by Gene Brewer
K-PAX V
OTHER BOOKS BY GENE BREWER
K-PAX
K-PAX II: On a Beam of Light
K-PAX III: The Worlds of Prot
K-PAX: the Trilogy, featuring Prot’s Report
Creating K-PAX
K-PAX IV
K-PAX Redux
Ben and I
Murder on Spruce Island
Watson’s God
3 Stories and a Novella
The American Way
Wrongful Death
“Alejandro” in Twice Told
Three Early Novels
Becoming Human
K-PAX V
The Coming of the Bullocks
Gene Brewer
Copyright © 2014 by Gene Brewer.
ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4990-0481-6
eBook 978-1-4990-0479-3
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
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Rev. date: 04/25/2014
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Contents
PROLOGUE
DAY ONE
DAY TWO
DAY THREE
DAY FOUR
DAY FIVE
DAY SIX
DAY SEVEN
MESSAGE DAY
AFTERWORD
PROT’S NINE SUGGESTIONS FOR PLANET EARTH
NOTE ADDED IN PROOF
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“Thou shalt not kill.”
— God
PROLOGUE
When a mental patient calling himself “prot” showed up at the Manhattan Psychiatric Institute in New York in 1990 claiming to be from the planet K-PAX (in the constellation Lyra), I took him on as my patient, thinking him to be an interesting case of psychotic delusion. I spent weeks trying to analyze and treat his psychosis before ultimately discovering, through hypnosis, that he was actually a secondary personality of a man whose wife and daughter had been raped and murdered five years earlier. It hardly entered my mind that prot could also be what he professed to be, namely an alien visitor from a faraway world. Even when he “disappeared” in 1997, I was still doubtful, despite the fact that his “departure” was witnessed not only by me but by several of my colleagues, as well as many of the other patients, and even a couple of CIA agents who recorded the whole thing on a video device of some kind.
My uncertainty evaporated in 2005, however, when a second being from the same planet appeared on the doorstep of our retirement home in the Catskills. “Fled” stayed only a month, but this was time enough for her to gather nearly 100,000 of the great apes (she closely resembled a large chimpanzee herself), and a number of assorted humans, for the return trip to her native planet. And more than enough time to become pregnant with a child whose unknown (even to her) father could have been human or any of a number of ape species.
While fled was here, she indicated that we should expect return visits from Giselle Griffin, the free-lance reporter who had been instrumental in tracking down prot’s alter ego, Robert Porter, and Giselle’s son Gene (named after me!), as well as my intrepid daughter Abby, who accompanied her on the return voyage to K-PAX. She did not, however, specify a date for their arrival.
Fled also informed us that, in the near future, we should expect another set of visitors, the “Bullocks,” a rather unforgiving and apparently violent race of beings from an unspecified planet, who were quite displeased with the destructive behavior of Homo sapiens toward our own world, including our malicious treatment of every other species with whom we share it and, for that matter, of one another. She surmised that we would probably have fifteen years to clean up our act before they intervened. Unfortunately, this estimate turned out to be far too generous.
When they arrived, in the fall of 2013, I was dismayed to discover that they, too, came straight to me. Because of my past history with prot and fled, I suppose, I was singled out to deliver their ultimatum — stop the killing — to all human beings everywhere.
Unbeknownst to me, our government was not totally unprepared for the Bullocks’ visit. Based on my experience with prot and fled, the Administration had, in fact, come up with a number of contingency plans for dealing with our latest visitors. Ultimately, however, none of that mattered much. Most of the responsibility fell on my own shoulders, and the load was simply too much for me. Maybe it would have been too much for anyone, I don’t know. All I know is that I wasn’t up to the task.
But even though nothing that occurred during that awful week was my fault, I still feel tremendous guilt for everything that happened. I failed, and failed miserably. The assignment was of such importance that I should have had sense enough to refuse it. But I wasn’t smart enough for that. When the President of the United States (not to mention a powerful alien) asks you to do something, it’s very difficult to refuse. And now, because of me, the fate of every human being on Earth has been determined, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. My wife worries about me constantly, but I no longer care about that, or anything else except for my abject failure to succeed in the mission I was given. Or, for that matter, even to convince the Bullocks to give us more time, another chance. Frankly, I’ve even contemplated suicide. The United Nations, and many of its member nations, should share some of the blame, I suppose, but perhaps I simply wasn’t passionate enough in my speech to the Security Council or clever enough to neutralize the skepticism and intransigence of the world’s leaders.
Oh God, how I wish things had been different!
