The Voyage

by Douglas Falk

  Vance laughed. “You have quite the vivid imagination there, kid. No, we did not kill Kennedy. But you are right that I was referring to his famed Houston speech. Remember it?”

  “Of course I do,” said William defiantly. “We choose to go to the Moon by the end of this decade, he proclaimed. I’m going to assume that JFK was not in the know, so by stating this ultimatum he unknowingly put the pressure on NASA to have boots on the ground at the Moon before 1970…a demand that is impossible to achieve.”

  “You are brighter than you look, Mr. Milton. I will grant you that.”

  William smiled.

  “As you pinpointed with impressive accuracy, the load he places on NASA’s shoulders from then on out forces the agency to speed up their plans. They now had about seven years to orchestrate the most elaborate hoax in human history—a staged event when the human species for the first time in recorded history walk on another celestial body. And it had to work to a tee, to sell the fraud to the public.”

  “And you faked it. Six times.”

  Vance took a breather and studied the young man closely. The old man was surprised by his antagonist’s gumption.

  “Yes. We did. I did not even know of it myself until I took over the reins as acting director of the Security Council. It’s an uncomfortable truth, know that. The Moon landings had to happen. They needed to be staged, not only to honour JFK’s promise—they gave NASA the opportunity to finally take a snapshot of that blue spherical marble we call Earth. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. The Moon rocks were indeed fake, as they were collected from Antarctica. The telemetry data is all gone for all Apollo missions. They were recorded on a set in Nevada, that much I know. Not exactly our proudest hour, but it needed to be done.”

  “We knew all that already. Only gullible morons would ever believe the Apollo missions.”

  “You’d be surprised, Mr. Milton. If NASA would make an announcement tomorrow that they found a new exoplanet habituated by flying unicorns and talking pigs, almost everyone would believe it. Do you know why?”

  “Because people accept the reality of the world with which we are presented,” said William.

  “Exactly.”

  “Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it…and eventually they will believe it,” said William.

  Vance smiled. “Quite so.”

  “Especially if you get high priests of society onboard.”

  “High priests? You mean the scientists?” asked Vance.

  “Today’s scientists have substituted mathematics for experiments, and they wander off through equation after equation and eventually build a structure which has no relation to reality.”

  “You know your Tesla, Mr. Milton.”

  “That I do. He was ahead of his time…and he knew.”

  Vance cleared his throat. “Perhaps he did. Now, let me continue. After the Moon missions came the space shuttle program. The next step. You see, we had to weave a narrative with a false sense of progress in the public’s eye—after the clunky rockets of the sixties, enter the top modern space shuttles, and then the ISS at the turn of the century. The International Space Station—the eighth wonder of the world.”

  “Is the ISS studio located in a NASA bunker in Houston, or is that also shot on a Nevada sound stage?”

  “Oh, it’s in Houston. I’ve been there myself and monitored the set and the actors doing their thing. Our astronauts, Mr. Milton, they are good at their craft, are they not? They know how to keep the illusion going. Of course, them keeping a straight face is only one spoke on the wheel for this machinery. In order to convince the public that the astronauts are actually in space, everything has to work like clockwork. We use diamagnetism, vomit comets, and green screens to create a zero-gravity-like environment. And the odd good old-fashioned harness too.”

  “What kind of craft is flying up there that is being passed off as the ISS? The fact that an object the size of a football field, which the ISS is supposed to be, can be seen with the naked eye from Earth should be an absolute impossibility. There is no way you can see an object 250 miles up in the air that small, even if it is brightly lit with the solar panels reflecting off of it. The ISS debunks itself, and you were unwise to put up a craft there in the first place. So?”

  “So, what?” asked Vance.

  “What kind of aircraft is up there flying around mocked up like the ISS? Is it a high-altitude plane? A spy plane?”

  “What makes you think we need an actual craft up there to pass off as the ISS?” said Vance calmly with the hint of a gleam in his eye.

