by David Staves
His little ones wanted to learn to pray, as the monks of the archive of the city of Quell had taught him when he was a child.
The monks had been the only people willing to foster a child such as Dante. He was of ancient blood, and one such as he hadn't lived on Seven since the Second Exodus. The Second Exodus is what they called the time when humanity was forced to leave the mother world behind. Some of the refugees had lived on Seven.
He knew he was different in all the ways that mattered to the people of the archive: smaller, stouter, faster, and stronger. His features were wider. He was a male. Dante often wondered which of the adults or children were male or female. They seemed to identify as neither.
Maybe it didn't matter to people who no longer practiced any form of procreation. Everything was automated, even the process of being born.
"Why am I so different?" he asked Elder Faust, the keeper of spiritual wisdom, protector of the archives of the ancient faiths.
He looked at Dante with watery eyes. Was he emotional? Dante thought not. He thought Faust was one of the oldest ones. It made sense that his eyes were watery once in a while. He was old, after all.
The elder Faust reached down tenderly to wipe the tears from his watery eyes with long, spindly fingers.
"You are different because you are special," the old monk's voice was quiet, like a distilled melody.
"If I am special, why do they hate me?” Dante asked.
The old monk's smooth features creased with concern.
That was the only sign of age he ever saw, besides the watery eyes, and only in a very few, the old ones; on the rare occasions when they showed emotion.
"The people of Quell, of Seven, don't hate you. They don't understand how important you are," he answered.
Dante wanted to ask: What's the difference? He didn't have courage or confidence. He was only about ten years old.
He remembered this moment so clearly because it was the first time he understood that the old monk didn't know everything.
Somehow this ancient wise-one didn't get it.
The other children, the adults, maybe some of the monks, hated him.
It wasn't just misunderstanding. There were other things mixed with the hatred; like fear.
For a while, he mistook the hatred for sternness. One of his recent lessons revealed to him the truth of his situation.
From an early age his lessons centered on the events leading to the sad loss of the mother world.
There were a few clues. Either the people didn't know what happened or they covered it up. He knew it involved nuclear bombs and the threat of war. He didn't know about Saturn or the Queen.
Each student's curriculum was designed to teach them specific skills meant to replace one of the old ones should there be an expiration.
Dante wasn't meant to replace anyone. His trip would be one way. He was expendable, even to Father Faust.
Only the machine entity, wearing the mask of his future wife, could relate to him.
His studies delved the dark chapters of history before humanity discovered the providence of the stars. He knew more about ancient Earth than he did about his own time. His knowledge of the First and Second Exodus was limited. He only knew the first was voluntary, and the second was not.
People fought and murdered each other over resources and differences that seemed less pronounced than those that distinguished him from the people of the archive.
These people prided themselves for their wisdom.
Dante doubted the veracity of their wisdom from an early age.
It seemed he could gain more perspective from climbing a tree than speaking with most of the high and ancient archivists.
You could experience many languages and cultures here.
But the substance of the human experience was lacking.
How did Dante know?
These people were harsh to him. They judged him cruelly and treated him accordingly.
Dante was determined to show them better.
He had already experienced enough of the ancient lessons to know the difference between what was right and wrong.
Some of the monks helped him with this challenge; for they retained an ancient sense of humility.
It took him a while to realize the significance of the difference between his education and everyone else's.
Even the monks, who seemed to know so much didn't know the name of the mother world: Earth.
They might know the names of ancient cities like Jerusalem, Rome, Babylon, or Thebes, but they knew nothing of the industrial age or the infancy of the space age. Early space colonization was a mystery to them. The beauty of the cradle solar system was likewise unknown. They didn’t even understand the mechanisms under their feet responsible for turning their once lifeless world into an oasis.
Earth: he rolled the word around in his mouth - afraid to allow it to escape his lips.
Despite its terrible history, it was a beautiful place. Had it not given birth to all the worlds of the great interstellar nation?
Earth was his real home if he could call anyplace home.
The monks spoke of ancient places on Earth like they had a clue.
They had shown him every kindness as a child, sponsoring him after he left the nursery.
He only discovered later that they had been the only house to offer to foster Dante.
There were many houses, and after leaving the nursery, after age eleven, the houses would compete to foster a child.
No one would compete to sponsor Dante.
Even the great awakened people who rarely tasted death knew children were the future. Only none wanted an ancient child, a product of the primitive, violent ancestors of the mother world.
The only fosters that reluctantly offered were the keepers of faith. They knew the teachings of the weak and the inheritors.
Dante rightly thought that some of their motivation to have a child of Earth was to be somehow closer to the root, the ancient source of spirituality. He only offered them the wonder that every child presents.
Dante helped to reignite the dwindling spirituality of a doomed breed.
The monks, awkwardly at times, represented or attempted to represent all the ancient faiths.
