Of Crimson Indigo: Points of Origin

by Grant Fausey

  Both Krydal and Crimson half-expected Indigo to step out of time and take them by the hand, but he didn’t. No one ever crossed the threshold. Not so much as a moisture-ridden leaf, or a flutter of wind crossed the perimeter. Nothing. The temporal conjunction was devoid of life; a barren wasteland of superheated sediment left to the smallest fire retardant microbes devised by man. Yet, the ancient enemy flourished like some benevolent evil stretched from one side of the abyss to the other. Crimson remembered the Genesis Wars. She had escaped the living death of the great experiment following the Industrials rise to power, only to see her civilization erased in a microsecond. Replaced by the idealist version of a new life form called humans. Crimson was the last of her kind, a relic in a new universe of genetically altered species. Systematically replaced by a biologically engineered life form placed in cohabitation with a new breed of mankind. What was left remained unattended on the fertile garden worlds of the Eden sector, in the arms of the Industrials. They were never really alone, and neither were Crimson or Krydal. The outline of an odd pair of footsteps, plainly visible in the sandy soil, trailed off into the distance to reveal a pair of bumbling Trod historians at the water’s edge. The two Trods stood side by side at the dry lakebed contemplating their next move.

  Manufactured in the due diligence of mankind’s hasty departure, the two nonhuman historians had befriended the old woman, making her laugh on more than one occasion. Crimson considered the Trods among the best scavengers in the universe, but unlike Krydal, she kept her distance from the little turtle-shaped foragers, allowing her host to risk the encounter. She never spoke up, which was very unlike the assassin. She believed in hard evidence, especially when it came to Relix. The Trod kept to the facts, even scientific evidence had to be proven using plain and simple detective work. Tee, on the other hand, not so much. The biped kept lose records, little scrapings in sandstone that looked a lot like shorthand notes scribbled on a Terra root branch he kept open on his lap like a stenographer’s pad.

  The bipeds were skeptical; each had a sense of misguided loyalty. Tee considered the wacky old woman’s faddish for fried Terra-root as important as his need for topsoil samples. Yet, he figured anyone in their right mind would run for the hills when they saw her coming. She was ragged, and in need of a good, hot bath. Nevertheless, the two little Trods couldn’t help but reach out and take the quirky old woman by the hand. They trusted her, and she needed them. They were traveling companions. Neither the universe, nor her host considered the Trods dangerous. So be it. The Trods were strong, reptilian-shaped creatures with big eyes, fat round bodies and hands where their feet should be. It was as if God had made them upside down and turned them inside out trying to right them. Sort of like a biomechanical, soft shell turtle. Hard on the inside, flesh on the exterior. Both tolerant of the old woman’s incessant whining about the past; her previous lives, and even considerate of her theory of coexisting worlds. The idea fascinated both the bipeds. Her previous existence on the other side of the boundary was a little hard to swallow though, but the concept intrigued them. Krydal knew any real threat to her would be dealt with swiftly and severely. Crimson wouldn’t allow any harm to come to her. Their survival depended on their cohabitation. Life was of the utmost importance. The future of both their universes depended on the success of her mission. Relix, however, considered the old woman a menace to society. Every time she opened her mouth, revealing her nearly toothless grin, he expected her to blow a fuse and run naked through the outback where the two Trods had set up their base camp. The area was perfect for such extravaganzas.

  “Come on you two,” said the old woman, slipping her fingers between her companion’s scaly little foot-like digits. The biped groaned, holding on for dear life. He knew what was up; his feet scrambling in a whirlwind as he tried to keep up but couldn’t. The Trod wasn’t built for speed, or running at all for that matter. He was more of a research vessel: a self-contained explorer with a short temper and little interest in the ranting of an innocuous biped with a taste for the finer delicacies of Terra-root pie and the mechanics of the temporal convergence. His time was limited and he had a schedule to keep. The convergence was tricky, and it was becoming quite obvious someone was interfering with his investigation, altering his findings in an attempt to manipulate the outcome of an event. Such endeavors ran the gambit of making matters worse. It was evident the crew of the Firehawk knew the risks. The ITOL gambled with their lives everyday, but this was something he hadn’t anticipated. It was Krydal’s job to protect the timeline at any cost, and it was becoming painfully obvious the outcome of the event responsible for depositing her into his world also brought with it a variation on reality. She wasn’t supposed to be here, and neither was he. They were both displaced. Someone had manipulated existence, but why? What was so important that someone would chance creating two futures to the same universe?

  “Indigo––” said the symbiont. She could feel it in her bones. It was his handiwork. That much was evident. He was there to make sure the altercation took place as planned. Crimson knew she had to hunt him down and retire him, permanently. The universe wasn’t big enough for the two of them.

  THREE: Tides that Bind

  • • •

  On the other side of the boundary separating the two futures, Krydal’s equivalent had yet to discover the truth of her alternate’s existence. The threshold permeated the singularity with undercurrents, hidden tides and microscopic rifts, merging one universe with the other in an oasis of dark, primordial ooze that formed the Triad Abyss. An unsuspecting traveler unfortunate enough to venture to its shores was instantly trapped, never-to-be-heard from again. The little Trods were living proof of just such an encounter. They had washed ashore during a long night, crossing the temporal zone where the threshold of the two universes coexisted.

