Sador frowned, but one look at his wife’s eyes and his spirits lifted. He was amazed that even after all these centuries, Janesska still had that effect on him. “I pray to the Goddess, that you are correct.”
Departed to the judgment,
A mighty afternoon;
Great clouds like ushers leaning,
Creation looking on.
~
The flesh surrendered, cancelled,
The bodiless begun;
Two worlds, like audiences, disperse
And leave the soul alone.
Emily Dickinson
1830-1886
Four
A horrible blend of vicious nightmares crept their way into Candor’s mind. Suddenly he wasn’t aware of who he was, or where. Was he the human being, the Penticorian, or something completely different? It was that something else that frightened him, both the human and alien alike. He could feel the thing. It was there in the back of his mind like an itch that he was unable to scratch, or a door that he was too afraid to open. Like heavy chains dragging across the worn planks of a haunted house, or the putrid breath of an invisible monster standing at his back. Gooseflesh rippled over his arms as he stood in the cold dark room of his nightmare. It was a place where only shadows could feel at home.
Just as quickly the feeling faded. He looked down and saw his feet, and dread filled him as he discovered that he was standing in the bad place. It was a place the adults called a hospital, a place where the children had their skulls removed. A bad place where the blue medicine ran down large syringes that burned his veins like liquid fire.
Candor was human again. Even though in many ways he wasn’t human at all anymore. He began to weep, a small boy of nine who prayed that God would just let him die. Five years he spent in this place. Five years where the treatments were administered daily. Sometimes they would beat him for no reason at all, creeping into his room in the middle of the night to wrench him from his bed. Sometimes he would fight back, refusing to take their vast arsenal of pills and liquids. The beatings on those occasions were even worse.
Then there was the nurse, the woman with the bright red lipstick. She was always kind to him. Smiling and laughing, even as she led him down the white tiled corridors to deliver him into the hands of his tormentors. Candor never even bothered to ask her name. It didn’t matter, for nothing mattered those days. Nothing that is, except God. Oh, how he wished that God would answer his prayers. Candor prayed at bedtime, and before every meal. He even prayed before the needles sunk deep into veins that were becoming harder to find, collapsing under the unrelenting onslaught. All he wanted was to die. To be taken to heaven just like Enoch, the biblical figure he learned about at Sunday school. His tormentors wanted him to believe in God, even setting up a shanty church on the hospital grounds where they marched the children once a week.
Yet God showed Candor that he wasn’t listening to his prayers. And Candor came to believe that God didn’t care. Not about the tormented wailings of a child that was too weak to endure the pain of the beatings. Or the long syringes that pierced artery and bone week after torturous week. So, in return, somewhere around the time of his eleventh birthday, Candor began to hate God for his indifference. He never prayed again. He also never, ever, cried again.
The last true thing that he remembered feeling was the morning that they discovered him in bed with an erection. The sensation was unlike anything he ever experienced. He desperately wanted to know if it was normal, or if there was something wrong with him. In response to that unthinkable human reaction to puberty, they proceeded to subject him to some of the most rigorous treatments he had endured up to that point. The chemicals were now stronger than ever, and they weren’t in needles anymore, now they were in bags which ran down long plastic tubes that took hours to empty into his body.
His caretakers also introduced a series of what they called picture games, stress tests, personality behavior modifications, and remote-viewing exercises. Those days were long, and the nights longer as he convulsed in bed. His reaction to the medicine caused them to cut his rations, and much of his time passed in the throes of terrible hunger. Soon after the treatments began, his hair fell out, and in the end, he never got an erection again.
And that’s when Jeremiah came along, thought Candor as he huddled against a wall in his nightmare. A child who was afraid to move, because now that Candor named the monster, then surely the monster could find him. I remember now, I remember Jeremiah Strange.
