by Wayne Hill
Splinter Salem Part One
Splinter Salem, Volume 1
Wayne Hill
Published by Wayne Hill, 2021.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
SPLINTER SALEM PART ONE
First edition. June 1, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Wayne Hill.
ISBN: 979-8201292577
Written by Wayne Hill.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
SPLINTER SALEM PART 1
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
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About the Publisher
FOR TOMMY & MARIE
0
Five minutes, thirty-eight seconds, and seven split seconds post-arrival of deep space exploration craft Neptune to Gliese 581d, the age-old question of whether we are alone in the universe finally had a resolute answer.
The aliens were nicknamed Buckies by an over enthusiastic zoologist, who noted a certain similarity in the shell shape of the aliens to that of the whelk, whose Latin name was Buccinum undatum. Their scale, however, was significantly different. Buckies were three to four times the size of Earth’s blue whales, highly intelligent, friendly, herbivorous, and aesthetically unpleasant. (Actually, to say that Buckies are aesthetically unpleasant is a perverse understatement, the greatest fantasy of the millennium. It is like saying Pluto is a bit nippy in winter! The foul appearance of these highly unusual alien creatures could stop you dead in your tracks and cause you to evacuate your bowels.) Hundreds of first encounters with these mysterious and terrifying creatures has unwittingly ended many a brave explorer’s intention of visiting other planets, and, indeed, meeting anything with more eyes than themselves.
Buckies have a head superficially like that exhibited by Earth’s terrestrial snails, but it has two bulbous, stalk-less and glowing eyes either side of what appears to be a demonically horned skull mask. Affix a bone-white demon mask to a whelk and grow it in size two million times and you can better picture a Buckie. Housed inside a Buckies’ mask is a curled-up tentacle, which due to convergent evolution is not entirely dissimilar to the molluscan radula. Outwardly, the eyes of Buckies look like the compound eyes of Earth flies, in part, anyway. Most of the bulk of Buckies is composed of hard shell and soft, slug-like flesh.
The Buckies had no comprehension of why the strange visitors had come to their peaceful planet. Their unpolluted ecosystem and delicate habitat — the product of millions of years of evolution — changed within Earth-weeks of the humans’ arrival, and within fifty Earth-years there were major issues. The humans knew that the creatures had no idea of the term ‘overcrowding,’ no understanding of the motives of the United Space Association (USA). The innocent — or perhaps, naïve — Buckies saw no threat to their world or way of life. They observed these peculiar human visitors as a source of interest, in a child-like way.
Buckies went about their silent existence in the deep ocean canyons, buried in the sludge they generate by eating the diverse marine plant life of the planet. The curious beasts lived centred around bubbling hydrothermal vents, channels to the planet’s life-giving core, only surfacing occasionally to feed on plankton and the planet’s abundant algae-like lifeforms. Those who first observed the colossal aliens in a herd on the sea floor, churning the ocean’s sediment, believed that the world was in flux, the mantle shifting with an unnaturally rapid geologic speed.
One Earth-year after the arrival of humans, most of the Buckies had been wiped out. Humans dramatically altered the oceanic temperatures as they began their terraforming to extend the habitable zone of the planet. They triggered eruptions from the core of the planet, as enhanced volcanic action was a necessity to produce land mass. The Buckies could do nothing but swim, leviathan-like, to the darker, colder side of the planet. Gliese 581d had a furnace-side, tidally-locked to face the gaze of its star, Gliese, and a dark-side, where the temperatures were the exact opposite — a fierce cold, unimaginable to most humans.
Over the following five centuries the population of these majestic creatures had diminished so dramatically it seemed extinction was inevitable. Humans took several male and female samples and kept them contained and safe until the terraforming was complete. The Buckies were then reintroduced into designated areas of the planet, protected in reservations, and they seemed to settle well and thrive. Their collective misery for lost family and friends remained as buried as their secret lives under the vast ocean before the arrival of their human overlords.
The science fiction books of Earth’s long-lost past told numerous stories of human-like aliens. Aliens with similar intelligence and inhabiting the same conscious plane of thought as Earthlings: similar wants and materialistic needs ... and the same desire to kill all those deemed inferior to themselves. These fictitious aliens all existed in the same dimension, the same reality.
Humans are the tentacle-horrors from Mars — of early 50s movies — wantonly dispatching death as soon as they see alternative life. We are the evil aliens, with lasers for eyes, that did not come in peace.
Humanity ventured to many more planets after Gliese 581d, but no matter how many worlds they visited, everything followed the same pattern. It came as no shock, after a few more millennia had elapsed, that no creature encountered could match Homo sapiens when it came to invention, forethought, or ruthless competitive survival instincts.
Humans had innumerable dreams of the future they intended to carve into the heavens above them: what strange and fascinatingly intelligent lifeforms they could meet to better their knowledge of the universe. Unfortunately, the lifeforms discovered by Earth’s brave adventurers served only to fuel a deep despair within Man. There was a question that burned solar flare-bright in the minds of early space adventurers: are we the only race that has left their home-world? Are we the only space-faring species?