  No one knew where the Trods came from or why they existed, only that they did. They were creatures simply not of this universe. Yet, they existed in both futures. Relix and Tee were biologically different and technically superior in design too most living machines either Krydal Starr or Crimson had encountered. They were ageless and seemed to have no vested interest in manipulating realities, only finding the truth of something they never spoke of. They were obviously following a preprogrammed set of instructions they kept internalized, embedded someplace deep within their psyche. For Relix, the convergence represented a unique opportunity to bridge the futures. The antiquities on both sides of the convergence were nothing, if not earmarked with familiarity. The bipeds had a truly mysterious whodunit on their hands, regardless of which universe they occupied.

  The Trods were priceless––a real moneymaking opportunity for the right entrepreneur. The ITOL had already considered the possibilities of their origins, but one thing had been inadvertently overlooked. It was possible the Trods were the vanguard of some other race; perhaps even the last surviving members of a completely undiscovered species of explorers from an alternate reality. It was highly unlikely the newcomers were abandoned, or left behind by the excavation team that originally settled Sodin and worked the planetary mining rig operation centuries before, a millennium ago. No one knew for certain, but then again, no one knew who the master-builders really were. It was possible something had happened to negate the operation. The evidence was all too familiar. Something had shut down the endeavor, before it became profitable. It was possible the hybrid workers overthrew their masters; the Trods did have some semblance of ingenuity. Then again, they too could be the result of another experiment gone amiss. Whatever the reason for their existence, it was obvious to both Crimson and her host that there were of historical significance. And there was no way of knowing what the two little masterpieces actually represented.

  No one wanted to panic quite yet. Besides, both the old woman and her younger constituent had no time to worry about such things, regardless of whichever rendition of the future they were in. Crimson had abandoned any thought of the consortium finding them long ago. Keepi
ng hope alive, even though it meant forsaking any semblance of a real life, protected the dwindling memories of her host’s existence, repressed or otherwise, allowing her former years to make an appearance. Although her world was now a much darker place, her recollection of the past was cloudy at best––something Krydal referred to as the firesale of her Akashic Record.

  The universe was acting on a deeper level than psychosis. What she carried within was discarded, but not forgotten. The forces acting upon her mind rekindled the spirit of a technological monster so unimaginable, the old woman couldn’t see beyond the reality of her previous existence. Although, she knew in her heart, it was only a matter of time before Crimson would desert them all together. She could feel the unrest building in the symbiont. The truth of the matter was hidden somewhere between the myths of an uncertain past and the language of an inconceivable future. She knew her previous venture remained unresolved, hidden among the undecipherable hieroglyphs of an extinct civilization, and a past she could no longer reconnoiter. The Tandem Radiological Observer Drones were the essence of Living Light Technology, forgotten among the populous like germs given form in the shadow of a dusty stone that no longer existed. The edifice apparently once connected the two pillars in a word-bridge like a banner set in stone. The ancient writings were unlike the ideologies he had found in the border world colonies.

  Crimson glanced down at the two would-be explorers and chuckled. If nothing else, the Trods were entertaining. She was on the move again, even though there was no sign of Indigo; she could still feel his presence. Relix, on the other hand, concentrated on several odd little symbols. He was preoccupied with the inscription. They were resilient machines. Lifeseekers, in search of the past; especially, when it came to deciphering the genetic codes they found between the gritty layers of sediment.

  “Sorry boys,” said the old woman. “I don’t have time for sightseeing today.”

  “Not true,” said Relix a-matter-of-fact. The biped looked up at her curiously. They had eternity at their disposal, only he didn’t know how to access it yet.

  “We need to move quickly,” said Krydal in a huff, patting the little historian on the head. She immediately dismissed the biped along with the importance of the message, never giving it a second thought, intentionally.

  “It’s important we complete our analysis,” said Tee. Relix rotated, witnessing his counterpart’s hasty departure out of the corner of his eye.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to alter our travel plans and leave you behind,” announced Krydal. The old woman picked up her pace, only to come to an abrupt halt, distraught. Something was wrong; she could feel it in her bones. Her hair was on end, standing erect on the back of her neck. Her brain hurt, as if it had been disassembled and dissected. But she did nothing. There was an eerie calm around her, as if there was a change in the universe that affected everything! The world was set askew; something in the timeline was affecting her. But what was different? Obviously, what happened before was happening again.

  There was nothing to worry about, she said to herself. Maybe a few rubble rats … Still, it was more than the old assassin wanted to deal with. The Trods were visually agitated.

  “Indigo was right––” said Relix. The little biped shuttered at the thought, making a point. Of course, they knew his name. It was all she ever talked about.

  “You can’t change the past,” answered the old woman. “You can only alter its course.”