  Oh. It’s a hologram.

  “I should have known,” said William. “Project Blue Beam. Of course. Naturally.”

  “Yes,” said Vance plainly.

  “Thank you for confirming that. I have been wondering about it for ages.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “Anyway. The conspiracy theorists of yore figured out that the Apollo program, Skylab, Gemini and Mercury, and all the rest of your phoney productions were absolute garbage even fifty years ago. Horse manure, is what it is. A con to make the masses believe that you are doing amazing things in space. You people are the equivalent of David Copperfield performing magic tricks, only on a larger scale. To keep the space fantasy going. How does the Earth really look like from above? Tell me. I think John and I deserve to know, if you are now going to lock us up for life. It won’t do any harm telling us. Think of it as another…act of courtesy, as you said. A personal favour.”

  Colin Vance spun around and looked around at his thirty-two companions, most of them shaking their heads.

  They don’t want to show us the exact layout of the most well-kept secret in the history of Man. The real map of the world. And why should they?

  A representative from NASA cleared his throat and rose from his chair. The man walked up to Vance and whispered something in his ear.

  I know who that is. That is Jim Bridenstine, administrator of NASA.

  Vance listened carefully to whatever Bridenstine was saying and mumbled something back. Bridenstine returned to his seat.

  “Malucelli!”

  The guardsman walked up to Vance and was given instructions in what sounded like Portuguese. Malucelli opened the door of the hearing room, only to return about fifty seconds later with a paper map. He handed the map to Vance and returned to his watchful position on the far left in the room.

  “Obrigada,” said Vance, and he rolled out the map on the table.

  John and William both leaned as far over the table as their handcuffs would allow. They were both chained to the underside of the granite table, but fortunately the chains stretched quite a bit. They leaned forward…and finally saw what the Earth really looks like.

  “This is the last personal favour I will grant you, Mr. Milton. You traversed Antarctica, and you found a landmass you were not meant to see.”

  “But there’s water between Antarctica and the swath of land called Gemina on this map. How did we make it across all that water? We never swam, nor did we take a boat. We walked the entire way.”

  “John, that map clearly depicts how it’s like in the summer. I think it’s fair to assume that we walked over that ice, which was all covered in snow. That’s why all we saw was an endless plain for so long, until we reached that mountain,” claimed William.

  John stared at the map. He noticed that it featured a third heavenly body. A black sun above the Earth near the Sun and the Moon.

  Ah. The ancient Vedic, Chinese, and Maya cosmology theories were real. The Black Sun seems to act like Rahu in Indian mythology—a dark shadow Sun that blots out the real Sun, being the cause of both lunar and solar eclipses.

  “So what’s beyond, Mr. Vance?” said William. “In for a penny, in for a pound. I have more questions. Is the Earth truly an infinite plane? Is there an electromagnetic barrier at the very end of it? Is there a crystalline domed firmament above us? I have more questions.”

  “I’m sure you have questions. Th
ousands of them. But you’ll never know the answers to them. I think…I think that I have passed along more than enough classified information to the eyes and ears of two murderers and enemies of all states in the free world. We are done here.”

  “What will happen to us?” asked John.

  “Malucelli! Troy! Take them away, please. To the cells. Two separate cells.”

  “My father will hear of this!”

  “I think not. Off you go.”

  They were seized by the agents and escorted out of the room, still in cuffs. They were then dragged deep down the winding staircase of the bunker. Down and down they were thrust by their captors in the catacombs below the UN headquarters.

  We survived the very ends of Antarctica. We fought our way through the desolate wastelands without food or water. We’ve been in worse pickles than this. We have to get out of here. There must be a way…there must be. There must be.