DAY ONE
It all began inauspiciously enough. I was at the grocery store, picking up a few small items my wife had sent me for, when a man I had never seen approached me just as I got to my SUV in the parking lot. I saw immediately that there was something strange about him. He looked like death warmed over and, frankly, he didn’t smell too good. Nevertheless, he was clean-shaven, and unusually well-dressed for a trip to the market, sporting a stylish brown suit and a brown and yellow-striped tie. On the other hand, he was barefooted and his voice didn’t seem to fit him. He sounded almost like a woman. But an angry, vituperative one.
He asked me whether I was Dr. Brewer. This happens once in a while — a reader sometimes recognizes me and stops to tell me that he enjoyed the K-PAX books (or not, on a couple of occasions). I assumed he was a resident of one of the nearby communities. Despite his odd appearance, and hint of a scowl, I admitted who I was, and prepared for the usual few minutes’ chitchat about what the planet K-PAX was like, whether the universe was teeming with life, and all the rest. But that wasn’t what he wanted to talk about.
“We’re the Bullocks,” he said, in his high-pitched, guttural snarl. I froze. All I could think of was “we”? As far as I could tell there was only him. Apparently he noticed the
blood draining from my face. “Don’t worry; we’re not going to harm you.” I didn’t know whether he meant me, or everyone. His lip seemed to curl as he said it, and he turned away, apparently to avoid gazing at my revolting human countenance. There was no place to hide or run. If he (or they, or it) was, in fact, from another planet, he would undoubtedly be able to find me no matter where I ran or hid, even if I flew to the moon or Mars or anywhere else.
My next thought was: why the hell did I decide to become a psychiatrist, which had led to all this. But I had dealt with two difficult aliens before, and who better for the next one to deal with? In fact, prot and fled might have directed him — them — to me. I finally said, “We can talk at my house. Get in.” He climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat and turned to stare at me, apparently having overcome my repugnance.
“The first thing you need to know,” he began, as we left the parking lot, barely missing a bicyclist coming the wrong way, “is that the world we come from is far more advanced than is K-PAX, and virtually every other planet in the galaxy.”
The cyclist shook his fist at me and shouted, “Watch where you’re going, you old fart!”
My passenger ignored him and continued, unruffled, almost in a falsetto monotone, as if he had given this speech many times: “In fact, Bullock is one of the oldest planets in the universe. We don’t really look like this, or sound like this. Long ago our physical bodies, which are totally unnecessary for consciousness, began to deteriorate, much like your appendixes, and for the same reason, until there was almost nothing left but our brains and a couple of appendages necessary for providing adequate nutrition. Eventually we learned to control our immediate surroundings using simple electromagnetic commands in order to obtain what we needed. Finally we were able to combine the two — brains and certain mechanical devices — to become what you would probably call ‘robots,’ except that we controlled our own activities. After a very long time we dispensed with these mechanical devices altogether and became mobile electronic brains and, finally, pure brain waves themselves, though we can occupy any life form we want.” He (I could only think of him as a “he”) glared at me, apparently to make sure I was still listening, or perhaps understanding what he was saying, though he couldn’t resist another curl of the upper lip. “Of course this is a gross simplification of our evolution, which took many billions of years, but it should give you an idea of who we are and what we are capable of. The details are unimportant, but you should know that we can accomplish things you haven’t yet dreamed about, and wouldn’t comprehend even if you had.”
My throat was as dry as ancient parchment, but I managed to squeak, “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
His response was preceded by something like the roar of a lion. Suddenly a huge tree fell across the roadway ahead and, with a brilliant flash of light, exploded and disappeared altogether. “How many visitors must you encounter before you begin to believe what we tell you?”
I guessed it was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer. For a moment I couldn’t speak, anyway. I stared at the road where the tree had fallen, but there was nothing there. Nothing. Not even a fleck of ash, or anything else to impede our progress. Finally I croaked one of my own. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Fled sent us to you, ‘doctor’. We need someone to convey our message and, with your background, you are as good a representative of your species as any.”
It was early October, and already beginning to turn cool, but I was perspiring. “Convey?” I replied apprehensively.
“To deliver our demands in terms others of your species might understand.” Again he turned toward me and gazed at me contemptuously. He wasn’t snarling anymore, but his eyes were like empty holes, black and staring. I was shivering now, and my flesh was beginning to crawl. He bared his teeth — an attempt to smile? “Besides, as a scientist — of sorts — we thought you might be interested in being involved.”
“Involved in what?” I swallowed reflexively. “What is it you’re demanding?”
