehicle was limited to flat
terrain, the need to leave grew and shivered up his spine and into his
extremities. If only he could use
the same electrical current to start his EV-monowheel. After several attempts,
he threw the one-person vehicle to the ground and cursed. He quickly crawled backward in the direction of his ship. His
friends acknowledged their mutual understanding of stealth and followed. He
wasn’t sure the intent of their mirrored act, but it was apparent by their
urgency and accelerated pace there wasn’t enough time to encourage them to take
a different path.
He noticed when they crested each hill his friends
stole a keen, yet quick glance behind them. They were not followed. Soon, they
arrived at his ship. Abruptly his friends stopped as if they had turned into
statues. He recalled a phrase, “Yumus lee,” he speculated the phrase or word
was a suggestion or command to leave. He attempted to relay gratitude and repeated the previous phrase. He pointed at himself and his ship and altered
the phrase to indicate his method of departure. He took off his helmet and
waved good-bye. Ansel and Jahzara slowly mimicked the salutation, but also took
a few steps toward him. “No,” he held up his hands to signal stop and reached
for his ship. The hatch opened and they took a few steps toward him, “No!” he
shouted. He couldn’t take them with him. They seemed hesitant but stopped. He pointed
to higher ground, which he guessed they understood; he boarded his ship
and quickly secured the hatch.
He began the usual power-up sequence which startled his
short-lived friends briefly. Jahzara turned to Ansel and pointed eastward in an
upward motion, in the direction of the adjacent mountain range. He was glad to
see them leave as they waved good-bye.
Before he activated the ship for time travel he
attempted one more search for global information. The sky was silent. He escaped
within his music just as Come Undone played. He roared, “Damnit! I need
to know!” he repeated, in and out of composure, “This cannot be all of it.
There must be hope somewhere on this god-forsaken ball of dirt!” he rambled on
as he searched for answers. Finally, his ship detected a lone satellite in
orbit. Connection was relatively simple.
The news service was either inoperable or non-existent, but he was able to
connect to an odd version of the web – as long as this one didn’t try to
ensnare him. With a few successful searches he found tragedy. But he evaded
defeat only to discover the surrounding region was only a sample of the
macro-scale of calamity. There was a limited number of cities throughout the
world – a one-world government he learned hunted down groups of people who
either rebelled within the cities or escaped to remote regions. Furthermore, he
discovered an historical archive which revealed the worst of it all: the recent
devastation and populous annihilation of over half the planet.
Sweat poured from his temples. He craved escape. The
song Drive played which reminded him of Eleanor who once provided him
refuge, “What have I done?”, he yelled as if she were with him. He sat. And
sat. Angry and depressed.
He heard a tap. A thud. Something pounded
repeatedly against the ship. Only one external camera provided him all he
needed to know – he counted three brown coats, who apparently escaped the
Skimmers; they launched rocks at his ship. An even louder thud gave rise to the
possibility that one of them may have succeeded in reaching the top of his
ship. Milton and he had prepared for this contingency. But with his brain
tested to the limits, the solution eluded him, even with a manual in hand, “There’s
no time!” he shouted as he threw the manual across the ship.
“What the hell!” he exclaimed, “it’s that or die,” he
activated the Time-Drive and just before the horrid world around him
disappeared, a lifeless body repelled away from the ship. With a huge sigh of
relief he released his hands from the controls. This time, he didn’t care how
long or how far he travelled. His paradise had to be somewhere in the future.
~
Without the return of his hands to the controls, the
ship suddenly stopped. There was no indication of a malfunction. After a
declared superlative, he double-checked underneath the control panel – again,
the ship seemed operational. But suddenly, it completely powered-down. He was
dead in Time. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, perhaps he reached the end
of it, and defied all Laws of Physics. He dared himself to look out the two
windows.
What he saw next was beyond belief. Below a clear royal
blue sky, there was fertile and abundant vegetation as far as the eye could
see. If was filled with a variety of animals – both predator and prey. His
amazement lifted the hair on his skin but suddenly he felt as though his eyes
betrayed him in the confines of a dream – until, until he saw people. People
gathered in groups small and large. Those in the foreground created art and
played music of indescribable magnificence. The strangest part to him, all
their faces appeared to express bliss – but something more – pure joy.
