Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  “A novella?”

  “Now you’re talking . . . but what about?” He wipes his mouth and tosses the napkin on the table. Barely a speck of food is left on his plate.

  “You tell me.” They both look out the window. “Do you notice,” she says casually, if not conveniently, “the red slivers in the clouds lately?”

  “Yeah. And you’ve read some of my stuff, stop playin’. If you don’t remember, what do you think it means?”

  “I was going to ask you.”

  “Red in the Bible means Jesus’ blood.”

  “You believe in the Bible?”

  “Do you?”

  “No. You?”

  “Not a such a simple answer.”

  “Forget it. I don’t have the patience.”

  “Red. Also war. Also—”

  “War, then.”

  “Huh?”

  “Write a short story about war. Call it The Red War, if that works. You obviously have a head of ideas.”

  “When do you want it by?”

  “E-mail it to me a week from today. Can you deliver?”

  “Just like your mother.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing . . . nothing.”

  “Up for the challenge, then?”

  “This is a challenge?”

  “Yeah. It is. What are you going to do?”

  “Take you up on the challenge. Just be honest with me.”

  “I’m always honest. Always . . . just don’t let me down. That’s how you’ll prove your worth to me.”

  I can’t begin to tell you how much I miss her when she’s not with me. She is so easily manipulated.

  DESTINATION: ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  Sidra sits by the window in Lucius Mann’s private 747. Selu sits to her right in the spacious aisle; Lucius, trying to sleep while wearing a blindfold, sits across from them.

  The plane’s cabin contains only twenty seats, swivel chairs, and a great deal of space. All seats are filled by Lucius’ staff.

  Lucius has encouraged Sidra and Selu to sit together for familiarity.

  “New Year’s Eve, 1600,” Selu says. “Imprisoned. Before telescopes. Copernicus said the earth was just a planet that revolves around the sun. But Copernicus, against scripture, did not go far enough. Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake for heresy. Lucretius wrote On the Nature of Things, another banned book.”

  “What if he was wrong?” Sidra asks.

  “What if who was wrong?” Selu responds.

  “Lucretius.”

  Selu smirks. “The world laughed at him for so long. Guess who’s laughing now, unfortunately . . .”

  “Why are you so defensive?” Sidra bluffs. “Nothing has been proven,” she tests.

  “Proven about what?” Selu asks, a new edge in his tone.

  “Well . . . proven. I mean, how do you know he’s laughing now?”

  He turns to her, very serious, not buying. “Okay.” Sidra is surprised by Selu’s apparent lack of playfulness or confidence. “Okay, you got the wrong guy.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’ll never apologize for figures of speech, or my research, or my conclusions, so please don’t test me, Ms. Ghioto.”

  Sidra sits back. “Wow . . . sense of humor, much?”

  Lucius has heard it all. He chuckles, not surprised at Selu’s reaction.

  “Red clouds, nonconforming events . . . are your eyes open?” Selu asks.

  “My eyes . . . keep this going; this kid named X, he keeps this going. You’ll see my eyes through my photos.”

  “Don’t fool yourself,” Selu advises. “First of all, you will not take your own photos. You will take photos only under the guidance of myself and Mr. Mann, our benefactor. As for X—and I have done my diligence—I am fully aware of your burgeoning relationship.”

  “You’re out of your mind. He’s a kid.”

  “My turn now.” He got her. Sidra bites her lip to contain herself. “There are reasons nobody listens to him.”

  “Give it up,” Sidra interrupts. “Sorry, couldn’t help it.”

  “Ms. Ghioto . . . X and I share an outlook. However, I’ve long since accepted the likelihood that I won’t be here in another hundred years, so what difference does it make if I confront reality while building my own reputation?”

  “Just . . . stop. Would you please? I know him pretty well.”

  “Ahh. Admission happens. Do tell,” Selu advises.

  Sidra considers the challenge. She grimaces as she makes her decision, as she’s been forced into it. “He publicly conceptualized the Abeyance as a pause followed by a correction. He told you, all of you, exactly what he believed you could handle.”

  “And so you’re clearly as educated as Searle implied,” Selu says. “I’m surprised.” Sidra is not used to this degree of nerve. Though she wants, badly, to flip him off, she stays quiet so as not to jeopardize her role. Selu beckons her with his index finger. “Mr. Mann may have wanted you for this project, for whatever his reason. I didn’t. Don’t cross me.” He sits back. She watches him, expressionless. “To X,” he continues. “What we could handle? How could he possibly know what we could handle? A little ballsy, don’t you think?”

  “Why are men always so threatened? My penis is bigger than your penis; I can’t possibly be wrong; no one else is right.”

  “Because I’m sure my penis is bigger than his.” Sidra shoots him a look of disgust. “What he didn’t explain to you, because he did not want to cause a mass commotion without preparing you, is the Abeyance is a beginning, not an end of itself. Are you familiar with the five mass extinctions?”

  “I’d really like to think you are only a photographer.”

  Sidra considers the comment. “Is that a compliment?”

