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This story contains violence and adult language, so have fun! And please, either here, Facebook or Google+, please leave me any and all feedback. Please make sure criticism is at least constructive, thank you.
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"Ke'lal! Come quickly! I have it!" yelled R'zhor, thrusting his fist into the air triumphantly. For the last three years the two of them had been hard at work deciphering the strange glyphs on the wall of these strange ruins, so much like a city, yet so much like one of the new locomotives they had heard about in Washcumbia.
"What have you found, my love?" Ke'lal asked, running into the area they had determined had been where the royalty of this city-ship had dwelt. There were three thrones, two low-lying tables with attached chairs and little else in the room, aside from the strange glyphs of light on the smooth panels covering almost every surface.
"I had suspected it for a while now, but it is confirmed. I have deciphered them. The glyphs are the drawings of an ancient language, no longer spoken anywhere on the planet. It is very similar to the the ancient Am'Rican scrolls in the vaults of the Archives, in Tethe'Varda, but much, much more primitive. And clumsy." R'zhor said, tapping the symbols in rapid succession.
"You . . . you know what it says?" she said excitedly. She put her arm around him as she stood next to him.
He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Yes!" His fingers flew across the panels. "This used to be a great vessel, that traveled a sea vaster than anything we have ever imagined." Ke'lal said nothing, but her eyes were wide with wonder, and her hand gripped R'zhor's shoulder intensely.
"A, a vessel? Like the locomotives? Or the airships?"
"Not quite; it was something much more . . . grand. This vessel sailed the sea of stars!"
"No!" It was not possible, she knew. Nothing could survive in the cold, emptiness of space. "Only the Dreamer can travel amongst the stars. It is known, R'zhor."
He sighed. "I am aware of the Ban, Ke'lal. But I tell you still, this vessel did not come from our world."
"Then where did it come from? I'm scared, R'zhor. I, I feel like maybe we shouldn't be here. Like, maybe the rumors really are true."
R'zhor stood up angrily, forcing Ke'lal to step back. He moved to a panel across the throne room and began to tap on the glyphs. "Don't be stupid. There is nothing here that could possibly harm us."
"Don't you talk to me like th--" she began, but stopped cold when R'zhor turned toward her, his face blank. One eyebrow was raised slightly, questioningly. His eyes flashed briefly with rage.
"I do not know where it came from. Too much information has been lost to the countless millennia since it crashed here. What I have found are the personal journal entries of the captain of this vessel."
"Incredible!" Ke'lal cried, running to R'zhor. "His personal journal . . . incredible." R'zhor rolled his eyes.
"Yes, quite incredible. Unfortunately the parts of this vessel that produce sound no longer function. The vessel has turned the sounds into words for me, and I will read to you what they say."
Her eyes wide with wonder yet again, Ke'lal clapped excitedly. "We are making history today, my love. People will remember this day!"
R'zhor smiled at her. "Indeed. People will remember this day for a long, long time." His eyes flashed a second time. "Have a seat on one of the thrones, my queen, and I shall tell thee the tale of Captain Snow."
[Begin Transcript, Captain's Log, USS Poxy Whore]
Is this thing on?
'Affirmative.'
Good, good . . . where do I even begin?
[several moments of silence; fingers can be heard tapping on the console surface]
I've died so many times I no longer keep track. The last one I kept track of was number six eighty three and that was eons ago. Each time it's harder and harder to recall the details of my previous, wretched existence. That is all I do: exist. Year after year, Jump after Jump, the sands of my hourglass run, but alas! My glass holds more grains of sand than does the Dreamer have stars in the cosmos. To be denied the peace that I know the rest of them have had, even the most vile of killers, is, is . . . a fucking joke! It's all a fucking joke, and I am the the eternal butt of the joke, the mark in this grand jape called 'Life.' To continue on, after all I have loved have passed into dust, to continue on knowing I will see every one I will ever love shuffle off this mortal coil . . . it is only fitting, I suppose. I did kill God, after all.
Of all the times I have died, the only I still have knowledge of are this last one, at the death of the Hyderabad system, and the first. That first death . . . when I killed him, God was just a whiny brat named David from a po-dunk town called Three Rivers. I knew everything about him; more than he knew about himself, that's for sure. I knew his mother, the one that birthed him, I mean, not that fat bitch of a cow that claims to have raised him. I know his mother smelled like a spring afternoon after a rain. I know she had a mole right above her sex that embarrassed her, so she never shaved. I know she laughs when I tickle her left thigh, and that sound she makes when I bite her neck . . . God, I miss her, I miss her so much . . .
[unintelligible sounds; analyzation has determined it to be crying]
[a lone cough]
And I know how she died, and who's hand her blood is on. Mr. Beckett had me watching her from the day she was pregnant. It was almost two months before she knew she was expecting. It makes perfect sense now, but at the time I always wondered how he knew.
