Beyond Page 3

  No I won’t.

  Twice the pills, twice the results.

  You’ve been warned.

  Okay, so I have. Thank you.

  Barry’s stomach hurts. He checks the bottle. It says to take with food. Did he eat? He doesn’t remember.

  Then eat something.

  Okay, I’ll eat something.

  But are you hungry?

  I might be hungry.

  Then eat.

  Barry goes to the kitchen and grabs a handful of crackers and eats them and feels a little bit better but not totally. Maybe the pills are working. Yeah, the pills are working, he thinks. I’ll be better soon.

  Pills don’t work that fast. It can take weeks for you to feel the effects, Barry.

  I know, I know, but maybe my body is different.

  It doesn’t work like that.

  Maybe it does.

  It’s the placebo effect.

  Maybe it is but it’s still having the same effect.

  Okay, fine. I guess I can’t argue with that.

  I feel good.

  Good for you, Barry. Good for you.

  The second donkey trots over the leaves.

  Dung plops down from its rear every few feet.

  Yesu lifts his hands and calls for honey from Heaven. The honey, which subsequently rains from the sky, falls into a clay pot which is outside the house Yesu is approaching.

  The donkey stops and makes a sound of frustrated exhaustion.

  “Be patient, kind beast,” Yesu says, stepping off the animal. “My hands will be the hands that dispense His awe and glory.”

  The young boy beside him points to a house. “She’s in here.”

  Yesu touches the boy’s cheek. “Fetch me the pot of honey.”

  The boy obeys.

  Yesu carries the honey into the house and sets it on the floor in front of the woman lying on the dirt floor in the center of the room.

  The woman stirs.

  Yesu sits down by her side, dips his fingers into the honey, and runs his fingers along her swollen belly. “That is not an illness. You are with child.”

  Yesu creates the cosmos and the link from Hayyot to Hekhalot.

  The creature, this ‘infant’, wiggles inside the form and void of unbirth. It is aware of the complications associated with life outside the mother-shell.

  Yesu dips his fingers into the honey once again and anoints the woman’s head.

  “And this shall be its fate . . . ” He then points at the sky.

  I walk out into the street and several zealots confront me.

  Just wonderful.

  They want to tear me apart. They want to pass judgment on my brain, body, and soul: dissection under the guise of corporate spirituality. I will not allow this desecration of my circular temple. I will become a martyr if that’s what it takes.

  One of these zealots says something about ripping through my apocalyptic bowels but I don’t know what that means so I don’t know how to respond.

  So I run away.

  But there aren’t too many places I can go.

  On the buildings there are people with guns and they can shoot very far and if I run they can hit me right in the back and I’ll die in the street like a piece of trash and I don’t want to die like that, not like that.

  I don’t believe they are chasing me. That’s good. I don’t want to be chased. They will attack someone else, I guess. That’s okay. As long as it’s not me.

  Sackcloth and ashes.

  That’s what I need.

  That’s what we all need.

  Do I ask for too much?

  I hear their calls.

  The zealots are back and I know they are right.

  The judgment is mine.

  I will accept it.

  But I may regret it.

  MAY 21, 208X

  NOTES FROM THE SUBJECT WHILE UNDER DURESS. DO NOT REPRODUCE.

  The horns sound.

  There is war to be made.

  There is work to be done.

  There is money to be made.

  There are bodies to be extracted from the Caves of Barbelo.

  Mars will be destroyed soon.

  Your armor will not protect you from the Teeth of Babalon.

  My mother, your mother. Must I always talk about my mother?

  Must you always talk about your mother?

  My mother was a saint, I tell you! A saint!

  Don’t talk about my mother.

  Your mother is in captivity, locked in a brass chest in a desert cave. She has forgotten her name.

  The Mother of Abominations.

  The Mother of Vile Tongues.

  The Mother of All Companies.

  Even Venus is not safe.

  There are no words to comfort you. There are no words to soothe the painful action of non-action.

  I sit and I wait. I huddle in the cellar and count my wounds. It is called a basement, not a cellar.

  No, a basement.

  A cellar.

  Don’t talk about my mother. I reflect upon the words of my father and his father. And what about your mother?

  My mother. I don’t know much but I know enough to stay huddled while I babble. Where is our mother?

  Where is Babalon’s Breast? May I drink from it? Maybe I already drink from Babalon’s Breast?

  Mars will be destroyed.

  I break the seals.

  I read the documents they left me. They didn’t think I would find them or be able to read them but I did. I ponder my next move. There are no next moves. I play no games. I am wounded. I am a wounded son. Where is mother? Where is our Mother of Abominations and may I drink from her breast?

  There is joy to be found huddled in the cellar, in the wounds, in the sunlit dust seeping underneath the door. It is a basement. I told you! It is called a basement! No, it is a cellar, I told you! It is called a cellar! There is no comfort. There is no peace. Only war. Babalon has birthed the babbling beast.

  Lunar destruction is eminent. No tunnels are safe. The moonlight is dangerous. It fades through the mirrors, fades through our eyes and our recollections. What do we dare remember? What do we dare predict?