When the monks began fostering Dante, they asked the archive of heritage if Dante's genetic sources practiced any of the elder faiths.
They discovered Dante's ancestors were Christian, so they acted accordingly, pairing him with Elder Faust, one of the few Christian monks.
He was taught to pray as any ancient Christian might: in the name of Jesus.
So, this is what he taught his children, marveling at the human experience of being a father. He never, in all of his studies, learned of or contemplated parenthood.
The people of the archive world, and perhaps beyond, had eradicated, sanitized the messiest parts of life: birth and death.
How ill-equipped they were to handle the threat that was to come.
He wondered if all people of that time lost the things that made a person human.
His arrival and subsequent experiences on ancient Earth taught him how much the people of elevated humanity had separated themselves from their human heritage: the social conditions; that which defines us. Love, procreation, sexuality, seemed to have been purged from the human experience.
So many of the things he loved doing: running, climbing, throwing, hiding, playing; the attributes associated with being a child, especially a boy child, were thought of as base, primitive, even violent.
The children of The Archive were taught disciplines of mind over body.
Their bodies were tools to be utilized by sharp, patient, refined minds; able to meld with the great machines of a mighty Golden Age.
People had become so dependent on sentient machines, that when they were outlawed, it left a void.
Still, they practiced controlling their breathing and maintaining challenging postures while entering deep states of meditation.
The othe
r young people grasped these skills with ease.
It was a matter of pride for Dante that, though they were more difficult for him, he mastered the skills and could use them with ease.
Thanks to Elder Faust, prayer was his primary tool for mastery.
Prayer was how he overcame challenges the other children did not have. When waves of emotion, anxiety, and fear threatened to overtake him, prayer was his weapon; it was how he centered himself.
These experiences defined him until one day, his childhood ended.
He had done his damnedest to pass these skills on to his son and daughter.
He watched his sleeping wife as his mind drifted between the past and the present.
To Dante's knowledge, there was no such thing as marriage on the archive worlds, or anywhere else in the human realm.
Moonlight reflected from Arista’s necklace: a sign of hope, a cross.
Within minutes, sleep’s embrace drowned out the sounds of impending doom.
Escape
The Night Everything Changed
The Near Future
Washington State, U.S.A
North America
Earth
At first, it sounded like a thousand hands running across the outside wall of his bedroom. The sounds, as sounds often do when they interrupt a child in a deep sleep, wove themselves into the fabric of his dream.
It was a dream of school. Ezra was in the lunchroom, surrounded by the familiar faces of classmates. Lunch at Raven Middle School could be rough. His first year was the worst, as first years tend to be.
New kid.
New town.
New school.
Fresh meat.
Things changed once the other kids witnessed his ability to run, not just run, haul-ass. ‘Jack, be nimble! Jack be quick!’ No one under the age of twelve could even approach his speed. He was an instant legend. Some of the same students who sneered at the wimpy new kid clamored to be in his company.
They would be his friends if he let them.
Why didn't he let them?
It wasn't safe yet.
There was a small circle of kids who he might call friends. These were the ones who never mistreated the new boy, the lost boy. They accepted him. These five friends would shelter each other from any threat.
The girl he had a crush on, Amber, from homeroom, sat across from him on the narrow bench. She gave him a smile, the smile of a friend. It was the kind of smile that provides a boy with the hope that she might like him back.
He dreamed about this girl before. She was the kind of girl that everyone knew. She was an All-American girl, so popular! He wasn't even close to her level. She smiled at him, looked him in the eye. The moment replayed in his mind often.
He dreamed of talking to her. The dreams always ended right as he was about to say ‘hi.’ What kind of 'hi' would be best: casual passing 'hello' kind of 'hi,’ or a 'you are the center of the universe' sort of 'hi'? He thought it over and decided he would likely not have control over what kind of 'hi' would come out of his mouth. Who was he fooling? What chance was there of talking to her when he failed, even in his dreams.
He dreamed vibrant dreams, always had. This dream started like any other. It began to change at the part where he would usually wake-up. When they made eye contact the expression on her face slowly transformed from a look of contented disinterest to a wide-eyed expression of horror. Time seemed to slow down in the dream. He watched as the color drained from her face. Fear crept its way across her features.
The color was bleeding out of the entire scene. The sun-lit windows melted into gray. The other students turned their ashen eyes in his direction as their expressions twisted subtly, then grotesquely. First, their postures bent and distorted from fear to terror. Then, their mouths opened. Next, a low moan began emanating from the blackness of each open throat.
The moaning was horrible. Ezra began pulling away as the sound became a rasping, gravelly roar. The roar was gradually eroding the fabric of his dream.
He ripped awake, clawing at his sheets in desperation.
Awake!
It took him a moment to realize he was no longer in the clutches of the dream. The rumbling, rasping sound followed him into the waking world.
It sounded like the Earth was swallowing the house.
Something bad was happening. Ezra had to find out what it was.