I watched David grow up. I watched him for thirteen years, seven months, twenty two days, four hours and twenty seconds before he even knew I existed, and seconds after seeing me for the first time he crushed me like a bug. After my glimpse at the Record I know what happened next; my first strike, cold steel across the throat, worked. It always does. Even so, he had enough time to turn around and destroy me. The rage in his eyes was the fury of a thousand suns. The intense heat and blinding light was almost comforting. There was no pain, only light and warmth. At the very end I saw Natasha's face, and then I was . . . there.
It used to be said that "the grass is greener on the other side [of the fence]," meaning "there" is better than "here" . . . an absurd notion, of course, but in this case completely true. There is beyond description. Words like bliss, beauty, elegance and perfection are vulgarities compared to the reality of There.
While there, I spoke with David. Not as he was when I killed him, but as he would eventually become. Talking to him I came to know the Truth; about him, Mr. Beckett, myself, the universe, everything. I wept. I wept like a chastised little child and fell to my knees, begging forgiveness. 'Stand, my friend," He told me, and I did. 'There is nothing to forgive, for you have only done what you were supposed to.' I don't understand, I told him. He smiled at me as a parent does a child who has done something amusing. At the time it was comforting, reassuring; thinking about it now, here alone in the empty void, waiting for the cold of the end . . . thinking about it now, I want to slap him.
'Does the hawk ask forgiveness of the mouse? Does the wolf ask forgiveness of the fawn?' No, of course not. 'You are here, Charles, because you are not finished. I have a special place for you. But, you have sinned most grievously, and you must get there the hard way. You will be the First, but first you will be the Last.'
And I am. The last. Of everything. Well, there's this ship I'm in. When I re-corporealized after the supernova of Hyderabad's star I was here, in this prison cell. Oh, sure, it's comfortable enough. It's exactly like one of those old Star Trek ships from teevee, the one with Captain Earl Grey. No, wait, that's a tea . . . British guy, bald . . . anyway, David always did love that show. This ship affords me access to every work of film, literature, music, art and smut ever created, across all the worlds of Human dominion; that got old millennia ago. I've seen every thing two or three times a piece. I've probably read the late 20th century novel Ender's Game several thousand times, at least.
[long silence; then the sound of drinking, and a glass container being placed on the console]
I have no idea how long I have been on this ship. Outside is only a blank, empty void. No more stars pour forth their light, no asteroids or comets meander across the cosmos, no living creature exists anywhere in this entire fucking universe, except me, and I don't live any longer, I merely exist. With all the wondrous, magical technologies on this fucking boat there's not a single damned clock. Nothing digital. Nothing analogue. Nothing quantum. Nothing. Not even a bloody sun dial. [long moments of laughter] Not that it would matter, there are no more fucking suns. When I ask the ship about the time or date, I am stonewalled with a very sultry, 'Irrelevant.' Computer, how much time has elapsed since last inquiry?
'Irrelevant.'
Computer, what is the current date, as reckoned by the Terran system, 20th century Standard?
'Irrelevant.'
God I hate that fucking bitch.
[several minutes of silence; the sound of drinking is heard again, as is a glass being placed on the console]
As I officially no longer have any where else in the universe to go, I might as well begin to chronicle what transpired after that first death, so long ago. I, I had better start at the beginning though, give David his due. In my own way I loved him as a son, more so than my own son, the get of my own loins. I don't even remember his name, or what he looked like. I don't remember how old he was when I died, and I never bothered looking him up when I came back. I'm a horrible father; I consigned one son to the oblivion of obscurity and the other I killed in cold blood.
[long minutes of silence]
Fuck, I need a drink. Computer, shut this fucking thing off.
[deep sobbing can be heard as the recording ends]
Long minutes of silence passed between R'zhor and Ke'lal. The enormity of what R'zhor had read . . . the implications.
"R'zhor . . ." Ke'lal began.
"I know." R'zhor finished. "This is . . . disturbing."
"It is heresy! To talk of killing God! Dreamer, forgive R'zhor his words, for they were not his own! Please, Lord, forgi--"
"Shut your mouth, woman!" R'zhor demanded. She fell quiet, subservient. He glared at her, eyes again flashing. She did not meet his gaze. I will not remind you again, that pious nonsense is not to be uttered in my presence. Do you understand me?" Ke'lal did not respond. R'zhor grabbed her jaw and stared at her. "Do. You. Understand?"
"Y-yes, R'zhor. I am sorry." He squeezed. "Please! You're . . . hurting me!" she said through clenched teeth, tears welling in her eyes. He released her and she fell to the deck of the ship.
"There is more here. Make me something to eat as I read over it. I will tell you more of it later." Without a word, Ke'lal humbly left the bridge of the ship. R'zhor began quickly reading through the remaining transcripts.
