Redemption Prep

by Samuel Miller

Evan.

  “IN 1797, A man named Claude Richard was taken from his farm at the base of Puy Griou in France. Three weeks later he was returned to his village from the skies with a magnificent truth. He’d just been made humanity’s final prophet.”

  Evan sat frozen.

  “He’d been taken aboard a spacecraft, by a superintelligent species called the Alohim. They told him of their history: how twenty thousand years ago, they had birthed humanity in their image. How they had periodically checked in to ensure humanity was progressing. And how they planned, when humanity had reached the proper evolution point, to assimilate them into the Alohim, to rise and become one with their creator.”

  For a moment, Evan forgot about the restraints on his wrists and the dire seriousness of the situation. He stared at Dr. Richardson, unblinking and disbelieving.

  “Claude Richard returned and shared the message with the people of Griou, and, of course, they were very skeptical. After all, their entire lives were built on a sound understanding of the physical universe, and unwavering Catholicism. It’s how they survived; they couldn’t challenge those pillars of belief because some farmer said he was taken by aliens. But Claude persevered, and explained, and as soon as they became willing to listen, they realized something: the message of the Alohim, and the proof of their existence, didn’t challenge existing beliefs and mythologies; it united them.

  “In fact, it explained every last mystery of science and religion. It explained the historical record they already shared through their faith. Think of the stories, told as fact throughout all of time, lacking practical explanation. The garden—not a divine birth, but the arrival of the Alohim to this planet, the scientific synthesis of human life. The flood—a warning from the Alohim that the Earth was poisoned; and the ark—a spacecraft, sent to preserve the most evolved in humanity. The great messengers—you know them, Mohammad, Jesus Christ, the Buddha—prophets, all trained by the Alohim, sent to keep us on the path toward redemption, but confused by the masses for idols of specific religions.

  “But Claude Richard knew the people would understand when the moment was upon them. They would come awake, they would realize they were not worshipping a god, they were not worshipping Allah or the Buddha. They were worshipping the Alohim.”

  Evan could see each of the stories Dr. Richardson told vividly, hidden directly in front of him, on the walls he stared at once a week. The chapel wasn’t Catholic. It was . . . whatever this was.

  “The most important part of Claude’s message, however, was that he would be the final prophet. Humanity was finally mature enough to understand its origin. Which meant the Alohim were preparing to make their return. Humanity was almost ready for ascension.

  “They asked two things of humanity, and Claude relayed them: a council of the world’s most evolved beings to ensure the species was ready, and an embassy to host them.”

  Evan looked around him, trying to keep up.

  “The Griou separated from the villages around them to form their own society. Their civilization would be geared toward evolution; they would reward the most intelligent among them; they would create a meritocracy that put the most evolved in power. They would be prepared when the Alohim returned.

  “But the French Revolution meant there was no land or material available to village folk in France. Most of them had farmed the base of Griou their entire lives, with no mobility. It would be impossible to prepare an embassy in time. But . . . there was land in the American West.

  “In 1804, two thousand Griou sailed to America, and upon arriving, began to walk until they found somewhere that felt like home; somewhere no one would find them. When they found Utah, completely empty, they settled, and they built their embassy, and they waited.

  “And to ensure the continuation of their people in this new land, they would build a school, where they could train their young, influence more, and continue to evolve, so that when the moment came, they would be ready. For nearly one hundred fifty years, the Alohim Research Center—the Redemption Preparatory Academy—has been preparing for the arrival of the Alohim.”

  It was silent for a moment. Evan couldn’t tell if the school made more or less sense, or even if Dr. Richardson was being serious. But he could still feel his wrists, bound to the chair. “So—what happened?”

  “What’s happening, Evan, in the present. You’re in the embassy; you’re a subject. You’re a member of the most important—and ultimately, the only important—experiment in human history.”

  Evan swallowed. “To Eddy.”

  It caught Dr. Richardson off guard, and she almost winced before returning to her attentive smile. “Right, the experiment. Claude Richard was my great-great-grandfather. He was a true prophet, but he didn’t understand the message of the Alohim. He assumed their return would be immediate, in his lifetime, but of course the Alohim have their own understanding of time. Evolution requires hundreds of years; I knew it would take time.

  “Moreover, he assumed the Alohim would return on their own to test humanity. What he failed to see was that the visit to Claude was their test. They weren’t going to return in the future on a randomly chosen date, just to check in. They were waiting for us to let them know.

  “That has been my contribution to the mission of the Griou. I established the recruitment department, to search for the most evolved young people. I traveled to prestigious universities and found world-class minds, showed them the light and allowed them to design experiments and curriculums, geared toward evolutionary results. And for my own part, I began research into how we communicate.”

  She stood up. “We’ve made unbelievable progress, evolving humans into more advanced states, both physically and emotionally. We’ve recruited humans nearly identical to the Alohim as Claude described them, physically. We’ve developed new technologies for sharing information across mediums of all different kinds . . . including the language of the Alohim.”