In the centuries that have elapsed since the discovery of Buckies, aliens were discovered on many habitable planets in the Milky Way and neighbouring Andromeda galaxy. All these alien species had an intellectual capacity akin to that of many Earth mammals: cows, dogs, pigs, and dolphins. Our collective ego revelled in this discovery and proclaimed that humans, as the only lifeform discovered to have left their planet of origin, are the supreme universal intelligence. We named ourselves gods.
The first alien race known to humans, Buckies, were found to have many alien compounds inside them that proved beneficial to humans. They became cattle, farmed and harvested for health and beauty products. Consequently, the aliens of other worlds became nothing more than food — food for the self-declared gods of space, an intergalactic smorgasbord of unusual flavours.
1
Inside the small grey room, a young boy cradles his bandaged blood-stained arm. He occasionally removes his injured right arm from the comfort of his still-healing midsection, chancing a look. His eyes narrow as he peeks under the sticky bandage, brow marked with concern. Underneath the raised incisions on his forearm, light radiates — the soft and warm pastel tones mock his pain.
“Join, why don’t you join?” The boy whispers to his injured arm and the lights, he whispers to the advanced biotech buried deep in his muscle mass. Hoping, praying that something far beyond the boundaries of Scientific Reason might be listening, that something might obey his will.
A knock on the door makes him jump. He pulls down the sleeve of his jacket to cover his arm, revealing the silver and red emblem of The US
A’s Diamond Lights School for the Gifted. Blood soaks into the sleeve — the silver emblem now looking less than majestic, patchy with the blood of the innocent.
A middle-aged woman clad in white robes carries a silver tray. The tray has on it a syringe-gun and two small vials of golden liquid.
“Here. Both our formulas,” the woman cheerfully announces as she presents the tray.
The boy looks at the metal tray and then the woman.
“No thanks,” says the boy, through gritted teeth, as he turns his attention back to his arm.
“Tommy, please take your formula. I'll take mine. We can optimise, and talk.”
“Mary, just take both, and tell everyone I've taken mine. Go optimal, keep a level of sanity around this asylum, and — hell, I don't know! — just keep it secret.”
“No. Not again, Tommy. We'll get in trouble, maybe banished if the Believers find out.”
“I don't care. I'm not taking that formula anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know what it is.”
“And what, exactly, is it?”
“Apathy in a tube. Contentment in a container. All your dreams come true; all your dreams to dust.”
“What does that mean?” asks Mary, as she takes a shot of golden liquid to the neck. The golden liquid shines for a while under the skin — it spreads out like a web across her neck, and then vanishes. “It's just formula,” she says.
He stares at her.
“Everyone takes it,” she adds.
“Well, everyone needs to start trying something else, because this is insane. Optimising and going Optimal is pointless if your brain thinks the same as other brains. Just gaining knowledge to know things, where’s the greatness in that?” asks Tommy.
“The things you did today need addressing. That poor teacher. You're taking the work detail from The Association too far. The work you have done for them is quite enough. We need you to concentrate on Drumcroon matters, not Associate matters.”
“No, I feel as if you deserve some insight into my plans because you see me as something I'm not, and it's bothering me. I'm not doing either of the things you mentioned. Although, on the surface, I can see where your Optimal thoughts are being generated. That's what it looks like. It’s one or the other with all you formula fans, isn't it, Mary?
No, I'm not doing either. I'm using the Drumcroon facility only to eat, sleep and shit in. I'm using The Association for access to equipment I wouldn't normally be permitted to use,” says Tommy, clutching his arm.
“How is it?” asks the woman with concern, looking at Tommy’s arm.
“Well, Mary, it's not great,” says Tommy, sarcastically. He pulls up his sleeve to show her a mutilated arm with wires and less-than-perfect stitches holding down swelling implants. Blood abounds.
“You’ve gone too far this time, Tommy!” Mary’s hand has come up and is covering her mouth.
“Nope, this is just the beginning. If these implants take, that is. I have three more procedures and then I should be finished.”
“Has your father seen this?”
“No. I think he walked past me once while I was cleaning the floor in the circle room. That was two weeks ago.”
“He’s a busy man. He has this place to run, and the Believers and the Association hold him accountable for just about everything.”
“I know. I’d like to say I understand, but I don't. We are different people, I suppose.”
“Looks sore ... Is it?" asks Mary.
Tommy shrugs. “The pain comes in waves. The first set of implants, last fall, damaged my nerve endings. I don’t feel much in this arm. Anyway, thanks for the concern, but you’re worrying about things that are beyond your mental reach. Your Optimal capabilities are useless here, so it’s pointless.”
“You’re doing odd things to yourself, Tommy, but — if this is what makes you happy — I suppose you know best. Please, for me, take this formula. I don’t want to lose you to this place. Wild animals roam the woods, and you know, if you get yourself banished, you’re just going to be food for the bears.”
“I’m not worried about bears,” Tommy says holding up his injured arm.
“Come on, Tommy, for me,” says Mary, holding the tray out towards him, the formula shimmering in the light.
