by Joe Mahoney
Considering his usual preference for oblique statements and his definite passion for confusing images and roundabout illustrations this was an unusually direct thing for him to say. But this forthrightness failed to jar Lucifer in the least, and he conjured himself up a chair in which to sit while the nemesis spoke.
“There’s a lot you don’t know, Lucifer. If only we could set our differences aside and I could again instruct you. All of creation would benefit.”
Lucifer had heard these words before and so ignored them. Something in the distance caught his eye and he strained forward in his chair to try to make it out. When he was unable to do so, he increased his visual ability to the point at which he could.
It proved to be something not concrete and real, but a visual thought, undoubtedly from his nemesis. Lucifer did not want to watch the thought, but he decided that he would, if only to hasten the meeting along. Time was passing, and although plentiful it remained a valuable commodity in that it could only be used once.
The thought moved closer and expanded to encircle Lucifer. Its flickering essence portrayed the actions of beings born far away from the Void. The colours of its images and scenes contrasted brilliantly with the utter absence of colour in the Void. Lucifer did not find it difficult to adjust his eyes.
The scenes the thought depicted were from a world with which Lucifer was familiar. The people of this world had once been favourites of his nemesis but had been left to function in isolation now for nearly two millennia.
The abandoned world seemed in a state of almost irreparable disrepair. Lucifer chuckled softly as indications of the forsaken world’s plight unfurled about him. A people struggled in a confusion born of billions of minds un-unified. The bold, grim colours of war flickered bleakly on Lucifer’s face. Horrendous battles raged about him. Countless atrocities, malice by the people against both themselves and their world—hatred, killing, gross manipulations and mishandling of nature, all of these and much, much more played before Lucifer, and he looked upon all of it with great interest, although careful to maintain outwardly an air of contempt for this creation of his nemesis.
Far greater than incidents of war and atrocity in number were the individual acts of petty malice perpetrated upon one another by the people of the world. Deception and disrespect commonly marred individual relationships, and were together eloquently indicative of the state of the world’s decay. Lucifer marvelled at the ability and propensity of the people to perform at one time or another every dark action their active, unfettered minds could conceive, and he wished he could watch them in the future, wondering if there was not something even he could learn from continued observation of these remarkable people. The contemplation was more a form of compliment than serious speculation.
Lucifer was not surprised to hear his own name uttered countless times; all of creation knew of his fall from grace. Many of the injuries these people inflicted upon themselves they blamed him for, which irritated Lucifer—only once had he ever interacted with this race, and that had been a mistake.
Lucifer watched the people writhing painfully in the throes of their turbulent, potentially perpetual adolescence a moment longer. Then he caused himself to look through the thought image at his nemesis. He cleared his throat thoughtfully, carefully weighed his words, and said, “What is the point of all this?”
His nemesis ignored the question. “You have altered the shape I created for you.”
While his nemesis had been engrossed in maintaining the thought image, Lucifer had taken the opportunity to change his shape somewhat. A revoltingly raw, skinless tail, in style reminiscent of the tail of a rat, albeit significantly larger, protruded from his hind section. His face, before a paragon of beauty, was now grotesquely distorted and would have produced in a mortal a reaction of utter shock and revulsion, at the very least. His torso, too, was twisted and misshapen, the epitome of ugliness. Indeed, his entire appearance seemed designed to demonstrate the extremes to which ugliness could be taken, if one really tried.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
The nemesis surveyed Lucifer’s new appearance with an air of polite interest. “No, I can’t say I do.”
Lucifer chuckled—a low, guttural sound, a masterful display of derision toward his nemesis. Though it lasted a mere two and a half seconds, had it been directed toward a mortal the resulting destruction of ego might well have prompted a suicide.
The nemesis appeared unconcerned. “I would like your opinion of my images.”
In his mind’s eye, Lucifer rapidly reviewed all that his nemesis had shown him, including that which he had not paid attention to at the time, but which his senses had nonetheless picked up and stored away. “There was no point to it, Nemesis. You are wasting my time.”
“It was not my intention to waste your time.”
“What, then, was your intent?” Lucifer asked bitterly, though he knew very well the intent of his nemesis: to lay before him the evidence of his crimes against the nemesis’ people. He knew that his nemesis desired strongly to punish him for those crimes, terribly and unjustly, proof indeed that his nemesis did not know everything. As if any punishment could ever be worse than the one he had received ages ago: banishment from the universe simply for daring to interfere with his nemesis’ great plan.
The nemesis re-established his thought images off to the side and gazed at them wistfully. Now and then one appeared that caused him visible pain.
He turned to Lucifer and smiled sorrowfully. “You were my most beautiful creation.”
Instantly, to Lucifer’s great and unrestrained dismay, he reverted to his original form of unspeakable and incomprehensible beauty.
“I wished merely for you to be with me, to watch with me. As a father might wish to share something with a son, or a friend with a friend. But I am in a sad mood, and have shared with you the watching of sad things.”
Lucifer said guardedly, “I am not responsible for any of those things.”