  25

  The South American agent kept a harsh grip on John’s forearm and ushered him further onwards while William was dragged forward by agent Troy. Colin Vance superseded the procession some twenty steps behind them. Vance walked with slow, calculated steps. His handmade Testoni alligator leather shoes scraped the concrete floor, producing a haunting, echoing sound through the damp halls. Vance walked like a man with utter control of the situation. They were taken deeper, ever deeper, through the granite catacombs beneath the UN building.

  This staircase smells of urine and cobwebs.

  Suddenly, they were not going deeper anymore. Malucelli and Troy halted at the floor they were at.

  So, this is the floor they are going to keep us imprisoned in.

  As they were ushered through the damp corridors brow-beaten and starved, something caught John’s eye to the right of him that made his blood freeze. A marble bust depicting a writhing, demonic figure with the face of a goat.

  I know what that is. It is Baphomet, the Satanic deity the Knights Templar were accused of worshipping in the Dark Ages. That much I know. I’m no symbologist, nor am I an expert in the dark arts, but I know what this means. Because it can’t be a coincidence. Not after all we’ve been through. Not after what William showed me about their ties to the occult. These people aren’t perpetrating this for the greater good of all mankind. They pay homage to something else entirely.

  He could see the bars from a mile away. Prison cells.

  They want to keep us isolated…separated…

  “Halt,” said Vance when the procession had reached the cell meant for John. “Wilander. This is your new home. Get used to it.”

  Agent Malucelli opened up cell thirty-three with heavy iron keys and threw John in behind bars, slammed the doors shut, and locked it.

  The United Nations, the organisation that was formed in 1945 in the backwater of World War II…a fraternity that strived for world peace…has a whole section, an entire catacomb, reserved for political prisoners and other troublemakers who pose a threat to their paradigm. My worldview…could it be any more cynical than it is right now, in this very moment?

  “Troy. Escort Milton to Section C, please.”

  Colin Vance, Malucelli, Troy, and William now marched gently into that dark night away from John.

  “William!” cried John. He pushed his head between the bars, trying against all sense to writhe himself out of his confinement.

  “William!”

  They were all out of sight, but he heard William’s answer echoing through the prison hall.

  “John! Do not worry! We will be all right, the both of us. We’ll be all right!”

  John thrust himself towards the bars head first, trying to break through. All it caused him was a terrible concussion, and he wound up on the stone floor, sobbing to himself as he heard the echoing footsteps of his dear friend and his captors slowly fade away in the catacombs. John was now trapped in an empty, desolate cell with only himself as company…and the silence. The sound of silence…the eternal sound of silence.

  26

  “I want my lawyer flown here, and I want him right now!” shouted William while agent Troy confined him in his cell at Section C. Vance followed Troy into the cell, still as suave as ever before. He had his arms clasped behind his back and radiated complete and utter dominance in the room.

  “I do not demand any phone calls or anything else of that ilk. All I want is my lawyer. My family lawyer, actually, but that doesn’t matter right now. Lennart Hilding, from the attorney firm Hilding & Aldvik at Hamngatan in central Stockholm. Hilding’s served us Miltons for decades. He’s not a hard man to reach. You can summon him.”

  Colin Vance pondered over his plea and finally nodded. “I will grant you a lawyer. It is within your rights, after all. I’m no savage, Mr. Milton.”

  “Thank you,” said William gratefully. Having been through hell and high water in Antarctica and robbed of his freedom as a result, he considered it a blessing from the skies to be able to get in touch with his attorney.

  “I will contact their firm tonight. As you may well understand, Mr. Milton, it may take a few days until your legal counsel arrives. So, I hope that you can make yourself at home for the time being. It’s not exactly a glamorous establishment, this…I will concede that…but you will get used to it. I promise you, everyone does, eventually.”

  William looked around the room. The cell was a tiny square-shaped room enclosed by white-painted brick and completely lacking in otherworldly items. Not even a book was at hand. In the right-hand corner there was a sad excuse for a bed, and adjacent to it there was a tiny silvery sink.

