Cerulean Dreams

by Dan O'Brien

  Pointing at Dana, Marlowe felt a surge of anger.

  “And what about Dana?”

  “We will watch over her. Let us be her guardians so that you may find a way to help us all, Marlowe of Orion. If what you have said is true, then you must find the path for us all.”

  Marlowe wanted to curse. “I will speak with you, shaman. But if your answers aren’t what I seek, then you’ll help me find a way to get Dana out of here.”

  Mograli nodded.

  “As you wish, though they will not be my answers.”

  XXI

  “A

  hundred men, maybe more, maybe less,” spoke the corporal matter-of-factly. Armon surveyed the carnage as the sun beat upon him. The creature in the night had decimated the troops––a hundred men slaughtered in moments.

  “We need to push through,” replied Armon, his hands on his hips.

  The corporal clucked his tongue, craning his neck. “The men are spooked, sir. Whatever that was, they don’t want any more of it. They want to turn back.”

  Armon looked at the men congregating together, whispers exchanged. He watched coldly as they gestured toward him and the corporal. “I will take care of this dissension straight away,” he growled. He stormed across the open stretch of desert between him and the small circle of men.

  Adrenaline surged through his veins.

  Anger rushed through his mind.

  He had come too far for them to derail his plans, his mission. A glint of steel protruded from his arm. As he drove it into the chest of the first soldier, the force of the blow lifted the man into the air.

  The man let loose a shriek as the blade pulled free. Armon drove it again into the face plate of the next soldier. He held his gun in his hands as Armon knocked him to the ground, stomping on his faceplate until it shattered.

  Two soldiers remained––neither moved.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked them, his chest heaving in rage.

  They exchanged looks.

  “Into the desert,” they responded in unison.

  “Very good, join the rest of the squadron.”

  One of the soldiers stepped forward slightly, his voice meek. “What of the dead?”

  Armon did not turn.

  “The desert owns them now.”

  *

  Sephes carefully undressed Dana, her eyes half-closed. A heavily clothed woman helped the daughter of the Elder, dumping buckets of ice into a round brown basin large enough to encompass Dana’s small frame.

  “More ice, she is burning up. We have to break this fever,” called Sephes urgently. The woman disappeared out of the enclosure with two buckets.

  “Marlowe,” croaked Dana as Sephes held the burning woman in her arms. She pressed back the darkened strands that were plastered again Dana’s forehead, pressing the damp rag across her face to cool her as best she could.

  “Ice,” she screamed as Dana’s eyes closed once more.

  *

  Mograli led Marlowe down a narrow lane. The walls of the buildings were marked with the graffiti of old. The shaman ducked beneath a lowered overhang. Bold letters spelled out BIOTECHNOLOGY across the doorframe.

  “What was that?”

  Marlowe trailed off, as the shaman had already disappeared into the building. He stumbled through the darkness. His skin prickled, knowing what would come next. They came in the darkness without fail. And after the incident at the wall, he had little doubt that they would be out in full force.

  The interior of the building was not rocky as the others had been. Instead, it was the same steel construction that it had been centuries earlier. A defunct exit sign was in dire need of battery replacement as Marlowe walked beneath it.

  “Where are you taking me?” he called to the quick-footed Mograli. The exit opened into an open room with a spiraling lattice staircase illuminated by a single yellow bulb.

  It cast an eerie glow about the deep room.

  “Down,” came the ominous reply.

  Already the spry shaman had descended deeper into the room, the glint of his eyes visible to Marlowe as he pressed forward. Round and round they went, floor after floor, until he heard the heavy landing of the shaman.

  “Are we almost…” began Marlowe.

  The fall surprised him. He fell quickly, his breath stolen from him as he collided with the ground. Rolling to his side with a grunt, he saw the shaman beside him. “I should have warned you that the bottom comes very quickly.”

  Marlowe groaned as he slowly got to his feet. He recognized the room. “This is a laboratory,” he stated, the pain momentarily forgotten.

  “No, this is where we will meet the spirits.”

  Marlowe looked at the shaman crookedly.

  “I’m fairly certain this is a lab.”

  The shaman smiled.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “No.”

  “Then this is where we meet the spirits.”

  Marlowe thought to contradict, to point out that they both could be true. But he did not, for the room’s walls drew his attention. What he saw there made him feel the sickening, sweeping effects of vertigo.

  “What is this place?” he whispered.

  The light of the lamps overhead was distant. The haunting amber light circled the stairs above. But as it filtered through the darkness, it lost its strength. “This is where we speak to the ancestors, yours and mine, to communicate with space without time.”

  Marlowe moved closer to the wall, inspecting it as he wiped his hand across the greasy and dusty exterior. Sludge wiped away, grime from a millennia fell to the ground from his simple movement.

  Two faded words were written in large lettering: Cerulean Dreams. Marlowe stepped away, his hand outstretched, shaking.

  “This cannot be….”

  Mograli had moved to his side quietly, watching as Marlowe inspected the wall and then, horrified, moved away. His presence made Marlowe jump. “What has frightened you, Marlowe of Orion?” queried Mograli as he too touched the wall in consideration.

  Marlowe tried to swallow.