  Where is my mother?

  Don’t talk about my mother. I am but an insect with warlike intent. That is all.

  Joy is found on the side of the lunar mountain.

  We read the cuneiform in the desert and eat of the fleshless goat. We seek ghosts. We hide from the masters. We block out the sun with our gnarled hands. I am no longer a part of peace. I am only war. Hiding from the hidden goat. But there is no goat. Not anywhere. Somewhere.

  I’ve yet to figure out how this machine works before the Lion does.

  What’s that sound?

  The horns screaming.

  Mars offers no more hope.

  “He is somewhere on the spectrum. He was diagnosed a few years ago with Barrington’s Syndrome. I don’t remember who his doctor was at the time but I remember thinking the diagnosis was fairly accurate considering the symptoms that were evident at the time. Also, Barrington’s is usually evident in those who have come back from interstellar travel. Presently, there are more serious manifestations of the condition that have continued to interfere with his everyday life but, more importantly, our project as a whole. There’s no way that we can continue to allow him the opportunity to provide intelligence to the other side. That being said, I’m reluctant to suggest termination considering his classification. Also, I think he’ll come in handy in the near future. At least, that’s what I think.”

  Barry is sitting at his kitchen table, looking out the window at the industrial park:

  Maybe once these pills start to work, I can get a different job.

  What kind of job?

  You don’t know?

  I don’t.

  Maybe something to do with machines. I’ve always liked machines.

  Do you even know how to fix machines?

  Sort of. I’ve done small engine work before.

&n
bsp; Like what? Lawn mowers? Things like that?

  Sort of. But I can probably do more stuff especially if I start studying and doing some research and maybe getting in contact with someone who will let me do some on the job training.

  What do you like about machines?

  I don’t know. They’re just . . . dependable. I mean, they are what they are and they don’t really change unless we want them to.

  Machines break.

  Yeah, I know but for the most part, they are what they are.

  So are the pills working?

  Barry wonders if the pills are working. The doctor said . . . What did the doctor say? He doesn’t remember what the doctor said. Should he call him? No, that would make him look stupid.

  Maybe you should have paid attention.

  Yeah, I know.

  Barry thinks:

  If I take another pill, will things go faster?

  Will what go faster? Time? You want to time travel or something?

  No, that’s not what I meant but . . . maybe.

  The future, yeah, like you really want to see what the future holds. Come on, Barry, get real.

  I am real.

  You don’t know that for sure.

  Yes, I do.

  No.

  I’ll take another pill and then—

  And then what?

  We’ll see what happens.

  Oh will we?

  Yes, we will.

  Barry thinks:

  Should I call the doctor? Just to make sure? Should I call a different doctor and get a second opinion? Maybe that’s it. Maybe I need a second or third opinion.

  Have you ever thought about working on larger engines?

  Like what?

  Like an engine on a spaceship or something?

  I don’t think I’d have any idea how to work on one.

  You could learn.

  I’m sure I could.

  You should make friends with one of the veteran cosmonauts.

  Where am I going to find one?

  They’re around. You just have to look.

  Look where?

  Look in the right places. But . . .

  But what?

  You have to be careful. Cosmonauts tend to be a little bit . . .

  A little bit what?

  Insane.

  What do you mean?

  Exactly what I said.

  That’s mean. Presumptuous even.

  Not really.

  Barry thinks to himself:

  I should really call the doctor.

  “According to the doctor, the subject’s in fairly good shape.”

  “I’m glad to hear that but how long will he last?”

  “As long as we need him to. After that, it is what it is.”

  “I’m concerned about the residual effects.”

  “Of what? Of the subject? No, once it’s over and once he’s neutralized, there will be no residual effects.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I’ve read the studies and set up new ones and have reviewed those results as well. I knew this would worry some of you so I made sure to cover it. Nothing will happen after it’s over.”

  “And the tunnels? They’ll stay intact?”

  “Of course. There’s no need to get rid of them after all this. They’ve been crucial in the past and will be in the future. I have a few plans that depend on them exclusively.”

  “That’s interesting. I’d like to hear about those plans . . . at your earliest convenience, of course.”

  “I’ll send some of the preliminary files over to you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. Now, about the subject . . . I’d like to . . . ”

  The door opens.

  A man walks in.

  He is carrying a large metal object.

  The object starts to glow.

  The man speaks. “GENTLEMEN, I AM A PHARMACEUTICAL REPRESENTATIVE OF SYZYGY INCORPORATED.”

  Before the two men at the conference table can react, the large metal object in the representative’s hands explodes, killing everyone in the room.

  Yesu’s nose bleeds.

  The blood drops to the desert sand, creates a vortex of remote viewing.

  The young boy squats down to look at it. He begins to see why some people want to assassinate this man named Yesu.

  “Where are we?” the boy asks.

  “Where we’ve always been,” replies Yesu, holding his hands under his nose now to catch the blood.

  The boy looks out into the horizon. He puts his hand over his eyes and squints. “I see something.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I see a cross.”

  “There is no cross.”

  “But I see it.”

