Storm Constantine’s Wraeththu Mythos
Paragenesis
Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu
Edited by Storm Constantine
and Wendy Darling
Immanion Press
Stafford, England
*****
Storm Constantine’s Wraeththu Mythos:
Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu
Compilation copyright © 2010 Storm Constantine
Story copyright © 2010 Storm Constantine and individual contributors
Smashwords edition 2011
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Introduction © 2010 Brad Carpenter
Storm Constantine – Pro Lucror © 2010
Storm Constantine – Paragenesis © 2010
Wendy Darling – Something’s Coming © 2010
Wendy Darling – The First © 2010
Andy Bigwood – Specimen 16 © 2010
Christopher Coyle – A Sickle Blade © 2010
Christopher Coyle – You Can Never Go Back © 2010
Suzanne Gabriel – The Dawn of Hope © 2010
Gwyn Harper – The Burned Boy © 2010
Fiona Lane – The Conservation of Momentum © 2010
Maria J. Leel – Song of the Sulh © 2010
Kristi Lee – The Rune-Throwing © 2010
Martina Luise Pachali – Building Immanion © 2010
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, or events, is purely coincidental All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. The right of the individual contributors and Storm Constantine to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
Cover Art: Ruby (
An Immanion Press Edition published through Smashwords
http://www.immanion-press.com
[email protected]
*****
Contents
Introduction – Brad Carpenter
Paragenesis – Storm Constantine
The First – Wendy Darling
A Sickle Blade – Christopher Coyle
The Dawn of Hope – Suzanne Gabriel
The Burned Boy – Gwyn Harper
Building Immanion – Martina Luise Pachali
Specimen 16 – Andy Bigwood
You Can Never Go Back – Christopher Coyle
Conservation of Momentum – Fiona Lane
Song of the Sulh – Maria J. Leel
The Rune-Throwing – Kristi Lee
Something’s Coming – Wendy Darling
Pro Lucror – Storm Constantine
The Future of our Dark, Delirious Imaginings – Wendy Darling
Early Wraeththu Inspirations- Storm Constantine
About the Contributors
Introduction
Brad Carpenter
It was a dancer friend of mine who first turned me on to Storm Constantine’s “The Wraeththu Chronicles.” One day he handed me a chunky paperback copy of the original omnibus edition, and it soon became my constant companion. Over the following weeks, I voraciously consumed my way through all the fantastical adventures contained within its pages until I had devoured the entire glorious meal. Luckily for us all, there were several more courses yet to come. Constantine had begun expanding her series with three more books comprising “The Wraeththu Histories.”
If you’re already a fan of the Wraeththu series, the collection of short stories within “Paragenesis” will feel like a good long drink of water in the desert, to be savoured to the last drop. The term “Paragenesis” comes from the Greek for “born beside” and roughly translates to “the effect of one upon the development of another.” 1 The stories of “Paragenesis” explore some of the early milestones along Wraeththu’s journey of self-discovery. As Wraeththu continue to differentiate themselves from humans, they quickly begin creating a new civilisation in their own image. Gangs will become tribes, and tribes will mature into nations. Humanity, on the other hand, must come to grips with the fact that they have been bumped off the top of the evolutionary chain by a stronger, more durable species that is also of combined gender.
Throughout the Wraeththu series, Storm Constantine reminds us that evolution never takes a holiday. Mother Nature’s work continues on, shaping all creatures to be better at surviving and integrating into the world around them. Creation begets more creation; and so it has been within the rich literary world of Wraeththu as well. With a growing legion of online fans inspired by her novels, Constantine has been able to carefully nurture an ever-expanding world of fan fiction. In addition to two stories penned by Constantine, “Paragenesis” contains work by brilliant authors who have sprung up from the prolific world of the “Wraeththu Mythos.” In this way, the world Constantine has created continues to recreate itself. Creation progresses out of its own momentum: a theme throughout the Wraeththu series itself.
If you’re new to the world of Wraeththu, then you’re in for a provocative introduction that will likely seduce you into reading the whole series. In the post apocalyptic world imagined by Storm Constantine, human civilisation has all but completely broken down. Having polluted the environment to the point of crippling toxicity, humans have found themselves increasingly unable to reproduce. Urban conditions have deteriorated severely, wars in the Middle East over oil and religion have stretched the military precariously thin, and Global Warming has destabilized the weather patterns to the point where many of the continents have begun to be reshaped. Those with money, power, or highly prized workforce skills, have hunkered down within high-security gated enclaves. Those without such means have had to resort to living on the streets, surviving as best they can. Deep within the decrepit concrete jungle of the inner cities, where street gangs battle over territory, a new mysterious clan has emerged. They call themselves “Wraeththu.” Stories of them are often so fantastical that many scoff them off as pure fiction.