  The voices returned, whispering, accusing.

  There were thousands of them, hundreds of thousands screaming, shouting at him. The creatures had gone, but had been replaced by the incessant chatter of those unseen. “Those words should not be here,” stated Marlowe, his voice stuttering.

  Mograli moved closer to the words, reading them aloud. “Cerulean Dreams.”

  Marlowe nodded, licking his lips.

  He felt claustrophobic all of sudden.

  “That is something from another place.”

  “They are only words,” he replied with a shrug.

  Marlowe shook his head. “Powerful words, a portent of terrible things. Their presence here makes this terrible journey all the more real, all the more terrifying.”

  Mograli touched the words once more before moving closer to Marlowe. He folded his arms over one another, looking from the wall to the dismayed look on Marlowe’s face. “What do these words mean? Does it not mean to dream of blue? Peaceful dreams?”

  “The city where Dana and I come from is very special,” began Marlowe. Mograli nodded, sitting down cross-legged, his attention transfixed. Marlowe continued, his eyes roaming the walls of the room. “In this city, we have our sleep regulated so that we will not war, will not want. They have created a place without violence or greed. After the destruction of the world we had known, it was Orion that emerged, born anew. The entity that has done this is a corporation. It created Orion. Only Orion.”

  Mograli nodded slowly. “And?”

  Marlowe shook his head, restraining a dry chuckle. “And it is called Cerulean Dreams. The name of the savior and peacekeeper of what is left of the world is Cerulean Dreams.”

  Mograli leaned back, touching his chin thoughtfully.

  “I see. I understand your fear now. “

  “You don’t seem very concerned,” replied Marlowe, craning his neck to see the yellow light th
at radiated far above him atop the stairwell.

  The shaman had reached into the small satchel at his waist. The brown bag was made of faded, dried leather. Its straps were the dark hide of an animal. “You had asked what it is that Sephan and I feared about the girl’s words.”

  “The Lurking.”

  Mograli looked at him. “Yes, the Lurking.”

  Marlowe nodded. “Are you saying that what I fear and what you fear are connected? That Cerulean Dreams and the Lurking are a part of something?”

  The shaman produced a small clay bowl.

  In it was a green paste, crimson speckle worked into the creation. He dipped his finger in it, placing some on his tongue. Closing his mouth, he swallowed.

  “I am saying that you being here is a portent of something. Not something ordained or manipulated by outside forces. Instead, a warning of what will come, the consequences of the journey you have undertaken.” He extended the bowl to Marlowe with a grin.

  “You want me to eat that?”

  Mograli nodded. “To reach your ancestors and to speak to the earth, you can no longer be yourself. This will act as a gateway to that world, to what lies behind this one, a world without constraint.”

  Marlowe looked at it disgustedly. Succumbing to the conclusion that he had already come this far, he dipped in two fingers. Dragging them through the paste, he pulled them free.

  A glob hung to his fingertips.

  “And now you must place it on your tongue.”

  Marlowe looked at the concoction up close, inspecting its dry, clumped nature. Placing it on his tongue, he closed his mouth. Upon swallowing it, he made a face of pure revulsion.

  “That tastes terrible,” he groaned.

  Mograli smiled, pleased. With a sudden speed, he smashed the bowl onto the concrete beneath them. “For the earth, as sometimes it needs to see differently.”

  Heat and then a strange, flowery breeze crossed Marlowe’s nostrils. “What is supposed to happen?” he asked dreamily. His eyes felt strange, like he could feel all the way back through the stem of his eyes and into his brain.

  “You asked why we fear the Lurking.”

  Marlowe nodded and tried to look at Mograli, but the image was blurred. “Why are you blurry?”

  Mograli’s rolling laughter was silent, and then thunderous. “We fear that because each time we come to this place to speak to our ancestors….”

  Marlowe felt his skin tingle, as if each cell was delightfully in unison. They were a symphony, a chorus harmonizing with one another. “What am I supposed to see?”

  Mograli ignored his question and continued. “Each and every time we try to leave, it is the creature that calls itself the Lurking that blocks our path. We have lost many brothers and sisters to this strange entity of the mind. You would do well to come to fear it as well, Marlowe of Orion.”

  Marlowe looked at the shaman, watching as the man’s face distorted. “How will I know when I am there?”

  The shaman looked at him strangely. His eyes grew too big, his mouth wide in a smile. He did not respond. A hand grabbed Marlowe’s hard. Diseased and marked with purple sores, it clutched Marlowe’s arm tightly. Marlowe looked behind and saw the creature whose arm had grabbed him, but he found that he could not scream. Empty eye sockets and a cruel grin smiled down on him.

  XXII

  A

  rmon bent to the ground, his hands touching the bright white sands. The day was beginning to ebb once more. Night would soon be upon him and they had not traveled nearly far enough.

  His prey continued to evade him.

  One step ahead of him, it would appear.

  “Where is he?” called Armon over his shoulder, remaining close to the ground. The day had been obstinately hot, but in the sand canyon there was a cooler breeze.

  The soldier stood behind Armon. In his hand the viewer beeped rhythmically, images and information exchanged. He pointed out ahead of them, deeper into the weave of the valley. “The signal originates five hundred meters from here.”