  “I know you do,” Yesu replies. “But still, there is no cross.”

  “Nonsense,” the boys says.

  Yesu laughs. “Nonsense!”

  “What is so funny? You think I am a fool. I trusted you.”

  “And you can still trust me. I admit it is nonsense but it is our nonsense and it is to be treasured.”

  “That’s insanity.”

  “Yes, but it is our insanity.”

  The door opens and a man walks into the room.

  He is carrying a large metal object.

  The object starts to glow.

  The man speaks. “GENTLEMEN, I AM A LEGAL REPRESENTATIVE OF SYZYGY INCORPORATED.”

  Before the two men at the conference table can react, the large metal object in the representative’s hands expands and floats up to the ceiling.

  It is a metallic balloon in the shape of a human face.

  One of the men at the conference table speaks. “That looks just like our subject.”

  “THAT IS WHAT WAS INTENDED,” says the representative. “IT IS IN HIS LIKENESS THAT WE CONSTRUCTED THIS. I CONSTRUCTED THIS.”

  The other man at the desk says, “But I thought you were just a rep?”

  “I AM NOT JUST A REPRESENTATIVE. I HOLD MANY POSITIONS AND FULFILL MANY OBLIGATIONS.”

  “Oh, I see . . . ”

  The balloon floats down to the conference table and sets itself down in the middle of it.

  “NOW . . . LET US DISCUSS WHAT WE ARE GOING TO DO ABOUT THIS PLANET.”

  Barry reads a random passage from the book he found on the train:

  THE TANYET GRUPPE: A commune of artists, biochemists, astrophysicists, astrobiologists, writers, astropharmacologists, astropsychiatrists, religious philosophers, and musicians founded by Sophia Butto. It is a true commune: no one holds any rank and everyone is responsible for the upkeep of the grounds. Other than that, their time is spent ingesting pills and other medicinal substances (and recording the results of this ingestion), discussing theories, painting, writing, and making music while under the influence of their experimental pharmaceuticals. It is from within this group that Dr. Westrupp Traume rose from obscurity to being the authoritative voice in his field of astroparapsychiatry. Other members went on to form the musical collective Telephonecomplex. See also: Westrupp, Traume; Butto, Sophia. Telephonecomplex; Channel-iron Deposits in Uruk.

  —From Barrington’s GUIDE TO

  MARTIAN ARTS

  “I’m not going to discuss this with you anymore.”

  “You need to let me in on this.”

  “I already told you. I can’t.”

  “Stop being so stubborn.”

  “I’m the stubborn one?”

  “No,”

  “Fine,” says the representative. “You can help me with the set up.”

  “Excellent,” Simon says. “What do we have to do first?”

  “We have to make a bomb.”

  “That sounds unusual . . . and quite frankly, insane.”

  “Insanity is in the eye of the beholder. Besides, look at where we are. A century ago, people would think our whole lives were insanity.”

  “Still . . . a bomb?”

  “Yes. Now take your pill.”

  Lieutenant Mitchell is
driving his car to the tavern just outside the base.

  He goes inside, has a whiskey sour, and watches the locals who outnumber the cosmonauts. When he finishes his drink, Mitchell walks to the latrine. Inside, he finds a flood of red rocks and sewer water. The canal is overflowing again. No one bothers to fix it.

  Mitchell tip-toes through it and approaches the mirror where he sees himself with a giraffe head. This isn’t normal. Not at all. But it’s probably the Martian whiskey. It has to be. Otherwise, he has metamorphosed into an extinct Earth animal. Maybe another drink will change him back. Mitchell walks out of the latrine, back to the bar, and orders another whiskey.

  Here’s to reality.

  He downs the drink.

  What now?

  Nothing now.

  Drunkenness won’t help a thing.

  Maybe it will.

  Mitchell thinks: maybe I’ll drive my car into a canal.

  A dead giraffe man.

  They’ll eventually find my body.

  Hopefully not.

  Susan awakes in the bathtub. It reminds her of a spaceship.

  She plays astronaut.

  That is her favorite game.

  As a child it was her favorite game as well. She remembers watching television and seeing all the female astronauts and how brave they appeared. But every single time those astronauts blasted off, there would be a problem and the spaceship would explode or crash into the ocean. There are probably thousands of astronaut skeletons on the ocean floor, Susan realizes. Some nautical treasure hunter is sure to find them along with the giraffe skeletons.

  She was told her own father was an astronaut who spent years on Mars trying to find . . .

  Trying to find what?

  Susan doesn’t know. Her mother didn’t tell her but maybe her mother didn’t know either. But what if she did?

  Susan thinks she might end up hating her mother for withholding information about her father. Shouldn’t she, as the daughter, be privy to such things? Shouldn’t she know what her father was doing up there on Mars for all those years? And if he had succeeded in his mission?

  She explores the bathtub which isn’t a bathtub but a spaceship that’s bringing her to Mars or some cosmic equivalent that’s fairly similar to where she is now except for some minor technological advances and the presence of floating beings that sort of look like balloons but aren’t balloons. Susan tries to touch them but they float away slowly just out of reach.