It was punctuated with pops and cracks. The house made sounds, protesting like it was struggling to stay upright under a tremendous and violent assault.
He was about to leap from the bed and charge the door when he saw the man. He was standing in the hallway. Maybe it’s a rescuer, a fireman or policeman, he thought.
Confusion.
"Mom! Dad! Is that you? I'm in here!" his voice sounded so small. "Who's there?"
Ezra felt no threat. There was a moment of brief eye-contact. Something passed between them at this moment, Ezra and the man outside his bedroom door. The man was gone almost as soon as he saw him.
I have to find Mom, Dad, and Anya. Got to get them out of here! His head was full of thoughts, his body was frozen.
A crashing and crunching noise, giant garbage disposal, rumbled his brains.
Finally, he jumped off the bed. He delved into the blackness of his doorway, expecting his feet to hit the wood floor of the hall. The inky rectangle swallowed him. Instead of entering the hallway, he was enveloped by deep, empty space.
A dream!
I never woke up!
His mind fumbled for an explanation. His body lost all control, arms and legs kicked, form wriggled in emptiness.
The silence and absence of light were almost absolute. Ezra breathed deep gulps of air, sweat covered his skin. He struggled to get his bearings.
He wasn't falling!
He wasn’t flying!
He was stuck in one spot!
He attempted to look back toward his bedroom door.
There it was, a rectangle of violet twilight, just out of reach. His room was right there! But the sound was gone.
I’m dreaming!
His senses told him he was awake. He watched his room, bathed in dark blue shadow, movement at the window. Still no sound. The light from the window slowly blotted out. The wall was shaking, coming apart! The window shattered! A flood of muddy dirt and rocks quickly consumed the bedroom. A mudslide was coming straight toward him! It soundlessly consumed the rectangular doorway to his bedroom. Large rocks, gravel, and mud blotted out the light. Somehow nothing followed him through the door. His last view of his bedroom was snuffed out.
The feeling of reality gripped. Ezra's mind struggled to reconcile what his eyes and ears told him.
What about Dad, Mom, and his sister, Anya? If this was real, could they be alive?
"NOT REAL!" his hoarse shout was muffled by the void.
Wherever this place was, it was huge. There wasn't even an echo. He felt the wetness on his face and knew that he was crying. His breaths were ragged. His chest was heaving.
He no longer cared where he was. He was filled with sudden, wrenching, aching grief. His sister's room was next to his. Mom and Dad were upstairs. Maybe the mudslide only hit his bedroom, which was facing the slope of their backyard. Anya's room was closer to the front of the house. He clung to desperate hope.
It's a dream! They are okay!
It was so quiet here, wherever 'here' was.
"Suck it up, man! Suck it up!" his voice sounded tiny and weak.
What would Dad do?
Dad would find a way out!
Dad would assess the situation.
His father, the engineer.
Assess.
He turned from the spot where the rectangle of his bedroom door had been moments before. He looked down at his arms and legs, small and thin. He was dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants. That's what he liked to wear on chilly nights. 'Raven Soccer League' was written in blue lettering on the yellow colored shirt, a shirt from two years ago.
He
struggled not to think about his family. He couldn't help but remember them as they sat on the sideline of the soccer field.
Desperation clawed at him again.
"Alone!" his scream was once again muffled by the void.
Assess. The imagined voice of Ezra's dad broke through, batted away the panic in his mind.
Where?
He didn't know where this was or how he got here; had to figure it out, calm his mind, use his senses. Must use logic! What did he know about this place?
There was air! It smelled fresh.
He thought he could almost smell water. Freshwater.
Maybe he was in some kind of cave? Could there be a cave under his house? It seemed possible, but unlikely.
It was like a void. There was no echo. No light, just blackness.
"Wait," he told himself, "there is light!” If there were no light, he wouldn't have been able to see the yellow and blue on his shirt.
So where is the light coming from? He asked himself silently. His father's voice reminded him again: Assess!
He extended his hand palm up. There was light hitting the top of his outstretched fingers and forearm. He could clearly see the lines of his palm. There was a shadow on the bottom of his arm and back of his hand.
He looked up and saw a small point of white light far away. It looked like the North Star in otherwise empty darkness.
He looked down and could see tiny sparkles of light. He wondered if these were light sources or reflections of the illumination above. He looked back at the palm of his hand, brightly lit, and was confident that the point of light above him was his source of light. He glanced at the space where his bedroom door had been. He could see nothing.
He looked up again, feeling confused and disoriented.
As he stared at the light, he could hear a faint whooshing sound. It was like the sound of a blow-up pool-toy losing its air. It was getting louder. The light was getting brighter. Whatever it was, it was getting closer!
He was squinting now, the light was intense. He had to cover his eyes, then close them. It was blinding.
The whooshing was deafening. Ezra cupped his head in pain, the cold wind swirled around him.