"Such anger, such pain, such . . . drive. Fascinating."
-----------------------------------
"Ke'lal! Come quickly! I have it!" yelled R'zhor, thrusting his fist into the air triumphantly. For the last three years the two of them had been hard at work deciphering the strange glyphs on the wall of these strange ruins, so much like a city, yet so much like one of the new locomotives they had heard about in Washcumbia.
"What have you found, my love?" Ke'lal asked, running into the area they had determined had been where the royalty of this city-ship had dwelt. There were three thrones, two low-lying tables with attached chairs and little else in the room, aside from the strange glyphs of light on the smooth panels covering almost every surface.
"I had suspected it for a while now, but it is confirmed. I have deciphered them. The glyphs are the drawings of an ancient language, no longer spoken anywhere on the planet. It is very similar to the the ancient Am'Rican scrolls in the vaults of the Archives, in Tethe'Varda, but much, much more primitive. And clumsy." R'zhor said, tapping the symbols in rapid succession.
"You . . . you know what it says?" she said excitedly. She put her arm around him as she stood next to him.
He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Yes!" His fingers flew across the panels. "This used to be a great vessel, that traveled a sea vaster than anything we have ever imagined." Ke'lal said nothing, but her eyes were wide with wonder, and her hand gripped R'zhor's shoulder intensely.
"A, a vessel? Like the locomotives? Or the airships?"
"Not quite; it was something much more . . . grand. This vessel sailed the sea of stars!"
"No!" It was not possible, she knew. Nothing could survive in the cold, emptiness of space. "Only the Dreamer can travel amongst the stars. It is known, R'zhor."
He sighed. "I am aware of the Ban, Ke'lal. But I tell you still, this vessel did not come from our world."
"Then where did it come from? I'm scared, R'zhor. I, I feel like maybe we shouldn't be here. Like, maybe the rumors really are true."
R'zhor stood up angrily, forcing Ke'lal to step back. He moved to a panel across the throne room and began to tap on the glyphs. "Don't be stupid. There is nothing here that could possibly harm us."
"Don't you talk to me like th--" she began, but stopped cold when R'zhor turned toward her, his face blank. One eyebrow was raised slightly, questioningly. His eyes flashed briefly with rage.
"I do not know where it came from. Too much information has been lost to the countless millennia since it crashed here. What I have found are the personal journal entries of the captain of this vessel."
"Incredible!" Ke'lal cried, running to R'zhor. "His personal journal . . . incredible." R'zhor rolled his eyes.
"Yes, quite incredible. Unfortunately the parts of this vessel that produce sound no longer function. The vessel has turned the sounds into words for me, and I will read to you what they say."
Her eyes wide with wonder yet again, Ke'lal clapped excitedly. "We are making history today, my love. People will remember this day!"
R'zhor smiled at her. "Indeed. People will remember this day for a long, long time." His eyes flashed a second time. "Have a seat on one of the thrones, my queen, and I shall tell thee the tale of Captain Snow."
[Begin Transcript, Captain's Log, USS Poxy Whore]
Is this thing on?
'Affirmative.'
Good, good . . . where do I even begin?
[several moments of silence; fingers can be heard tapping on the console surface]
I've died so many times I no longer keep track. The last one I kept track of was number six eighty three and that was eons ago. Each time it's harder and harder to recall the details of my previous, wretched existence. That is all I do: exist. Year after year, Jump after Jump, the sands of my hourglass run, but alas! My glass holds more grains of sand than does the Dreamer have stars in the cosmos. To be denied the peace that I know the rest of them have had, even the most vile of killers, is, is . . . a fucking joke! It's all a fucking joke, and I am the the eternal butt of the joke, the mark in this grand jape called 'Life.' To continue on, after all I have loved have passed into dust, to continue on knowing I will see every one I will ever love shuffle off this mortal coil . . . it is only fitting, I suppose. I did kill God, after all.
Of all the times I have died, the only I still have knowledge of are this last one, at the death of the Hyderabad system, and the first. That first death . . . when I killed him, God was just a whiny brat named David from a po-dunk town called Three Rivers. I knew everything about him; more than he knew about himself, that's for sure. I knew his mother, the one that birthed him, I mean, not that fat bitch of a cow that claims to have raised him. I know his mother smelled like a spring afternoon after a rain. I know she had a mole right above her sex that embarrassed her, so she never shaved. I know she laughs when I tickle her left thigh, and that sound she makes when I bite her neck . . . God, I miss her, I miss her so much . . .
[unintelligible sounds; analyzation has determined it to be crying]
[a lone cough]
And I know how she died, and who's hand her blood is on. Mr. Beckett had me watching her from the day she was pregnant. It was almost two months before she knew she was expecting. It makes perfect sense now, but at the time I always wondered how he knew.