To Lucifer’s great surprise, for he is far from knowing everything and is as a result often surprised, his nemesis agreed. “No, you are not. In their haste to shun responsibility many of my people blame you, but I do not.”
Lucifer closed his eyes. Then he opened them and said huffily, “So you summoned me here to make false overtures of friendship.” He spat the word friendship. “I have watched a montage of the follies of the most incompetent and bumbling of your creations. Flawed creatures that in their unfathomable stupidity strive to cause one another great pain. I am pleased that you absolve me of responsibility for their actions. But share with me no longer the folly of their lives.”
Following this scornful dismissal of his nemesis’ attempt at reconciliation, Lucifer executed an impressive series of transfigurations that his nemesis made no effort to halt. After assuming the likenesses of several ugly beings responsible for the most ruthless of the atrocities of his nemesis’ world, he became once again a vast sea of nothingness, and began moving slowly away.
The nemesis accepted this brazen display of disrespect wordlessly. He maintained an aloof air as Lucifer returned from whence he came to his den of unhappy minions and scurrilous plans. He was allowed to go because to stop him would change nothing. He was not responsible.
When he had gone, the nemesis turned back to his images and watched them silently for a long time.
He mourned the follies of his erring peoples.
And he mourned too the loss of a friend.
John’s Worst Enemy
Sleek and white, Pegasus sped off toward other stars, away from Dolmar 2 and its two tiny moons. Inside Pegasus, in the largest of the chambers adjoining the bridge, an alien artifact sat gleaming with silvery metal tubes.
The alien machine crackled and I saw John, reflected in a slender slab of the artifact, give a start.
“Aw damn, I’ve cut myself,” he said, and he had, on a sharp edge. You had to be ca
reful. There were many sharp edges.
John plucked a towel off what I had come to think of as the manifold of the alien artifact. Although to tell you the truth I had no idea what a manifold actually was; it was just a word I’d picked up from somewhere. He wiped some strange blue substance from his hands and inspected the cut on his index finger. He seemed concerned about getting the blue stuff in the cut.
“Did you cut yourself badly?” I asked.
The blood drained visibly from John’s face at the sound of my voice. In contrast, a bright red blot welled up on his finger. Rudely, he ignored me. He placed the rag back down on the manifold and returned to work, and we worked together in silence for some time.
I could handle the silence for only so long. I decided to explore aloud my thoughts concerning the alien artifact. It would probably be wasted on John, who had the intellectual capacity of a gnu, but I didn’t care. (I knew as much about gnus as I did about manifolds, but whatever they were, I had the impression they weren’t particularly deep thinkers.) So I said, “I wonder what the people who built this machine were like?”
John stopped what he was doing.
“The artifact does bear a certain resemblance to human machinery,” I continued. “Whoever they were, they obviously had opposable digits. Although judging by the size of the parts, their hands must have been at least twice the size of human hands.”
John frowned. He held up an alien object that looked like a squished metal doughnut. He set it on top of a stubby pole that emerged from the compartment I thought of as the manifold and gave it a spin to get it going. It spun effortlessly down and around the pole until it reached the bottom.
“How do we know for sure this stuff is alien, Johnny?” John hated being called Johnny; I couldn’t resist.
He gave a good look around the chamber before responding. I have no idea what he was looking for; we were alone aboard the ship.
“No human beings made this machine,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Look what it’s made out of. I don’t even know what this stuff is. And I’m the first human being who’s ever been out this far.”
“You mean we’re the first,” I said.
I stared at John’s reflection in the artifact. His pale blue eyes stared back. Wrinkles creased his forehead.
“It looks alien, too,” he said. “Smells and feels alien. And I have no idea what the hell it is, couldn’t even begin to guess what the. . .” he trailed off.
“Is something bothering you, John?” I asked.
He chewed on his lower lip. “You weren’t here before.”
I laughed. Sometimes John had the craziest notions. The thing about John, though, he never hesitated to say what was on his mind.
“That’s it,” he said. “You weren’t here before.”
He began to pace. It helped him to think, I knew.
“Something’s wrong.”
“Now, John—”
“Be quiet!” he snapped.
“For goodness sake, relax. Let’s work on the artifact some more. It really is a beauty. It’s gonna make us a fortune back home.” The search for an alien object like this one had consumed much of John’s life. Hard won it had been, but so worth the effort, if only he could manage to get it back home.
Mention of the treasure succeeded in distracting John. I saw the pleasure in his eyes as he took in the machine’s wonderful contours. He brushed a finger over a fluted edge. “You must have something to do with this machine.”
As he fled from the room I had to hand it to John. Though not very bright, he was certainly a man of action. Had to be, or he wouldn’t have survived out here for very long.
For instance, the time the meteoroid breached the hull and penetrated the oxygen reservoir. Another man might have panicked and simply sealed the compartment. The ship’s main oxygen supply would have been destroyed within minutes. John, though, hit the pumps and flushed the reservoir’s contents below decks. Only then did he seal the compartment. His quick action saved us, no question.