At that
moment, the people stopped their respective tasks and turned their attention to
a singular man. It was difficult to see his manner of dress underneath the pure
white glow which emanated from him. As he walked with intent, he approached the
wall and his ship; Mellontas saw a kind and wise face – his brown hair drawn
back. He reached the ship and stopped to look into Mellontas’ eyes, and he smiled.
He walked around the ship and could not be seen as the windows limited visual
observation – something he relied upon whether by actual sight, or equation, or
calibrated equipment.
Mellontas
turned toward the back of the ship in an effort to re-engage at least one of his
instruments or a monitor as he felt his own senses had betrayed him. All at once, the man passed through the wall
of his ship and stood before him with the same glow. Mellontas covered his eyes
and leaped backward and blurted, “What the –!” he began to exclaim but fear
stopped him from finishing the colorful metaphor. The brightness of the man decreased;
decreased to a level his face could be seen in greater detail.
“Herbert George
Mellontas. Grace be with you,” the man said with authority, “I brought you here
to ask the greatest cosmic question.”
Mellontas
fell to the floor of the ship while he clung to a nearby rail, “How – how do
you know my name?”
“It is
the name I gave you,” he smiled.
“You
gave? But – but” he never hesitated in his life and regained his composure in
the control chair, “but, where am I and how did you get here – inside my ship?”
“You are
intelligent. But that is not enough to reach Paradise.”
“How do
you know these things?” Mellontas was flustered, “Who are you?”
“I am
Yeshua.”
He paused
for a moment, “Jesus,” he echoed in vanity and translation, “I don’t believe
it!” he leaned back in exclamation and shook his head, “No, no! This is
impossible.”
“You
doubt your senses. Even Thomas believed after he saw,” Jesus held out his hands
where Mellontas saw a sizeable scar on both sides of his wrists.
He
repeated a previous question, “And what is this place?” he pointed outside the
window.
“The new
Earth.”
“New?” he
paused and looked outside the window to double-check his senses and back again
at the man who now sat down on the floor of the ship. He could not, would not
admit the man before him was indeed Jesus. But there was a certain benevolence
about him.
He asked
of the stranger, “Do you mean to tell me, this is—?” Once again, he couldn’t
bring himself to say what his daughter and niece had told him over the years –
and his wife over coffee one Saturday morning when she made the only attempt to
invite him to church. He recalled his Paradise with great affection; she stayed
with him despite his gruff rejection of her faith.
Jesus
smiled at him as if he could see right through him, “I brought you here—”
“You?” he
interrupted him, “I built this ship. I traveled here – wherever here is.
I proved my theories are correct!” he exclaimed.
Jesus
smiled at him again.
Herbert
calmed. He felt he couldn’t be angry at someone with such a genuine smile. He
rubbed both hands over his face to display stubborn frustration nonetheless,
“Then how? If not by some—” he didn’t want to admit with the word “miracle.”
“I can do
all things,” Jesus continued, “this is your divine appointment.”
“’Divine
appointment?’”
“Yes.
Every person has one – whether by introduction through another person who
follows me, or by creation itself,” he paused. It seemed as though he allowed
Herbert to process. Jesus closed his eyes for a moment then opened them.
Herbert
looked at Jesus with a shocked curiosity but said nothing.
After a brief silence as if the two were divided by
a curtain and then split, Jesus asked, “Who do say I am?”
Herbert straightened in his chair, “You said that – and that
is the greatest cosmic question?” he huffed but observed the eyes of his guest
had remained calm – at peace, “I see you. I can hear you. But—” he stopped
himself; he wished for the same experience with Eleanor.
Jesus
said, “I grieved with you.”
Alarmed,
Herbert glared at Jesus about the question he desperately wanted to ask. He
wasn’t like the strange mind-reading computer; that was threatening. The man
before him was not. He finally surrendered, “Where is she?”
“Home,” Jesus
pointed out the window.
Herbert
forced himself to look. It was indeed incredible – perfect in every way. He
began to feel his own inadequacy in comparison, “May I see her?” he was
surprised when he heard the words leave his mouth as that would mean he indirectly
admitted the existence of something and someone he denied all his life.
“All in
good time,” Jesus simply answered with kindness.
Herbert
wasn’t satisfied with that answer and bolted toward the exit as he shoved Jesus
aside. The electrical system was down so he tried to manually override the
hatch, but it would not open. In his frustration he fell to the floor of the
ship and sobbed. They were silent for hours.