“Your species is known throughout the galaxy as ruthless killers. You will kill anyone, including those of your own kind, to satisfy your lust for death in order to fulfill some psychotic need. That has got to stop. And I don’t mean a thousand years from now. I mean now.”
“But you come from a planet far away from here. I don’t even know where it is. What possible difference could it make to you what we humans do?”
At this point I’m sure prot would have sighed in frustration at my apparent ignorance or stupidity. Fled, too, though more noisily. However, our latest visitor from space simply growled, in another extremely unpleasant sneer, “We have given you a very abbreviated description of our species and how we have evolved. There is far more to it than that. For example, we are not merely individual, isolated beings like you consider yourselves to be, and never have been. We have always been a kind of society, on the order of your ants or bees. A few billion years ago we began to tap into the enormous totality of life in the universe, including that of your newly-formed planet. The universe is an enormous network. Everything you do impacts everyone else. You are part of us; you just don’t know it yet. Your little lives are merely a miniscule fragment of this totality, which we call “Nediera” (he pronounced it “nay-DEAR-uh”). We think of it as the matrix of the universe. It is the sum of all life everywhere, which itself is like a giant ant colony. When you kill other beings on Earth you cause harm not only to them, but to everyone else in the universe. We can feel the anguish, the pain and suffering. “Do you see that cow in the field on your left?”
I admitted that I saw it.
“That cow’s life means nothing to you except for a few meals. But to the cow it means everything.”
“We’re different from cows,” I explained. “We have souls.”
His response was a kind of gagging noise. “That’s a myth created by your multivarious religions. The universe doesn’t distinguish between your life and that of any other sentient being. Do you really think you’re special in some way? Grow up! You used to think the Earth was the center of the universe, and when you finally realized it wasn’t, you thought your sun was at the center of everything. Now that you know that your star and its planets are nothing special, you still cling to the belief that your species is the focus of it all. You even make your gods in your own image!” he roared. “This is the epitome of arrogance!”
“What about you?” I countered. “Surely you consider your species to be superior to ours.”
“Are you listening, doctor? Do you think we should hitch you to carts? Use you for medical experiments? Hunt you down and shoot you for ‘sport’? Hear us, sapiens: All life in the universe is equally important!”
I thought my eardrums might break, but he went on in a softer tone: “You should know also that once you die, you leave Nediera forever. That is why death is such a tragedy, not only for the individual involved, but for the entire colony, the entire universe.” He turned to stare pointedly at me again. “Are you getting even a hint of what I’m telling you?” Between the lines, I somehow heard, “You piece of shit.”
I shrugged and probably grinned quite stupidly. “Not really.”
He stared at me for an eternal second. “You’ve got a dog. If we were to shoot her in front of you, how would you feel (you asshole)?”
I felt myself gasp. Not just at the thought of Flower’s death, with perhaps terrible pain, but that this thing, whatever it was, could do that to her or to anyone else it wanted to. “Not very good,” was my feeble reply.
“Then you understand, at least vaguely, what I’m saying. If, on the other hand, we were to shoot some dog in another of your many countries, you wouldn’t feel a thing. You wouldn’t even know about it. It would mean nothing to you. With us, and the other beings around the universe who have been in existence long enough to have reached our state, it’s different. We would
know about that other dog. Its pain would be our pain. That is what is happening all the time on this violent planet. The killing is constant: wars among yourselves, the elimination of other humans for reasons of anger, jealousy, or greed, the senseless murdering of other species for food or for your so-called medical research. You even hunt down and kill other beings for pleasure!” he seethed. “It hurts constantly, and the incessant distress is more relentless and more terrible than you can possibly imagine.” His dead eyes bored into the side of my head. He bawled like the cow we had just passed, and snarled again. “And we’re sick of it.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I needed to change the subject, to breathe. To think. “Do you have a name? It would help if I could call you something.”
“The body we are wearing is called ‘Walter.’”
Another shudder. “You killed him?”
He roared again: “Do you see? That’s exactly what I’ve been telling you. No other species would jump to that absurd conclusion.”
“Then how did — ”
“He was dead when we found him. One of your heart attacks brought on by the constant consumption of your fellow beings.”
“Where did you find him?”
He grunted (it was more like a bark) and slapped the dashboard. I jumped a foot in the air. “Does that really matter, doctor (you dumb prick)? We’re getting off the subject. Time is short. Given the situation, you should try to focus on more important matters, don’t you think?”
“Okay, Walter, or whoever you really are, just answer me this: what am I supposed to do to stop people from killing dogs ten thousand miles away?”