With all the various rumours surrounding these inexplicable youths, few have guessed their true nature. Wraeththu are a new advanced species that appear to be Mother Nature’s cure for the ills that we have inflicted upon the planet. Their blood can heal us by transforming us into one of their kind. Some humans are abducted into the fold. Others hear the call and join willingly. Our civilization has become obsolete. If we are to survive at all, it will now have to be through them.
The ones who call themselves Wraeththu look at us as though we’re something out of the Stone Age. They know they’re genetically superior. Their firm, panther-like bodies are stronger and more resilient than ours. They have telepathic abilities, and can manipulate energy in ways that seem purely magical to us. When they combine these traits in order to defend themselves, their combat skills are hard to beat, even against some of our best technology.
To Wraeththu, Humans seem oddly imbalanced and incomplete. They refer to us as “half-sexes.” Being hermaphrodite allows Wraeththu to transcend any limitations of gender. To Humans, a Wraeththu’s exotic combination of both masculine and feminine traits has the power to entice, or confound, or terrify.
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p; Of all their prized survival skills, Wraeththu most treasure their power to seduce. Their dual gender nature allows them to express their own masculine and feminine energies as each circumstance dictates, giving them the advantages of both. When seducing humans, they can project whichever gender seems most useful at the time. In the presence of both men and women, they can easily project both energies, so as to be able to seduce both sexes at once.
When Wraeththu seduce each other, the attraction is much more complex. They recognize sex as more than merely a means to satisfy the need for procreation and pleasure. Their simplest sensual acts, such as the “sharing of breath,” can reveal memories, emotions and untold secrets. Deeper coupling can be used to release healing energy, expand group consciousness, or to explore other planes of existence. In the emerging Wraeththu culture, sensuality and the combining of one another’s “essence” becomes a fundamental spiritual practice.
But how did the first Wraeththu come to be? And is it really simply an “accident” when the first “mutant” discovers that his blood can transform a human into one of his kind? Or was this really divine intervention necessitated by an immediate need to evolve? And if so, where did this intervention come from? Just when Constantine’s Wraeththu series answers some of these questions, the author skilfully provides additional mysteries tantalisingly out of reach in order to keep us asking for more.
Post-apocalyptic fiction has been around for as long as the written word. From Noah’s Ark and the Great Flood in the book of Genesis, to Mad Max and the host of films that followed, we’ve long been fascinated by what could be waiting for us at the end of civilisation as we know it. Given the precarious state of our modern world, is it any surprise that we often find ourselves wondering what happens next? I’m far from what I would consider to be a survivalist, but as I watch our news devolving into scenarios that would have passed as science fiction back in the 80’s when Constantine first published “The Wraeththu Chronicles,” I start glancing nervously at the box of camping gear tucked away in the bedroom closet. At those doubtful moments, I’m wondering whether or not that meagre collection of survival tools might end up becoming our most treasured and useful possessions.
Happily, the Wraeththu series is apocalyptic literature at its most optimistic. Unlike other stories of the genre, the world that Constantine has created doesn’t simply imagine our civilisation in ruin, only to leave us in a desolate landscape, regretting our short-sightedness and blind stupidity. Constantine’s Wraeththu novels imagine another leg on evolution’s journey. The author provides a world in which our extinction has been thwarted by a radically new game plan. The age of the division of the genders has passed. God has put the rib back into Adam, and his children have been made whole once again. This more evolved version of ourselves understands its place in the garden, and will now serve to tend and nurture it. Wraeththu are the promise fulfilled. The world as we know it has ended because we have emerged from the cocoon as something better, and a new age of wisdom and growth has become possible.
As Wraeththu quickly discover, however, their genetic superiority does not mean that they can abandon their heritage. They are born from Humanity, so like it or not, we will always be a part of them. The question posed as we watch Wraeththu struggle to develop is whether or not they will be able to learn from Humanity’s mistakes in time to not repeat them. Wraeththu fiction resonates deeply because we are desperate for the solutions that this more advanced species provides. As I would imagine is the case with many fans of Wraeththu, I would love to somehow truly become one of their advanced species. But even if we can’t physically transform into one of these glorious creatures (and I have to admit that I haven’t completely accepted that fact), then maybe we can instead bring out their more evolved qualities from within ourselves. Wraeththu may seem magical to us, but perhaps that’s only because we haven’t yet learned how to reach our own full potential. And thus the theme I find the most compelling of all: Can we Humans, remedial students that we are, still learn from our own mistakes in time to finally evolve to the level of balance and connectedness that Mother Nature requires of us? I guess only time will provide the answer to that question. Meanwhile, I think there is something we can all learn from each other along the journey to exploring our own inner Wraeththu.