  Dr. Richardson opened a plastic container on the back of Evan’s chair and began to pull out thick copper wiring. “The Alohim have evolved past verbal language. Instead, they’re able to openly share information through shared electron environments; a collective brain they can all access. No secrets, no manipulation, just shared intellect. That is where they’re waiting for us.

  “Space itself can serve as a shared electron environment; most people don’t know or understand this. If you openly share information across electrons, you can openly share information across all of space. However, it’s a poor conductor, so the message sent needs extreme voltage, to cover enough ground to reach them. We know that, but we haven’t perfected it yet.” She paused. “But we will.”

  “Ah!” Evan jumped as he felt an incredibly sharp cut on the left side of his forehead. Dr. Richardson held a small knife. “This part hurts a little.” She placed the end of one of the copper wires into the wound, and quickly closed it with tape. Evan could feel the grinding of the wire against the inside of his skin; the empty nerve receptors and blood vessels around it began to ache and scream in pain.

  “Ex-except th-this school is done.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Ah!” Evan screamed, another cut, this time on the right side of his forehead. “Emma knows everything,” he grunted through the pain. “And sh-she’s already long gone.”

  Dr. Richardson walked back over to the desk against the wall without looking at him.

  “Th-this whole fucking place is about to get sh-shut down. In fact, they’re on their way back right now. With authorities.”

  She pressed several buttons on the keyboard in front of her, typing slowly. The pain set in further on both sides of Evan’s forehead.

  “S-so have your fun with me!” he screamed again. “This is the last—”

  “Evan.” The screens in front of Dr. Richardson began to blink green with light as she turned around, smiling. “This school has existed for almost two hundred years. Do you think one student with a wild imagination is going to have any effect
on our work? Do you think there are ‘authorities’ over this kind of work?”

  “It’s not just one student.” Evan fought to keep his lip from quivering. “There’s five of them.”

  Dr. Richardson rolled her eyes.

  “Y-you’re lying.”

  Dr. Richardson shrugged. “It’s your prerogative to think that.”

  “Y-you’re lying!” Evan screamed. “You almost killed someone over Emma, earlier. You’re t-t-terrified of her getting away and ex-exposing you. If n-not, why would you e-e-even care?”

  Dr. Richardson paused, looking slightly pained. “Because she was almost ready.”

  All the screens on the walls came to life, and the entire room pulsed with green and yellow light. In the lights blinking off the sides of her figure, Evan could see Dr. Richardson loading up a syringe with milky white liquid. He felt vomit forming behind his teeth, foaming to get out. His heart was beating so fast it was beginning to hurt his ribs.

  Dr. Richardson spun, the syringe in her hand. “Come forward and join us. It’s time to speak with your creators.” She stood perfectly upright, her hands held out on either side like a cross, bowing at the center. It wasn’t a cross—it was them. The light of the world, he realized, was their brains.

  “E-everyone saw what you did tonight—”

  “No,” she said. Her voice was still perfectly flat. “Everyone saw what you all did. Everyone saw that I handled it.”

  “B-but—b-but . . .” The copper wires and the restraints and the humming machine were pushing Evan’s stutter to a breaking point. “When p-people see that Emma is—”

  “See her when?” She walked over with the syringe. “You think she’s coming back here?”

  “A-are you—you putting me out?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m waking you up.”

  The tip of the needle glistened. “The movement of the electrons through the brain is at its highest when stimulated by emotional response. This is a hormone, created by Yangborne’s students, to help you out a bit.”

  The needle hit his forearm and Evan screamed as she forced the drug into him with increasing speed. “L-let—let me—”

  Dr. Richardson smiled and removed the needle as Evan sputtered himself to a stop.

  “Most people think that human evolution is based around acquiring traits that make us more able—physically and mentally stronger. But evolution is led by one central, nuanced tenet: the ability to survive. So yes, physical, mental strength, these are all necessary components for an evolving species, but we didn’t conquer the Earth by evolving physically past whales or developing more mental capacity than computers. We evolved emotionally. We built social bonds, responses to fear and sadness, collective pain . . . these are the processes that encourage us to sustain and improve life.

  “These are the processes that will close the gap between us and the Alohim. Their social bonds are so strong, they no longer need to speak. Their internal controls are so strong, they can modulate their emotional response effortlessly to motivate a reaction, either from themselves or their fellow Alohim.

  “Which is why our training here is geared toward that one end goal—the deepening, and controlling, of emotional response.”

  Dr. Richardson turned, and all around him, on every screen built into the wall, images of Emma appeared. She was sitting in a chair, staring up at the camera in front of her, smiling and talking comfortably. She was laughing, biting her lip. Evan could feel himself leaning forward, trying to hear her silence, trying to read her lips.

  He shot back in his chair as the video was interrupted, for a single second, by a bright, overwhelming flash of light, erupting from the center of the screen. A screeching noise, higher than any he’d ever heard before, blared through his eardrums. Static shocks rocked the copper wires, and white-hot pain shot through his brain, starting at the exposed wounds and sizzling to the back of his neck. After a half second, it was gone.