Before Candor knew what was happening, he found himself sitting in a classroom. He was an adolescent boy of thirteen. Candor was startled, because it was his body he was seeing, but he knew that he wasn’t the one in control. Jeremiah, he thought. Jeremiah’s got me now and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“You’re right about that, snot-nosed little cretin,” Jeremiah’s voice said in Candor’s mind. “They’re right about you, Candy! You’re weak, a useless baby who pisses his pants every night. Thanks to these fucks you’ll never know what it feels like to play back-seat-bingo with a girl, you limp-dicked bag of wet-rags!”
I hate you! Candor screamed at Jeremiah.
Jeremiah laughed. He wasn’t just laughing at Candor, but because he was the one in control now. Finally, after years of struggling to break free, it was Jeremiah Strange that was in command. And Jeremiah intended to have a little fun.
“Life is pain,” said Jeremiah. “Haven’t you figured that out yet, you needle-pulling limp-wristed Nancy?”
Candor wanted to answer him, wanted to stage some type of resistance, but he couldn’t. He knew that he wasn’t as strong as Jeremiah, so he did the only thing that he could do, he retreated. He cowered in his mind, while Jeremiah used his own mouth to smile malevolently.
“I thought so,” said Jeremiah. “Now watch, and learn how you’re supposed to take care of business.”
The classroom was filled with other children, all like Candor. Their teacher, a man by the name of Douglas Crenshaw, sat in the front, diligently grading papers. The students called him Twitch. Which was certainly a cruel name, but apropos. Doug had a bushy mustache, and thick rimmed glasses. He also had a nervous tick at the corner of his mouth that forced him to rub his nose before it would stop. Hence the name, Twitch.
Yet Twitch wasn’t on Jeremiah’s mind as he closed the lid of his desk. The top was made of wood that was fastened to a long brass hinge. While the bottom was connected by metal tubes to the chair so that each was uniform, and could be moved as a single piece of furniture. Jeremiah stole a glance toward the front of the class, and Candor knew who the target was. It was a boy who went by the name Reaper, although everyone knew that his real name was Charlie Lutz. Reaper was three years Candor’s senior, and by far the meanest person that Candor ever met. Not to mention the cruelest, as Reaper often stole his food, or beat him. Once, he even pushed Candor out of a two-story window. It took five months for Candor to recover from his injuries. After that he tried to keep his distance, but like all bullies, they seem to need to have someone upon whom they can lord their superiority, and terrorize. And Reaper enjoyed hunting Candor down, and finding new and innovative ways to torture him.
He often wondered why the teachers and doctors never stopped any of the children from fighting. Yet just like everything else, Candor had grown numb from the violence. After all, if you’re hurt and don’t care, what does it really matter to begin with.
Jeremiah stood up, moving silently toward the front of the class. None of the other children seemed to notice him, and if they did, they ignored him. After all, he was “Candy.” What harm could he possibly be? Standing behind Reaper, Jeremiah’s eyes gleamed, while his face held the sadistic grin of a madman who doesn’t care if he lives or dies, only that he inflicts pain on others. Reaper made the mistake of turning to look behind him. He must have felt Jeremiah breathing down the back of his neck, just like a monster. He started to say something, or utter a curse, thinking that it was Candor he faced. But Je
remiah stopped him cold, as in one quick motion he punched Reaper in the throat.
Reaper gagged, choking on his own bile as his eyes went wide in disbelief. He couldn’t believe that he was being assaulted by little old “Candy.” For his part, Jeremiah wasted no time. He reached out and seized one of Reaper’s arms, then stepping forward he wrenched the arm down as his other hand opened the lid of the desk. In one fluid motion, Jeremiah sandwiched Reaper’s arm between the wood and metal of the desk. And then making sure that Reaper’s elbow was on the edge, Jeremiah put all his weight behind him. Reaper’s arm snapped so violently that there was an audible, cha-chunk!
The smile of pure unadulterated pleasure on Jeremiah’s face took Twitch by surprise. Candor could swear that he saw fear in those eyes. While a second later, Reaper screamed in agony, while Jeremiah began singing in an eerie tempo that caused everyone in the classroom to freeze in horror.
“Bah-bah black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.”