“I’ve told you; it doesn't work on me. It would be a waste of formula. I have immunity to the formula. I made myself a serum which I took for three months. It contains psilocybin, Lion’s Mane, Ginko Biloba, and other such plants. I added a parasitical fungus, called Cordyceps sinensis, and after applying a few waves of energy, at the right time, to my brain ... boom! I made myself immune to formula.”
“But it’s just formula, Tommy! Everybody tak —”
“You know what, Mary?” he interrupts. “I’ve got some suffering to do here, and you’re just giving me more pain of the head and ear variety. Please can you go. Tell them I’ve taken it. Please. I’ll act reasonably from now on, I swear. I just need a little time to finalise some things I’ve been working on and then, I promise you, I’ll be no trouble at all.”
“Well, you know best, I suppose. You always know best. And what am I going to do with this?” She holds up the formula.
“Mary, you do all these calibrations, all these mind-strengthening acts. What are you doing with all this newly gained wisdom? All this health and ... wealth of mind? What are you creating? Please just leave, I ... am in some pain,” says Tommy, through gritted teeth.
Mary looks at the tray, then Tommy.
“Not everybody wants to make things, Tommy.”
Tommy cradles his injured arm, tucking it into his stomach, and points to the door with the other arm.
“Thank you,” Tommy says.
Mary walks to the door, opens it and, without turning, she quietly says, “I made you.” She closes the door behind her, takes Tommy’s dose of golden fluid and injects the contents of the gun-syringe into her neck. She winces a little, her pupils dilating within glazed eyes.
She strolls down the long corridor of doors. Doors which lead to rooms with sleeping children. Other Guardians’ children: Optimal children. She thinks only clear thoughts, only good things. She’s Optimal and focused, going to her next dutiful task.
Back in the small grey room, Tommy is lying on his bed staring into nothingness. He repeats the same line of dialogue, in different languages, as he clasps his mutilated arm tight to his chest. The glowing lumps beneath his skin rise and fall with his tonal inflection, dancing with the pitch of each sentence.
“Non enim natus es ut ego rogabo.”
“Lm ‘atlub ‘an ‘akun mkhlwaqana.”
“Mi ne petis esti kreita.”
“Je n’ai pas demandé à être créé.”
“Ich habe nicht darum gebeten, geschaffen zu warden.”
“Watashi wa sakusei sa reru koto o motomemasendeshita.”
“Ez nuen sortzea eskatu.”
“Wô méiyôu yāoqiú bèi chuàngzào.”
“Jeg bad ikke om at blive oprettet.”
“Ik heb niet gevraagd om gecreeerd te worden.”
“Ég bad ekki um ad vera búinn til.”
“Níor iarr mé go gcruthófaí mé.”
“Es neprasīju, lai mani izveido.”
“Sakusei o irai shinakatta.”
“Aš neprašiau būti sukurtas.”
“Čhån mì dî khx hî šrāng.”
“I didn't ask to be created.”
2
Of all the troubling hypotheses and mind-boggling conundrums that exist in this agreed reality, two quandaries lift their heads high above any others as giants of arcana: infinity and nothingness. These two marauding head-scratchers are forever marked as Enigma’s unrewarded champions.
These two subject matters have set many open-ended questions that scientists, philosophers and freethinkers continue to struggle with today. Infinity and nothingness. These two topics have the power to push rational and intellectual faculties to their limi
t. Infinity and nothingness: perhaps doomed to be opposing twins of mystery, invariably attracting interest within many a scientific, philosophical, and even psychedelic debate since humankind’s earliest investigations — whether they be purposeful and directed studies of the physics behind the universe, or the more spiritual paths of hermetic, gnostic, or shamanic pursuits.
Human psychedelic voyagers have rituals that include drugs such as psilocybin, the molecule DMT, Peyote and Salvia divinorum. Adventurers’ constraints and self-made boundaries of physical and mental capabilities never falter in the way of mankind’s deep curiosity to map what cannot be mapped; to recover the missing part of the puzzle, or the rare creature that has eluded the sharpest of minds since the idea of mind. The traveller ventures forth into the darkest depths for the enrichment of their soul.
When we stare into the abyss — the void of nothingness — or out from it, into the infinite, we will regularly encounter something dwelling there, something set aside that will unsettle, inspire, encourage.
The philosopher Carl Gustav Jung once stated: ‘No tree’s branches can reach heaven, except the one whose roots have originated in hell.’
What if there is a person or being in existence who has witnessed infinitude; lived inside nothingness? How would that person survive? Who would they be able to talk to? Some experiences of searching for those hidden answers can lead to chilling conclusions. What is known now by our whiskey-drum minds? We know how to drown unexplainably terrifying thoughts with fermented and distilled goods, forever ensuring a particular agreeableness.
On Earth — where humans still dwell, albeit against their will — there exists a place where all these mysterious wonderings are either nurtured or quenched. A place where the most significant and strangest minds tussle over problems amongst like-minded kin. We know this place as: The Pub.