Finally, Jesus
stood and held out his hand to Herbert with the same kind face. Herbert looked
up. Surprised but comforted. Like the time of his wife’s death, he felt a loss
of control. Eventually, he was pulled to his feet.
“She was
my—” Herbert stopped himself and stared at Jesus.
Jesus
looked at him with understanding, “She was your paradise.”
“Yes!” he
began to sob as he maneuvered his way toward the control chair, “But how did
you know? Never mind,” he waved the question away, and leaned against a nearby
panel and stared at the floor, “But I didn’t think of her that way until she
was gone,” his gaze moved back toward the eyes of Jesus with wonder at why he
divulged this long and sad secret to a stranger. He quickly looked out the
window; he was the stranger in this strange land. Run! But he was trapped by
his own device. His ranch in Idaho, his home in California and his study at the
university were methods of escape, but they were imperfect versions of
paradise. He turned his mused look from the window and scanned the interior of
his ship as if to search for a place to hide, but it was quite futile.
Jesus
waited before he asked, “What are you looking for?”
Again, he
stared at Jesus and answered as if to retreat within himself, “It doesn’t
matter.”
“It
matters to me,” Jesus said.
“Why?” he
snarked.
“You
matter to me.”
Herbert
appeared shocked, “People don’t matter any longer, and people don’t consider me
– not really. I’ve seen.”
“All of
my creation matters. And there are a few who reflect it,” Jesus replied.
“Who?”
“You
encountered them recently.”
Herbert quickly
replied, “No one.” Silence.
Jesus
allowed the silence.
Ordinarily
silence did not frustrate the scientist. He used to work and solve the problems
of the universe, but now he was faced with what he thought was the unsolvable,
“Who do say I am?” he mumbled under his breath; why did he matter to someone he
just met. The quiet was unnerving. Finally he conceded, “I suppose Grace.”
Jesus
smiled. More silence.
Herbert
folded his arms as if to offer a stalemate.
“Anna.
Clara. Ansel. Jahzara,” Jesus listed as if he picked the names from a flowerbed
in his heart.
Herbert’s
eyes widened in amazement, “Anna is my niece. But, the others were strangers,”
he examined the sincere expression of Jesus. This baffled him.
“Your
daughter and niece love you. The others showed you kindness – love is kind,”
Jesus elaborated, “They provided you a glimpse of who I am – including
Eleanor.”
Herbert
was afraid to admit a thought which seemed to enter a part of him other than
his mind – but his heart, “Love? You speak of love.”
“Herbert.
What are you looking for?”
He
started to believe that Jesus already knew his answer before he asked the
question. Nonetheless, he answered with a preface, “Is this some kind of test?”
Jesus
waited.
Herbert
relented, “An ordinary world. A world where people don’t kill each other, don’t
hate each other, don’t go hungry. A world without chaos. But the one you
created has gone to hell!” he exclaimed, astonished by the admittance of
creation.
“Why is
that?”
“You tell
me?” Herbert asked with an indignant tone.
“Herbert.
Are you perfect?”
“No one
is,” he answered.
“There
was a time when man and woman were perfect and could be in the presence of
perfection.” Jesus said.
Herbert
looked out the window, “This is why I can’t go outside, isn’t it?” He couldn’t
believe what he just asked.
Jesus
nodded in confirmation, “You seek a paradise. This is your obsession; you’re
passion,” he paused briefly, “my passion is to make you perfect. And – I am the
only way.”
“The only
way to paradise?” he asked.
“The place
is not what you should seek,” Jesus said with kindness.
“Then
what? Or—” he was afraid to say “who”, for that would mean surrender. Herbert’s
heart pounded. He remembered the argument with his wife over their daughter’s
name. And now, in the presence of Paradise he was face to face with the one who
claimed to have created him and all that he had observed and witnessed. He
began to realize that a form of paradise was his god. He had been headstrong
for so long but could no longer deny his senses. Something pounded on his heart.
And it pounded more so when Jesus said, “I have placed eternity in the hearts of man,” he paused and smiled, and asked his
first question again, “Who do say I am?”
Herbert struggled, but allowed cowardice to affect
his answer, “I don’t know!” he sighed after the exclamation, “You say you are
‘the only way.’ The only way into this Paradise?” he pointed out the window,
“But then you say it is not the ‘place’ I should seek. You make me crawl over
my words!” he cried out, “If not what, then who?”