Reaper screamed again, and Jeremiah hit him with such force that his head struck the lid of the desk, placing even more pressure on his broken arm. Blood began pooling on the tiled floor, the force of Jeremiah’s cruelty causing the fractured bone to puncture Reaper’s skin. Jeremiah didn’t care, in fact, he reveled in the other boy’s pain. Twitch was frozen at his desk, gaping at Candor as though he were looking at the devil personified. Then taking a pencil from his back pocket, Jeremiah continued to sing as Reaper blubbered in front of him.
“One for the master, one for the dame.”
Jeremiah gripped Reaper by his hair. Pulling him back, Jeremiah slammed the pencil deep into his left eye, burying it inside Reaper’s skull, right down to where the little number two was stenciled on the side.
“And one for the little boy, who lived down the lane.” Jeremiah sang, his grin so wide that a thin trail of spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth.
Twitch gasped as he grabbed the receiver to the phone hanging on the wall behind him. Jeremiah was glad that Reaper finally stopped screaming. In fact, Jeremiah noted with satisfaction that the boy who tormented Candor had stopped breathing. He turned, letting Reaper’s body slump against the desk as he eyed the rest of the class.
“Anyone else care to touch me again?” Jeremiah asked in a low growl that looked demonic coming from such a small boy.
No one challenged him, which disappointed Jeremiah. He had hoped to have just a little more fun.
You’re a monster! Candor shouted at Jeremiah, trapped in the confines of his mind. You killed him! You killed him!
The doors at the back of the classroom flew open, and five men ran to the front. A moment later three of them seized Candor. One subdued each arm, while one held his feet. Jeremiah didn’t struggle, even he knew better than that.
As Candor/Jeremiah was ushered out, Jeremiah told Candor. “Don’t be so dramatic, Candy. Now they won’t ever fuck with us again. Besides, in a moment you won’t remember a thing. Not even me.”
Candor tried to ask Jeremiah what he meant by that, when his eyes shut involuntarily. One of the men uttered a strange exotic word. He felt himself go limp, and then there was only darkness.
Candor Shuveen, citizen of Tulacoss, on the planet of Penticore Prime, awoke. And he was screaming.
“Candor, are you all right?” Jinx asked.
Candor felt disoriented. His eyes darted around the room as he attempted to find the source of his unease. As they came back into focus, he saw Jinx standing in the doorway with a look of unbridled concern. Although he wanted to remember the dream, Candor could feel that the wall inside his mind had snapped shut like a bank vault. Running his hand over his face, Candor noticed that he was covered in a layer of sweat, although it was evaporating rapidly as he breathed through his skin.
I remember someone laughing at me. He thought, trying desperately to hold on to the images. Yet no matter how hard he reached for the memories they continued to elude him. Until all that was left was an empty sickness in the pit of his stomach.
“I’m fine, Jinx.”
He could tell that Jinx didn’t buy it for a second as he crossed his arms over his chest. “It has been three weeks since your rejuvenation, and I have recorded no less than six incidents of you having volatile nightmares. I believe that something is wrong, and you should tell Zyphon immediately.”
Candor swung his feet over the edge of the bed. It was a massive round circle that was five times larger than he was. He was in the process of replacing it. Yet unfortunately, it was going to take weeks to construct a new one. Simple things like beds were not so simple when it came to Penticorian physiology. Instead of a soft mattress, some blankets, and some pillows, a Penticorian bed was something of a technological masterpiece. With specially designed layers of fabric that were mixed with an inert form of Healers, beds were constructed to breathe carbon dioxide. Which Candor found helpful, because without it he would suffocate. And really, he had no business complaining. Early Penticorians slept naked on simple mats, or handmade padded boards called quixess’, uncomfortable contraptions that kept the head and feet elevated.
In the last three weeks, Candor learned many things about Penticorian history and culture. He learned what was, and was not, acceptable social behavior, and he learned that before the invention of Healers, Penticorian’s lived for approximately one-thousand years. Yet through their continued development, life expectancy tripled. He also learned about the time before the Oxygen Invasion, an ecosystem that was totally alien from what it looked like today. With increased volcanic activity, a diverse and sometimes dangerous variety of emerging plant life, and massive leviathans trolling the deep ocean, hunting for food.