  “Far from it.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed. Anyway, there have been five, it is said, throughout history. The dinosaurs during one such escapade. X is warning you that a sixth is coming, and from there . . .” She sweeps the palms of her hands. “Nothing. Over and done.” As Selu consumes her words, “You want to know what my ex-boyfriend said?”

  “Thanks. This I needed too?”

  “Yeah. Remember Cat Stevens?” Sidra asks.

  “The singer.”

  “Yeah. That one.”

  “He’s Muslim now, isn’t he?”

  “Exactly. Like my ex—part, anyway. Yusef Islam, is Cat’s name now. According to my ex, he said Cat was interviewed and said the Muslim world is artless. One of the greatest musicians we have ever known says the Muslim world is artless. That’s one of the reasons he returned. He wanted to show that there is creativity, that it’s not all grim—”

  “So . . . the world destroys itself due to a lack of art, that it?”

  “No. The world’s answers are found exactly in that art.”

  Again, Selu smirks. “Sorry, babe. The more I listen to you, the more you sound like an apologist for a sixteen year old. The Muslim world was responsible for plenty of the world’s great art. ISIS didn’t take it all. Ever hear of the Alhambra?”

  “Never try to outsmart me.”

  “Excuse me?” he states. “More disclosure. Either you are very smart, as you say, or . . . not. Depending on that answer, I may end up agreeing with Mr. Mann.”

  “Artists,” Sidra says, “are gifted with an insight that the rest of you peons can only dream about.” She is playing her own card. She will prove to him that she is formidable and deserves to be here.

  “I seem to have heard all this before.”

  “In my photography, the glass is half full, not empty.” This surprises Selu. “You want honesty?” Sidra asks. “I’m no shrinking violet, but now you know.”

  “All of art can all be manipulated. When I dig, that is my way of discovering The Truth, as X puts it. He talks, I discover. Big difference.”

  “My art is pure.”

  “It can all be manipulated,” he repeats. “Or copied, like maybe some of the finds here, or—”<
br />
  “Or stopped.”

  “Stopped.”

  “Remember Salman Rushdie and The Satanic Verses? That was called a fatwa against the author. Remember The Interview, that Rogan-Franco film? That shit was about to be never released. Thank you, North Korea.”

  “North Korea’s online capabilities were too small,” Selu says. “The reality was hidden from us. What’s your point?”

  “I hate it when you think you make sense, but bingo. The Truth has been hidden from us.”

  “Gee . . .”

  “No, really. On an infinitely larger scale than we’re talking. My point is, art leads the way during both times of dark . . . and light.”

  Selu smiles for the first time on this flight. “You’re right,” he says. “I guess that means there’s hope for you yet.” Sidra is taken aback. The compliment could not have come at a better time. “Where there’s a calamity, there is always a counter. An answer.”

  “I’m hoping we find it on our little excavation.”

  The smile ends. “Piece of work. The most important archeological dig of our century . . . our little excavation. Just when you think you know somebody.”

  Static overtakes the cabin’s speakers, as if an announcement is intended, but the mechanical system has been compromised. He leans over.

  “Be careful,” he says. “In some ways, you need to know that X is every bit the scam he says I am.”

  “I have nothing more to do with X, other than what I’ve already told y—”

  “Good. One more. I would strongly advise you not to mention his name from here forward. The response can be dangerous. Talking to me, privately, is one thing—”

  “Fuck you,” Sidra says, not taking his honest warning as intended.

  Selu replies as dictated. “Been there, done that,” he says. “Or have you forgotten?”

  DESER HOTEL, ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  Sidra looks good, Selu thinks. Really good. She was so wasted before, as was I . . . but this is business. Stay on business. Selu sits alone in his substantial suite, at his desk, in front of his top-of-the-line laptop. He turns his computer’s camera on, and a visual countdown from sixty is in progress.

  In moments, Empyrean appears on his screen.

  “Can you see me okay?” he asks.

  “Peachy keen.”

  “Film clips are running now of your last visit. Thanks again for this. Good flight? Have you slept?”

  “I’ve had better, and no. Made it to the hotel just an hour ago, and I’m a little cranky.”