Jesus answered, “There was a time when man and woman
could be in the presence of the perfect and holy God; but their actions of
disobedience brought separation – sin – which resulted in death. I came to the
earth to take away all the sin of man and woman, and defeated death.”
“Grace told me, but I wasn’t—” he finished in
silence, “—listening.”
“Your destination is God the Father, your Creator. I am the Truth and the Life. No one comes to my Father except through me.” Jesus invited.
Herbert sunk
his head and deliberated in his mind with no success. But the conversation
continued to pound in his heart until only one word reached his mouth, “Why?”
Jesus
smiled, “Because we love you.”
Herbert
felt the walls of the ship surround his heart as it pounded even more. He was
trapped. Not in time, but within his own battle between pride and humility –
between years of indifference and love. “I’m here now!” he exclaimed with a
troubled smile, “I made it on my own,” he laughed, but was quickly saddened by
his lifeless ship.
“No,” Jesus
approached Herbert within the small space of the ship and placed a hand on his
shoulder, “Herbert, what can anyone do in exchange for his soul?”
Herbert
didn’t have an immediate answer. His own inadequacies were all could handle, “Nothing,”
he whispered. It seemed like a battle waged in his heart until finally he
reached out with both hands towards the face of Jesus. For the first time since
he was a child, he saw the simplicity – he had nothing, Jesus has everything. Fifty
years of life –
this was what it was like for his daughter when she
was a little girl – the surrender of soul. He sunk to the floor of the ship
with his arms wrapped around his knees and wept. Jesus patiently knelt beside
Herbert. Jesus’ eyes were closed, and his lips moved but he remained silent.
Moments
later, in the calm and stillness of time, Jesus caught his attention and asked,
“Who do you say I am?”
His heart
softened like fresh clay, and with tears on his face Herbert answered boldly,
“You are the one who can save me; you are God himself. Forgive me!”
“Stand,”
Jesus said as they both stood.
Herbert
returned to his feet. Jesus reached out with both arms an embraced Herbert
whose heart felt a peace which oddly caused him to laugh. It was a freeing
laugh.
Jesus
laughed with him, “Welcome! Welcome my brother.”
“Please,”
Herbert offered him to sit in the control chair; Jesus smiled and sat. Herbert smiled
when he saw Jesus at the control station.
“There is
someone I want you to meet,” Jesus pointed toward the window. The face of a
beautiful woman with chestnut hair stood as she looked inward.
Herbert
drew closer for a better look, “Eleanor?”
“Your
granddaughter,” Jesus corrected.
“But –
but I don’t have—” he stumbled over his words as he looked at Jesus who pointed
back in the direction of the window.
The woman
caught Herbert’s attention and mouthed the words, “Thank you,” she smiled, “I
love you!” He looked at her with intent curiosity.
Jesus commanded,
“When you return, tell her about me.”
Herbert
abruptly returned his attention to face Jesus, “But how?” he struggled. “Wait!
If she’s here and I left,” he pointed toward the window and placed both hands on
either side of his head, “Oh! I never thought I’d face a para—” he stopped
himself before finishing the word “paradox.” He believed Jesus and said, “I
will,” Herbert turned back toward the window, and she was gone. He peered out
further; his granddaughter joined a small group. He couldn’t distinguish their
faces aside from one, but it was as if he looked at a younger version of
himself, but into a cloudy mirror. “Is that me?” His next question barely left
his lips, “Or, is my son—?” he faded.
Jesus
remained silent. It was a heavy silence.
Herbert
never felt anything like it before. He remembered his own distain, disregard,
and disbelief throughout his life, “Without a response of—I don’t fully
understand it all.”
“Walk
with me,” Jesus stated as an answer.
“Where?
When?” Herbert’s curiosity prohibited him from making a complete sentence as he
pointed around the ship, which at present prohibited him to leave.
Jesus
smiled. It was the kind smile which Herbert had experienced the entire time he
was with him, “All in good time,” he assured him.
Herbert’s
attention returned to his guest, who he was now his host, “Time! Yes time. You ask
me to tell my grand-daughter about you, but—” he pointed his forefinger
skyward, “Travel to the past is impossible, I disproved—” he slowly stumbled
over his words one word at a time and once again reminded himself of who it was
before him. Who it was who performed a miracle in his heart. Now, he didn’t
want to leave. Not Paradise, but the presence of Jesus.