The age of the Healers could be likened to the human Computer Age. A time when advances came so quickly, that the fabric of their society drastically changed in less than five generations. Still, five generations to a Penticorian, was roughly fifteen-thousand years. Plenty of time for nature to reclaim the roads and towns they built, as their entire civilization moved underground. In many ways, it was a sad ending for such a proud and long-lived race. And he knew that their solidarity in the worship of Eos would never allow the deliberate alteration of the environment, even if it meant their extinction. Candor thought they were all crazy, even if he admired their adherence to their ethical and moral codes.
He hoped that his father would discover a way to crack the energy problem, relocating them into the future before conditions deteriorated completely. Or perhaps the Out-World Faction would find a suitable home on another planet. Of course, his father disagreed with the “Outworlder’s,” as he often referred to them at the dinner table. He believed that to abandon their home was to discard the ways of Eos, and that was a prospect that Sador Shuveen could not abide. For his part, Candor didn’t care about who was right or wrong in that debate. It didn’t matter to him whether the Goddess approved or not. What concerned Candor was the survival of their species, and he was willing to cheer for both sides when it came to that singular imperative.
Candor said. “I’m fine, Jinx, really. Besides, I refuse to have any more Healers rummaging through my mind, trying to figure out what makes me tick. Zyphon talked me into one treatment already, and I have no intention of walking around with a splitting migraine.”
“Very well,” Jinx replied.
Candor got up and walked past him. “Thanks, my friend,” he said as he patted him on the shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to get cleaned and dressed. I have some new ideas for the movie.”
Jinx smiled at the thought, as nearly every waking hour for the past three weeks was spent on the replacement for the ill-fated and ill conceived, Losteruss and Paleoss. Of course, Jinx tried on several occasions to correct Candor. As a form of entertainment, what they were producing was called a moritainyoss iesuss. Yet Candor held fast to calling it a movie, another word that Jinx did not understand.
But, Jinx thought as Candor disappeared into the cleansing room,
he is the creator of this work. If he insists upon calling it a movie, then it’s a movie.
Some things they did were completely new, which included innovative additions to the photonic projectors. Jinx was in awe of Candor’s imagination and creativity. Noting that Candor had crafted something the likes of which had never been seen anywhere on Penticore Prime.
I believe that when we are done there will not be a city on all Penticore Prime that will not know the name, Candor Shuveen. Thought Jinx, while adding a smile.
He was about to leave and prepare breakfast, when he heard Candor in the cleansing unit. Candor was singing, but it was unlike anything Jinx ever heard. Accessing his higher recording functions, Jinx moved toward the sound to get a sample. It was a fast tune that was melodic, and full of vibrant life. There were many words that he didn’t understand, as nearly all of them were spoken in a language that was alien to him. Candor continued to hum, throwing in a word here and there. While the water combined with carbon molecules and the cleansing alcohol, filling the room with a dense fog.
“Excuse me, Candor. I could not help but to overhear your singing.”
Candor turned to Jinx, not embarrassed in the slightest. “Sorry about that, Jinx. I was just trying to shake off the cobwebs of a restless night. There’s nothing like a little music to help things along. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Jinx nodded. “I was wondering, what is that language you were speaking?”
Candor stopped, he hadn’t thought much about it until Jinx pointed it out.
What was I doing? Candor thought. How is it that I can remember an alien language from the time of my death? Was I there, or was it all just a dream?
“I wasn’t even aware that I was doing it, Jinx.” Said Candor as he picked up the cleansing solution and continued to wash. “The language you heard was English. It was the language of the mammals in my dream when I died. There were other languages, many in fact, but that’s the one that I remember. The song is a classic, I think the singer’s name was Stevie…I can’t remember his last name.”
Penticore Prime Page 9