  The video was still playing, but felt quieter, duller, slower after the shock. Emma was talking now, but Evan couldn’t pay attention to her. Another shock came, and he lost control of his body, shaking the chair violently with him. It settled back into the video, but less than ten seconds later, there was another shock, brighter and louder.

  The video continued for what felt like a lifetime, the shocks getting more and then less consistent, and finally, the tape ran out, the video froze, and the screen turned off.

  Dr. Richardson frowned at the computer in front of her. “Your emotional response is . . . very small, in terms of neural activity.” She looked across a few more glowing green charts. Evan could still hear the machine behind him, humming at the ready. “Exactly what I expected. You’re incapable of emotional response.”

  Another image of Emma popped up. She was wearing her yellow cardigan, sitting alone, this time in front of Dr. Richardson’s desk. She was scared.

  “We’re going to go again, you ready?” Dr. Richardson asked, and marched across the room to another station.

  “Wait!” he shouted, and to his surprise, she listened, pausing at the machine. “D-don’t waste me. T-teach me.”

  She smiled. “Evan, you’re the furthest thing from a candidate. Your intellect is fine, but physically? Emotionally? You’re primitive.”

  “N-no—I’m not—”

  “Being good at chess doesn’t make human beings evolved, Evan. Intellect isn’t the only thing the Alohim have mastered; our ability to feel is what drives us forward. You have none of that. You’re completely incapable of empathy. It has to be explained to you, and even then, you can’t internalize it. It’s so impossible for you to grasp, it blocks your speech!”

  Evan tried as hard as he could to swallow his stutter. “Yes, I can.”

  Dr. Richardson let out a small, pathetic laugh, then turned back to her desk.

  She pressed the button, and the video began to play. He tried to think about her, he tried to muster an emotional response. He focused completely on the only image that had occupied his head for the last three months. Though every nerve on his body felt charred with pain, in his hand, he tried to feel Emma’s hand.

  “You’ve been obsessing over her.” Dr. Richardson flipped through notes, recordings of their sessions, he was sure. “But you don’t have any emotional reaction to seeing her?”

  On the screen, Emma started to cry. She was ducking for cover, shielding herself from whoever was behind the camera. It was the day she’d described in the chapel; the day Dr. Richardson took up torturing her.

  “She’s hurting!” Dr. Richardson screamed wickedly. “What kind of person can be so devoted to something, and then completely discard its pain! You’re an ape!”

  He stared at her, just as he had the photo in the center of his wall for countless nights, and realized what Zaza had tried to tell him, what Neesha had tried to tell him, what Emma had tried to tell him—he didn’t know the person staring back at him.

  She didn’t know him, either, and she didn’t need him. She wasn’t waiting for him or crying out for his help. He’d spent five months thinking she was his route to salvation, and he’d failed, not because he failed to save her, but because the mission was never about her in the first place. The poem wasn’t ever hers. It was just words.

  I’ll hold your place next to me, eternally, endlessly. It was just words.

  This world was never big enough, but you still tried to make a place for me.

  Dr. Richardson was watching him. “Is there something else?”

  Evan tried desperately to avoid eye contact.

  “Wait,” she said, rushing back over to her clipboard. “Oh, I know.”

  She pressed several buttons, and the screens flipped. It was dark, the camera stuttering as it entered a room. It took Evan a moment to realize where they were, light from the window flaring the lens, then settling over a milk-white curtain, a single folding chair, and a bed, with a woman lying in it—a hospital room.

  Evan swallowed. The camera took several
steps closer, craning around her face and landing just below her chin. It was Mom, and she wasn’t moving. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

  “There’s some response!” Dr. Richardson clapped a few times.

  The first flash of electricity hit him squarely in the temples. His body recoiled.

  “Stay present, Mr. Andrews. All that matters is this moment, right now.”

  The camera stayed focused on her, circling her unconscious face. She looked peaceful, as though she’d moved on from whatever was behind her.

  He tried to picture her awake, behind the chess table on the TV dinner stand, awake, on Rye Beach describing the movement of the ships, awake, on the hospital bed, but the images weren’t there, and now they never would be. Every time he would come home, from now until forever, the chair in the living room would be empty, the chess pieces would only move on one side, the TV would be off.

  This was the real mission, and he’d failed it. The empty seat next to her in the video was the place he was supposed to be holding. He was her cure, and her salvation, and when the moment came for her to face God, he wasn’t there. And now he’d never be forgiven.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere!” The machine whirred louder.

  Evan could feel himself dying, as though organs were shutting down, refusing the additional pain. But he wasn’t going to face his judgment without first facing her. I’m sorry, he apologized to her in his head, his eyes watering as he stared into her face. I’m sorry. I wasn’t there for you. He could feel himself moving closer to her, closing the distance he’d built. I’m sorry.

  On the screen, it was as though his mother heard him. Her eyes fluttered open, she noticed the camera below her, and she smiled.

  I’m sorry, he thought again, closing the open electron environment between them. She mumbled something, and Evan leaned forward, everything in his body rushing toward her, pouring out in front of her. The machine set off a shock wave of light and sound, but he didn’t back down. When his mother came back, her lips were moving again, mouthing something that he could only hear in the deepest corner of his brain.