  “Don’t worry about me, Director Vance. I’m fit as a fiddle, and a place like this might be the right medicine for my delusions of grandeur. A place to keep my feet on the ground.”

  “How quaint,” said Vance. “You will hear from your attorney within a short time. I always keep my word, Mr. Milton. I have no doubt that you harbour a grudge against me, and for good reason…but I am a man of my word. Sleep tight, Mr. Milton.”

  William heard the posse marching back towards the staircase. They reached the stairs, and soon the sound of their footsteps faded away, and William’s cell fell into complete and utter silence.

  I need to hold on now. That’s all there is to make of this. Hold out a couple of days and not lose faith here in isolation. This mission of ours is still very much alive. John and I know the truth now, and for as long as we still draw breath, the status quo could still be rocked. Whatever it is we are being charged for…murder, right. It’s going to be a farce, and the verdict is already pre-decided, for sure. Making our way out of this pickle through a jury verdict is not the solution. I need Hilding for something else. All I need right now is Hilding.

  The days came and went in the cell. There were no visits apart from the daily food trays, which were pushed through the bars three times a day by an orderly. The food tasted about as dull and lifeless as he expected it to be.

  I suppose I should be grateful for these soulless meals, however. I’m not freezing like I was used to. Although, it kind of evens out. No matter how bleak things were in Antarctica, we did not live in a confined space. We were free.

  On the third day of complete solitude, William began losing faith, and he was under-stimulated beyond words. Confined in a dark cell without windows, he feared for his sanity. He longed for something to read, or watch. The only thing he could do was to sleep, eat, and stare at the walls…and think.

  I read a study, once, about isolation. Most people become catatonic after only a day or two in isolation. Long-term confinement is a near guarantee for psychosis, and insanity would soon follow. But not for me. Hold on, William. Hold on. I am strong. I am strong. He’ll come soon enough. He’ll arrive precisely when he means to.

  He went to bed that night praying for a miracle.

  He’ll come.

  On the morning of the fourth day, William jerked awake and flung to his feet, as noises could be heard on the other side of the cell door. The sound of keys opening
the lock of the door. William got himself dressed quickly and tried his best to look presentable. He felt weak and out of shape, but he was determined uphold the façade in front of Vance.

  This isn’t finished just yet.

  The door opened, and William’s heart skipped when he recognised the man he had summoned.

  Hope is kindled.

  Colin Vance, Agent Malucelli, and Lennart Hilding walked into the room. William laughed internally over the fact that Hilding carried the same frayed, well-worn attaché case by his side as the old man had done for decades. It wasn’t just the case that warmed his heart—Lennart Hilding had not aged a day and looked precisely the same. The genial face, the portly figure, and that short white hair. The only miniscule detail that stood out has having changed since he saw him last was that his face was more wrinkled than before, but that was to be expected. Hilding was, despite his age of seventy-eight, sharp as a needle and refused to retire from his firm, which he inherited from his father.

  To retire is the equivalent of tying a noose around the neck! I’d drag my ass out to the golfing course a few times a week, and in time I’d probably give golfing up entirely and hit the bottle. Waking up in the morning with no challenges ahead and no life purpose left to strive for, I’d just fade away. So I will work until the Grim Reaper himself knocks on my front door. That is what he told me when I last saw him at the Milton house. Something like that.

  Hilding placed his attaché case on the floor and spread his arms out. “William, my boy! How in God’s name did you end up here?” He walked up to William and gave him a hug.

  “I will leave you to it. You have ten minutes,” said Vance and left the room accompanied by agent Malucelli, who slammed the cell door shut.

  “Long time no see, Lennart. How long exactly, do you think?”

  Hilding scratched his forehead. “Humm, humm. Three years, perhaps? We did celebrate Christmas together, your family and I, but that was some time ago.”

  William sat down on his bed. “That sounds about right. Listen now, Lennart. I am stuck in a most precarious situation. As you can see, I will need your aid.”