  Armon stood and moved forward in a slight jog, leaving the corporal behind without another word. The valley curved and wound and as it did, so did Armon. The closer he came, the harder he ran.

  Soon the distance was closed.

  Walking past the cavern that Marlowe had exited to follow Dana, and had also served as shelter for the two women, he slowed. Looking into the darkness of the cave, he ignored it for a moment. Continuing forward, his eyes searched the valley floor. There were no tracks, something he had become accustomed to since arriving in the desert.

  Armon turned at a sound.

  It was a slight movement of sand, miniscule. He extended his weapon slowly, the unsheathing of the needle-like blade done as the assassin turned to see his prey. The corporal blundered forward, his dark armor concealing a man drenched by the heat.

  “You ran off, sir.”

  The man sounded out of breath.

  Armon shook his head, retracting his blade.

  “Where exactly is the signal?”

  The corporal moved past him, watching the viewer. The beeps were faster. He extended his arm. “It says that the signal is coming from right there.”

  Armon stepped forward into the sands, his boots leaving deep depressions. As he curved around the cavern, he saw a dark object upturned in the sand. Lowering himself, he stalked toward it. Then when he was nearly upon it, he sighed, cursing as he kicked at the sand.

  “It is my pack.”

  The corporal was again at his side. “Pack, sir?’

  Armon picked it up, sand pouring from the interior. “My pack. That is what the damned viewer picked up. Not Marlowe, but this pack,” he replied with disgust.

  “Where is the signal coming from then?”

  Armon knelt again, digging at the sand until he saw for what he was searching. Lifting the transceiver from the sands, he held it up. “I think we have found what we were hunting,” he spoke bitterly.

  Armon remain crouched, muttering.

  The solider shuffled his feet as he watched.

  “How do we pursue the fugitive?”

  Armon stood, looking into the distance. The valley wound farther ahead, dunes rising and falling in the distance. “What direction would you say we have been traveling?”

  The corporal let his arm falter, the viewer hanging at this side. “West. I would say that we have been traveling due west,” he answered.

  Armon smiled, the wind blowing against him. It was a hot breeze that brushed across his face, irritating the stubble there. “Then I believe that our man has continued west.”

  “How do you know that, sir?”

  Armon continued to look into the distance. “Because that is what I would have done. He was following someone, or something, I believe. I think what he was following continued west and so shall we.”

  The sun was setting in the west as Armon flagged his men forward. Their sluggish footfalls marked the sand as one flattened trail that any fool could follow.

  *

  Sephes touched Dana’s head carefully, feeling the heat despite the ice that surrounded her pale body. “Dana. Dana, can you hear me?” she whispered near the smaller girl’s ear.

  Dana murmured.

  Her skin prickled in gooseflesh.

  The hut had grown colder as the sun set. She touched Dana’s forehead lightly with the damp fabric. “You have to get better, Dana. We were just becoming friends. You cannot go yet.”

  Dana moved under the ice. Her hands struggled free, pulling with them a torrent of cold, melted water that spilled on the floor. “Why does it…?” she murmured, a slight tremor in her barely audible voice.

  Sephes moved closer, lifting Dana’s eyelids. “What did you say? Dana, what were you trying to say?” she asked urgently, her blood rushing.

  Dana groaned and shifted in the ice. Her voice was much clearer this time. “Why does it look like me?”

  Sephes looked around the hut warily. “Why does what look like you?”


  *

  Marlowe looked aghast at the misshapen skull and face of the creature. There was a similarity though. “Why does it…?” queried Marlowe. Spinning around, he found that Mograli was no longer seated next to him, nor were they any longer in the basement of the building in Shadowfall.

  The desert extended in every direction.

  The sky was crimson, aflame.

  “You have questions,” spoke the creature, its voice like a scraping groan. Clothed in only a gray cloak torn throughout, it was the picture of a vagrant. It was a diseased peddler who had suffered greatly. “I may yet have answers for you.”

  Marlowe looked around, taking steps in the sand. He felt the warm grains beneath his toes. Looking down, he realized that he was barefoot.

  “Why does it look like me?” he finished, and then felt a strange wave of déjà vu. “Why do you look like me? Like I’ve suddenly fallen down a mountainside and lived in a gutter somewhere?”

  The creature fluttered forward.

  It possessed no feet.

  There was only darkness beneath the cloak. It reached out with one of its spindly, decrepit arms. “You may call me Alezander. And I will call you Marlowe. I detest being called thing or creature. It would be like calling you flesh or bones. It is rude.”

  Marlowe looked at Alezander strangely. “That is my name. Alexander, right? That is my name,” he stuttered, unable to take his eyes away from the empty void that occupied the thing’s face.

  Alezander’s face contorted.

  “Indeed, they are similar.”

  Marlowe opened his mouth and then shook a hand dismissively. “This is absolute madness. Mograli told me to….” Then looking around, he pointed a finger at the cloaked being called Alezander. “Where is Mograli?”

  “Mograli is not your guide. He may cross your path, but this is your journey and as such you are the only one here now.” It paused. “I am your guide.”