  Empyrean ignores him. “And . . . we’re on the air.”

  ~~~

  “Social Archeologist Selu Hobbins Encore, Segment One. Ladies and gentlemen, good evening. My name is Empyrean, and I am your host for Hotseat, the locus of science and spirituality, and cable television’s only live underground gab fest for freethinkers, by freethinkers. Empyrean, from the ancient medieval Latin empyreus, as adapted from the ancient Greek empyrus, meaning in or of fire and the location of the highest heaven. You may know the name from Dante’s Divine Comedy as God’s domicile and the source of all creation and light. I didn’t ask you the last time. You have a God complex? Is that your secret?”

  “No to your second question. Not so secret, and we’ll leave it there for now,” says Selu.

  “But the ratings for your first appearance were so high for a reason, as was our new season’s premiere on archived technology, following last year’s flimsy start. Did you see it?”

  “I did. Pretty remarkable.”

  “The response from that episode . . . through the roof,” Empyeran says. “Our guest, Daniel Baxter, was so affable and so well-spoken, I just wish he was local. Honestly, I’d love to grab dinner with him and pick his brain some more, but for those of you who missed it, he was granted permission by a branch of the U.S. Embassy in London to break the story that we hide—better stated, that our military continues to develop and actually archives all of this highly advanced technology that none of us are aware of, that they keep hidden until warfare—incredible stuff. I think the show was so PR-canny and well-received, as we always complain about our leaders and question the strength of our military compared to other countries, but now we know we have some surprises up our sleeves. It’s like knowing you’ll soon be unwrapping Christmas presents, I guess. Or The Force Awakens toys for some. I can sleep nights now, until the world ends, that is, which . . . brings me to the work of X and brings me again to you. You come on and your rerun ratings were equal to that . . . desperately publicized first-run.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Word carries. Not why we’re here today, but I can say this much with pride: The resonance of our talks is why 60 Minutes is now a distant number two on Sunday nights.”

  “I think I get it now,” Selu says.

  “Speak to Daniel?”

  “No, don’t know him. Read somewhere that he seems to have disappeared shortly after the show, but don’t know him. Maybe I should be careful.”

  AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

  Control Room. Officer Franks stands, arms crossed, with Empyrean’s editor and programming team. He wears civilian clothes, and together they intently watch the transmission.

  PROPHECY

  DESER HOTEL, ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  Hotseat continues.

  “I would like for you to know, first of all,” Empyrean says, “that we rarely bring guests back. And this is a special remote from Alexandria, Egypt, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “So, to begin on what is properly called a level playing field, congratulations to you, sir.”

  “Does anyone ever want to come back?”

  “We’ve had requests, I must admit. But requests only get you so far.”

  “You’re not implying to your audience that I came after you?” Selu asks.

  “No, not at all. No. I came after you. As you know. In fact, you’re the first guest I’ve ever asked my producers to track down for a return engagement.”

  “Well, I appreciate that. I appreciate the honesty.”

  “We’re going to try something different here today, with your permission.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I want you to relax. I’ll do the same. No defense, no ratings ploy, though I do think, based on your own unprecedented audience response from our first meeting, that your appearances are ratings-ploy worthy.”

  “Appearance. I’ve only been on once. So what do we discuss first?”

  “You must have a substantial female following. I guess you need to fight the ladies off.”

  “Constantly. That’s all I do. Day and all night, I fight the ladies,” says Selu.

  “Fine. I’ll speak to my writers. Clearly that was not the best warm-up.”

  “That’s a warm-up?”

  “I’d like to go back to X for a minute and resume from there. You okay with that?”

  “I’m okay with anything. Honestly, except for anything meaningless. My time is precious, and I’m just not that guy who typically spends time jousting.”

  “Time is precious for all of us, understood. To X, then. You also understand what is happening here?” Empyrean asks.

  “I don’t get the question.”

  “You have a kid, still a relative child who must be, what, seventeen now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And no one listens to him.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘no one.’ ”

  “Few. He’s looked at by most as nothing more than an intelligent, imaginative kid, maybe a prodigy.”

  “He is a prodigy. That’s not exactly a stretch.”

  “No, maybe not. But to my point, very few take him seriously.”

  “No.”

  “You’re on my show once for thirty minutes, and the country doesn’t stop talking about you.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Selu says.

  “Right, but think about it. You say much of what the boy does. Are they paying attention to you becau
se you’re older?”

  “Really, how am I supposed to know? I’m not trying to be curt with you, but maybe they do listen to him, and they’re embarrassed to admit it. Maybe I’m safer.”

  “So you’re saying that people aren’t as standoffish as they appear to be when it comes to opening their minds, but it’s the delivery system that makes the difference?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Here’s a story. When I pitched this program to the network, I was undisguised. They all know who I am behind the scenes. They all do. But I pitched, taking a hint from Anonymous—”

  “The hacker?”

  “The hacker. My thought was, I could create a forum where people would be more apt to listen if they didn’t judge me based on my looks.”

  “That’s it?” Selu asks.

  “No. The God thing too, and then there’s the other side.”

  “The other side.”

  “The other side is that I would be, hopefully, able to open those minds—young minds and old—by virtue of a gimmick. I mean, we can both agree that my image is out there. My audience has been trying to figure my identity since I started. They take nothing at face value when it comes to me. Why then should they take anything else at face value?”

  “For the second time in five minutes, I confess you’re losing me.”

  “Anonymous may have been inspired by Max Headroom, for all I know, a fictional character, and some great science fiction by the way—his television show, I mean—and I was inspired from there. No different than pro wrestling, really. Everyone needs a gimmick. Ever hear of Bruno?”

  “No.”

  “Point being that X’s gimmick isn’t resonating. Would you not agree?” Empyrean asks.

  “Haven’t given it any thought.”

  “Moving on. I want to discuss with you one particular aspect of classic literature, reach as far back as possible from there, and see if we can truly determine the hidden presence of the muse, Ara. Fair dinkum?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Mr. Hobbins, do you believe in magic?”

  “Magic?”

  “Magic.”

  “My first impression is when anyone asks someone if they believe in magic, it’s something of a patronizing question.”