1 Guilbert, John M. and Charles F. Park, 1986, The Geology of Ore Deposits, pp. 210-217, Freeman, ISBN 0-7167-1456-6
Klein, Cornelis and Cornelius Hurlbut, Jr. (1985) Manual of Mineralogy, Wiley, 20th ed., ISBN 0-471-80580-7
Paragenesis
Storm Constantine
I have scars upon my left hand, but not upon my right. If I hold my hands up to the eternal sun, light shines through the flesh. But there is no flesh. I am idea, essence. I am the flash of sunlight off chrome; I am the seasons; I am the shadow beneath the eaves; I am a scrap of litter scratching across cracked asphalt. No, I am bones and blood. I am crude and heavy. I am what I am.
When I was sixteen, I ran away from my leaf-shrouded home in the enclave for the rich, about twelve miles from the city centre. Perhaps it began as a suicide bid. All I did was move my limbs, without conscious volition, toward the wilderness of stone and glass that circled the city itself like a plague. It was the hinterland of decay, spreading both outward and inward, threatening city core and enclave alike. People could lose themselves there, and I wanted to be lost.
I remember that day, she was standing at the kitchen sink with her back to me. She could always sense when I walked into the room. I’d see her spine tense beneath its dress of cotton, its caul of skin. How cruel had Mother Nature been to make her spawn a child she could only fear? Blessed was the day when she no longer had to touch me; when I could feed and bathe myself, tie my own laces, rub my own hurts. I could not despise her, for I shared her bewilderment, her bitterness. When I’d been born, no doubt she’d decided to make the best of it. I was a beautiful child, but for those hidden abnormalities. Later, she probably realised that even monsters could be beautiful. My father was a non-entity, consumed by work. We rarely saw him. Our home always seemed empty when she and I were in it together. The spaces between us were too great, and as I grew older, they became gulfs.
On that final day, I could not bear to see that stiffening spine any longer. She had birthed me and raised me; now her responsibility was over. I turned around and walked away; out of the shady house into the sunlight; past the bike lying on the tarmac, where a few red leaves had drifted down; past the rope that hung from the old willow, still swinging and where I never played. The street was devoid of children; empty. Empty. This had never been my home.
On the horizon, a grey green cloud hung above the city. It was a walk of about four hours to reach it along the main highway. Sometimes, a bus might come, rattling and armoured, but not very often. People with eyes like pebbles rode the bus; not coming from anywhere, going nowhere, just riding. Perhaps they thought time would stop for them in that way. I would not ride the buses, for I was afraid that if I did, I would be absorbed into that shadow community and never leave it. Another freak on the back seat.
It was mid-morning when I left the enclave, and already the sun was fierce in the late summer sky. At the high metal gates, the eyes of the guards were hidden behind black glass. They stood motionless, like automatons. I passed between them, showed my id card, and the gates slid open. A minute later, someone else might come by, and the guards would come alive. They’d touch their helmets, grin to show their white teeth and utter a pleasantry. But not for me. After I’d gone, one would say, ‘That’s the weird kid from Acacia’, and the others would sneer.
I walked along the slip road that led to the highway. It seemed hotter beyond the enclave, and the air shimmered about me. Vigilantes had strung someone from a pole. I could see the body dangling on the other side of the road, surrounded by trees. A cloud of flies danced around it. Beneath it, someone had left some artificial flowers. Perhaps the enclave guards, high up on the gates and watchtowers, had seen it
happen.
I cannot remember feeling anything then. I just walked, kicking up dust that smelled of metal and age, buffeted by the searing wind of passing vehicles. After an hour, a truck stopped to offer me a lift. The back was filled with people, crammed together like pigs on the way to a slaughterhouse. They were probably just crop-pickers, returning to the city. My feet were aching, so I hopped up into the back. Certain people always picked up on my strangeness, and this occasion was no different. My fellow travellers were like frightened animals: I saw furtive shuffling, and nervous eye movements. I didn’t say anything. Eventually, one of the men offered me a cigarette and I smoked it, looking out through the truck canopy at the passing road. My mother will have missed me by now. Her relief will fill the silent house, washed by waves of shame. She will grip the edge of the sink and blink at the garden, where the sprinkler slowly turns on the lawn.
I did not resent being born different. The resentment came from other people’s reactions. I was so ordinary in most respects. Dogs had never liked me; we could never keep one. Sometimes, things happened around me over which I had no control. It wasn’t my fault. It was the look in her eyes. I made the saucepans fly once, but not toward her. She just screamed, her hands pressed to her face, staring at the mess on the floor. Other kids didn’t like me very much, despite my parents efforts to find me friends. I didn’t mind being alone. I’d tell my mother things she thought were her private thoughts, and then her mouth would compress into two white lines. Later, I’d hear her telling my father about it: ‘He must listen to us, for God’s sake! Do something!’ I didn’t listen. I just knew. It was like she told me things herself without words.
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