  “Awe––” said the biped. The Trod picked up her archeological tools, and stuffed them into a small message case like those used by a courier, before he continued.

  “Then it’s impossible to erase an event without causing another situation to occur?” asked the historian.

  “Not really,” answered Crimson.

  Krydal took the instruments from the green-faced biped and placed them with her journal into the instrument wrap, setting them between a stone tablet and a piece of rolled cloth.

  “Then you are wrong!” Gasped Relix. The old woman took a step, drawing back the tears swelling in her eye. “I know where to find Jake!”

  “Then perhaps that is where we should look,” agreed Krydal. She cocked her head, her heart pounding from the rise of adrenaline. She was standing alone in the pouring rain; her hand on her sidearm, like a peace officer.

  The Trod pointed to the rubble sign. The symbiont’s soul withdrew in a spark of creation, safely preserved in the old woman’s heart, as if no time had passed at all.

  “Brakka,” said Crimson Krydal Starr. “Three for extraction.”

  THE ALTERNATE FOURTH UNIVERSE

  _________________________

  The Parallel Third Dimension

  FOUR: Alternate Realities

  • • •

  The ITOL gunship, Firehawk, sliced through the wake of wave corridor travel to materialize out of thin air in front of the steel composite mining rig platform, a kilometer away from where the little Trods ran on the battlement. Tee surveyed the warship from a vantage point hidden among dark gray rocks, watching the beastly machine spiral downward like a ghost born from a cloud of dust and flying debris. Its six massive engines roared to life in a burst of energy that suspended the vehicle in a wave of distortion that brought light to the old woman’s eyes. She remembered the event like it was yesterday. Hudson Warner was on the bridge, a large husk of a man draped in the finest restraints known to man. His body an instrument, a finely tuned weapon of the ITOL Flight Services Generation and the single pilot of a multi-million dollar machine of incredible power and poise.

  “Grab hold of something,” said the pilot, pulling back on the stick. The great ship was alive with the rumble of powerful motors set to a symphony of gibberish that lit up the Threat Board like a Christmas tree in the center of the gunship’s main cabin.

  “Stand by …” said Commander Joseph Patton, thirty-six, a square-jawed male with deep blue eyes and finely coarse hair. “Ten seconds.”

  The officer nodded as he grabbed the nearest crossbeam, taking special care not to hold onto a longitudinal support as he steadied himself along side the forward bulkhead. The stabilizer motors roared in unison, sending a shudder through the cabin that practically vibrated Hudson Warner out of his jump chair the moment the gunship slammed into the stratosphere, buffeting hard in the turbulence. The Firehawk held its ground against the draw of the planet’s gravity-well. Nevertheless, the outer hull blistered with streams of atmospheric debris, blazing from absolute zero to the lively fires of reentry hell, while searing with a whirlwind of flaming exhaust hell-bent on reaching its target. The extreme pressure of wave corridor travel trailed off the vessel in a tornadic wave visible too even the smallest of intruders, revealing the daunting shape of the metal giant; its upper weapons pylon, lower fighter compartment and forward gunports.

  The warship pivoted sharply, repelling the ground in a magnetic wave that ricocheted off the cracked surface and jagged rock formations with enough force to pulverize the topsoil into a sandy dust cloud; its semblance of electrical discharges wreaking havoc over the exterior hull, in order to soften the vehicle’s approach in a near landing. The old woman watched with excitement, reconnoitering the past as she moved along the derelict mining rig’s scaffolding onto the wind-swept grates on the lower deck platform. Her heart raced, the memories of another time coursing through her veins as it rushed to the surface after years of seclusion. She could see the shadowy representation of her previous existence, the foggy image of the gunship as it slipped across one temporal zone into another, like a reflection in a dusty mirror. The warship was beyond the barrier in another universe, hovering in the shadows of the derrick tower where she could face her doppelganger counterpart once and for all, and breathe life back into her symbiont.

  The old woman held her breath, Indigo was near. Crimson could feel his presence, the quiver in the universe from his resonation. He existed on her side of the boundary. If she was right, if her constituent was on the other side of the barrier a
nd she truly did exist, she would be twenty-five years old; have sixteen jumps under her belt and her finger would be on the edge of her comlink; a touch from the control as she felt the surge of anticipation tightening her stomach. The sensation would make her blood pressure skyrocket to an all time high, the result of the proximity alarm in her head.

  “Transmit,” ordered Patton. A liquid metal visor slid into place across the young warrior’s face, covering her eyes in a way that made her damned near invisible. Hudson Warner winked, toying with a smile, but her body faded into a brilliant amber light, absorbed in the gust of hot wind that backlashed across her face. The corporate liaison cringed. Krydal remembered her body gestating in the high resonance transport beam teleporting her to the surface. She had been here before. Sober, in two places at the same time: her body weightless in planetfall. Her Magnetic boots grabbed at the deck plates, but found no metal to cling to, no surface with which to attach. The universe had swallowed her whole; reintegrating her just short of the landing zone, a click from where the old woman stood beneath the battlement, staring at her from the other side of the boundary.