I watched David grow up. I watched him for thirteen years, seven months, twenty two days, four hours and twenty seconds before he even knew I existed, and seconds after seeing me for the first time he crushed me like a bug. After my glimpse at the Record I know what happened next; my first strike, cold steel across the throat, worked. It always does. Even so, he had enough time to turn around and destroy me. The rage in his eyes was the fury of a thousand suns. The intense heat and blinding light was almost comforting. There was no pain, only light and warmth. At the very end I saw Natasha's face, and then I was . . . there.
It used to be said that "the grass is greener on the other side [of the fence]," meaning "there" is better than "here" . . . an absurd notion, of course, but in this case completely true. There is beyond description. Words like bliss, beauty, elegance and perfection are vulgarities compared to the reality of There.
While there, I spoke with David. Not as he was when I killed him, but as he would eventually become. Talking to him I came to know the Truth; about him, Mr. Beckett, myself, the universe, everything. I wept. I wept like a chastised little child and fell to my knees, begging forgiveness. 'Stand, my friend," He told me, and I did. 'There is nothing to forgive, for you have only done what you were supposed to.' I don't understand, I told him. He smiled at me as a parent does a child who has done something amusing. At the time it was comforting, reassuring; thinking about it now, here alone in the empty void, waiting for the cold of the end . . . thinking about it now, I want to slap him.
'Does the hawk ask forgiveness of the mouse? Does the wolf ask forgiveness of the fawn?' No, of course not. 'You are here, Charles, because you are not finished. I have a special place for you. But, you have sinned most grievously, and you must get there the hard way. You will be the First, but first you will be the Last.'
And I am. The last. Of everything. Well, there's this ship I'm in. When I re-corporealized after the supernova of Hyderabad's star I was here, in this prison cell. Oh, sure, it's comfortable enough. It's exactly like one of those old Star Trek ships from teevee, the one with Captain Earl Grey. No, wait, that's a tea . . . British guy, bald . . . anyway, David always did love that show. This ship affords me access to every work of film, literature, music, art and smut ever created, across all the worlds of Human dominion; that got old millennia ago. I've seen every thing two or three times a piece. I've probably read the late 20th century novel Ender's Game several thousand times, at least.
[long silence; then the sound of drinking, and a glass container being placed on the console]
I have no idea how long I have been on this ship. Outside is only a blank, empty void. No more stars pour forth their light, no asteroids or comets meander across the cosmos, no living creature exists anywhere in this entire fucking universe, except me, and I don't live any longer, I merely exist. With all the wondrous, magical technologies on this fucking boat there's not a single damned clock. Nothing digital. Nothing analogue. Nothing quantum. Nothing. Not even a bloody sun dial. [long moments of laughter] Not that it would matter, there are no more fucking suns. When I ask the ship about the time or date, I am stonewalled with a very sultry, 'Irrelevant.' Computer, how much time has elapsed since last inquiry?
'Irrelevant.'
Computer, what is the current date, as reckoned by the Terran system, 20th century Standard?
'Irrelevant.'
God I hate that fucking bitch.
[several minutes of silence; the sound of drinking is heard again, as is a glass being placed on the console]
As I officially no longer have any where else in the universe to go, I might as well begin to chronicle what transpired after that first death, so long ago. I, I had better start at the beginning though, give David his due. In my own way I loved him as a son, more so than my own son, the get of my own loins. I don't even remember his name, or what he looked like. I don't remember how old he was when I died, and I never bothered looking him up when I came back. I'm a horrible father; I consigned one son to the oblivion of obscurity and the other I killed in cold blood.
[long minutes of silence]
Fuck, I need a drink. Computer, shut this fucking thing off.
[deep sobbing can be heard as the recording ends]
Long minutes of silence passed between R'zhor and Ke'lal. The enormity of what R'zhor had read . . . the implications.
"R'zhor . . ." Ke'lal began.
"I know." R'zhor finished. "This is . . . disturbing."
"It is heresy! To talk of killing God! Dreamer, forgive R'zhor his words, for they were not his own! Please, Lord, forgi--"
"Shut your mouth, woman!" R'zhor demanded. She fell quiet, subservient. He glared at her, eyes again flashing. She did not meet his gaze. I will not remind you again, that pious nonsense is not to be uttered in my presence. Do you understand me?" Ke'lal did not respond. R'zhor grabbed her jaw and stared at her. "Do. You. Understand?"
"Y-yes, R'zhor. I am sorry." He squeezed. "Please! You're . . . hurting me!" she said through clenched teeth, tears welling in her eyes. He released her and she fell to the deck of the ship.
"There is more here. Make me something to eat as I read over it. I will tell you more of it later." Without a word, Ke'lal humbly left the bridge of the ship. R'zhor began quickly reading through the remaining transcripts.
"Such anger, such pain, such . . . drive. Fascinating."