Pilot Manifest: The Source of all Things

by Tekla, Lucien

  —

  This way, Boseman, I finally told him as his incessant inquiry had become too annoying to sustain. I’ll take you to our chamber and to the ones you are so eager to meet. They’re steadfast in their work, of course. We’ll bring the celebration to them. Please, fill your beer. We will raise our glasses again once inside.

  Boseman remained disgruntled even though the wait was finally over. He followed with snorts of indignation. Scorn dilated his eyes.

  We entered the silent chamber. Our sound preceded us the way water is pushed to shore by a hull. The volume ebbed into the reflection of our movement in the far wall of glass—our holograms there captured in the late afternoon windows. Our footsteps ended and silence returned. Skeletons are stewards of such silence.

  I’m honored to first introduce Copeland, the noble Minister of Metaphysics, there, next to my vacant chair. James, our Minister of Peace, is there. On his right, excuse me, to our right is Commander Elmhurst, our heroic pilot who found us this island, incidentally, now serving as our honored Minister of Communications. And next we have—

  Unfortunately, before kind introductory remarks could be said for all the chamber, confused stuttered phrases escaped from Boseman’s cringed lips. His anger built with each of our assurances of the truth and reality of this skeleton chamber. Finally, his revelation violently erupted with an intoxicated rush of disbelief, anger, horror, rage.

  It is treason that skeletons are being used as false icons of government. He described them as mute anchors. Treason, this is treason, he shouted. He accused all of us of corruption. He indicted the Supreme Minister on the charge based on a deceptive acquisition of power.

  Boseman pointed at me as he went on to decry my ideology of peace, saying these tattered idols are profane representations of the psychotic reckonings of the Minister of State. He cried treason and threw his beer stein, striking Elmhurst, knocking him off his chair to the floor.

  Boseman pleaded to the special forces in attendance to listen to him. He begged before the mirrored face-shields of my Firebrand. There was no way they would be persuaded. Their loyalty is beyond wavering. This, Boseman should have known. They responded quickly with a beautifully violent arrest.

  The detainment left Boseman bloodied and secured to a chair. He was then dragged to the center of our chamber, to the hearth, my stone altar, where he faced the skeleton assembly he vowed to destroy.

  I attempted to calm him, sincerely. I wished to console the man in spite of his violent actions. He wasn’t absolutely beyond consoling, I imagined. Alas, he was unable to draw understanding from what he deemed my psychotic reckonings. One way or another, Mr. Boseman, you will be taking your place at a seat in this chamber. Those were my thoughts and I made them clear.

  I wish I could say that after some time passed, Boseman’s temper waned and together we were able to finally explore productive conversation. I wish that Boseman had accepted the elemental power intrinsic to this skeleton cabinet—and to our ideology of peace—and that he was led to a change of heart and an apology. I wish I could say he met the great responsibility of being a servant of prosperity and humanity with a passionate embrace. Unfortunately, I cannot. No, it went like this:

  It curves around us, Mr. Boseman, an ever-changing sun falling on your discord. It curves around us, a circling flight. The sun will never again rise for you. Blood breaks your plastic veins in two. It’s this way coming down—wind ever-changing, sun gone from red to blue. It’s all black as the hammer releases. In a tower of fire the reaper finds you.