Of course, only an idiot would have allowed his ship to be struck by a meteoroid in the first place.
John raced to the medical bay and I with him. Pegasus’ medical bay was quite reasonable for a ship of its size—John had ensured that this was so before leaving home, increasing an already severe debt load. All of his debts would be paid for several times over when he returned with the artifact.
“What’s the matter, John? Aren’t you feeling well? Maybe you should lie down for a while.”
He ignored me.
“I should tell you, I find it very disturbing that you don’t think I was here before. I hope you’re not going crazy.”
He drew a sharp breath at that.
We examined his reflection in a mirror. Sweat glistened on his brow. I thought he looked a bit pale. “You don’t look well at all. Why don’t you take an aspirin?”
“Shut up!” he said. “Or I’ll—”
“What? What could you possibly do? Throw me out an airlock? Really, John.”
He poured himself a glass of scotch and downed it. Afterward, I felt a thrill as he gripped the glass tightly—was he considering my suggestion about the airlock? But when he moved it was only to throw himself onto the diagnostic bench. He twisted the control panel until the unit hovered above his face. Punching several buttons, he set up a physical to include a blood work-up, a catscan, and an MRI. The diagnostic tube whirred forth and slid into place. It enveloped his entire body. He was supposed to lie still but I saw his fists clenching and unclenching.
As the program hummed about us, I asked, “Do you think you might have a cold or something, John?”
“You weren’t here before,” he said tightly. “I cut myself on the artifact, and then you were here.”
When the program finished John lay motionless for several seconds. Then he pushed the tube back and swung to his feet. He punched a monitor on and we read the results of the tests together. They were fairly concise. Anything considered out of the ordinary was highlighted at the beginning. It looked like he didn’t have a cold after all.
John mumbled some of the results aloud. “Damage to the corpus callosum. Hemispheric bicameralism. Cause unknown.” He leaned heavily against the counter. I was afraid he might pass out. Indeed, I felt weak myself.
He managed to read further. The medical bay suggested that he be on guard for instances of catatonia and delusion, and that he be aware of the content and form of his thought patterns. It suggested dosages of chlorpromazine over regular intervals. Other than that, we read, nothing further could be done while onboard Pegasus.
John slumped in a nearby seat. I wondered if he was aware of his right foot tapping rapidly on the deck. “This voice is only in my head.”
“That’s ridiculous, John. I can assure you, I’m quite real.”
He massaged his temples, hard. “You’re just me, thinking to myself. The diagnosis was clear about that.”
“Obviously the diagnostic system isn’t functioning properly.”
John stood and exited the chamber. I wondered if he even knew where he was going.
It required a special code to access the airlock. I knew it off by heart. Predictably for a man of John’s limited intellect, the code was simply his wife and children’s names coded numerically. John punched the number as I repeated it to him.
“Seven-two-two,” I finished.
The first steel door shushed open. We smelled stale air.
John stepped forward. “I wonder if anti-psychotic medication would help?” he asked.
The door shut automatically behind us. With a dull thud and a series of sharp clicks, the mechanism locked securely into place.
“We don’t carry chlorpromazine, John. Besides, those neural pathways have been destroyed.”
I recited the code for the final pa
nel. John stabbed at the buttons. The warning sounded and John looked surprised. We shared a magnificent view of our ship speeding off into space.
I managed to say just before he lost consciousness, “Also, I think air pressure is really your biggest concern right now.”
The Screw-up
The technician listened uncomfortably as the Executive Producer talked about Rolf taking early retirement. Lots of people were doing it these days. Cutbacks. Golden handshakes. But Rolf… the department would go down the tubes without him. Rolf would go down the tubes without the department. Something about needing the package. Debts to pay off. Forced into it, really. Sad case. Wouldn’t get his full pension now. The man had lived for his work.
The Department Head came in with the coffee. The technician took his black. The Department Head tried to give him his change, a whole nickel. The technician waved her off.
“So what happened the other day?” the Executive Producer asked.
The technician considered playing dumb but he hated people who did that. What day? Punish the Executive Producer for not being specific. Yes, the technician knew damn well what day. Something else the technician hated was making excuses, even if they were true. A point of pride. They hadn’t been able to talk about it that day, but he had known it was coming.
He sighed. “Equipment.”
“Equipment?” The Executive Producer knew that much already.
“Yeah. Bloody console.”
Uncomfortable situation this, really. Fact was, as the sound technician it was his responsibility. He’d selected the equipment, tested it, set it up, tested it again, then tested it yet again. It wasn’t his fault the audio console had decided to crap out just then. It was the console’s fault. Blame the console. Except that it wasn’t the console’s fault. It was his fault, ultimately, because he was the technician, and it was his job to make sure things worked.
The Executive Producer was waiting to hear some more.
The technician stared back at him. Sure, he felt responsible. Wished he could have done more. Wished he’d chosen another console. Wished he’d been somewhere else that day. But he had been around long enough to know that these things happened, it was just plain bad luck, you got past it, moved on, forgot about it. The Executive Producer knew that.