Delighted,
Jesus looked into Herbert’s eyes and walked to the back of the ship. He raised
one hand in a farewell and simply said, “Today is the day.” Suddenly he
returned to the outside in the same way he entered.
Instantly,
Herbert and his powerless ship were back in the barn where Milton was there to
greet him upon his exit.
“Sir, I
presume by your immediate return, the mission was a failure,” the robot said as
in inquiry.
“Not at
all. Not in the least!” he was ecstatic.
“Sir? But
how did you return?”
“You
wouldn’t understand,” he shook one of the robot’s shoulders, “I have work for
you!” he turned toward the ship, “Dismantle it. Destroy it. In fact, destroy
everything in the barn and in the lab. Then, I want you to purge all records of
my research,” his glee was uncontained.
“Does
that mean the research within my memory banks as well sir?” Milton was not
programmed with emotions, but Herbert’s imagination caused him to think the
robot was not pleased.
“Most
importantly Milton,” he confirmed, “not a trace!”
“Well, I
am relieved to hear you will not dismantle me.”
Herbert
grabbed a few tools from the barn and a scrap of fence plank from the wood
pile, and without a look back at the ship he walked to the house from the
outside to breathe the fresh air. He went to the front door and pried the sign
above the doorframe and cut it to bits, “No more searching for tomorrow,” he
said. After careful work to size and carve several letters into the new plank
of wood, he hung the new sign. He stood back and with conviction read the
phrase above the front door, “Today is the day!”
~
Back at his home in Tiberon, Herbert stared at the
phone receiver in disbelief; his son hung up on him – and in the middle of recounting
his incredible journey. He sat in silence. He turned to his cup of coffee and sat
in the emptiness of his brain – neither provided relief. At that moment, a song
filled his heart more than his ears. He turned up the volume to a song he
hadn’t heard before but continued to repeat; he just couldn’t get over how
applicable it was to him. Where the Streets Have No Name swirled its way
through the house as its meaning rooted itself further into his heart. “Thank
you!” he calmly said. The opening synth and guitar’s chiming-timbre grew and
grew in strength until the beat entered the scene like the call to join your
partner on the dance floor. Herbert swayed and sung along.
The volume abruptly decreased in order for the chime
of the doorbell. He hustled to the door to greet his daughter and niece, “Grace”
he nearly sang, “Anna.” He stretched out his arms and gave them both a big
bearhug. The “NO TRESPASSING” sign was gone.
“Wow!” Grace exclaimed, “When you messaged me to
come over right away, I expected – well, not this—” she laughed.
“And I see a “for sale” sign. But why? After so many
years,” Anna added.
“I don’t need it – not to myself. Even the ranch is
on the market. But that’s not why I asked you here.”
“But you love
that place – Wait! If that’s not the good news—” Grace paused, “—a third
Nobel?”
“No. A priceless prize.”
“Now, I am even more curious,” she looked deep into
his eyes in order to possibly discover a clue and smiled.
Herbert welcomed them in, as if to invite them both
into his life, “You messaged that you have news as well,” he directed at Grace.
Surprised at his sincerity, she replied, “Well –
well yes!”
Herbert could barely contain himself. The words were
on the edge of his heart. But something caused him to think of others before
himself, “You first,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Yes, I insist,” he smiled.
“Daddy,” she started, “I’m pregnant,” her smile
lines caught her tears of joy, “Nearly three months now.”
Herbert mirrored Anna’s smile, and immediately knelt
in front of his daughter, touched her abdomen with the palm of his hand and
said, “One day soon, I will tell you all about Jesus.”
The flow of her tears grew ever more as her eyes lit
up in shock. She confirmed his sincerity with a wonderous gaze, “I – I don’t
know what to say.”
Anna’s eyes widened with joy, “Uncle Herb!”
Herbert’s smile was like a Christmas present to Anna
and Grace. He stood back up and looked into his daughter’s eyes with his hands
wrapped around both of her shoulders, “I was lost,” he paused to enjoy the
moment with her. “Now come. I’ll tell you all about it.” Herbert embraced his
daughter’s hand, and accepted Anna’s with his other. They strolled together to the
balcony where they were entranced by the sunrise across the bay. A reminder of
a new morning, a new day. Now.
~
Music Credits
If you enjoyed this story, then try another novella entitled, "Synthetic Heaven."
