Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (33 page)

I could go anywhere; I was free. The world was mine!

The words came too soon, for the next moment I was soaring up at a mind-numbing speed. I tried to scream but nothing came out. The world fell away like a trapdoor—smaller and smaller and smaller, then bigger and bigger and bigger—until colors and topography had blended together. Deep blue ocean crept up at the sides, soon encompassing everything. The earth pulled away from me. I was carried into outer space, and there I saw the whole planet rolling slowly and timelessly in its lonely black void.

It reminded me of my
smaller self
.

When the mad journey ended, I remained suspended in place, the stars twinkling about me. The nuclear sun burned nearby, but I dared not seek it out. Instead, I turned the other way, away from Earth, toward the cosmos, and went insane instantly. The higher spiritual realms were too much for me to comprehend. They filled my brain, wiped it clean, and I forgot my name, my story, my life. I became a part of that Godlike blackness: empty, beautiful, alone.

A fire ignited within—flaming, flaming, flaming. Pain enveloped me and I exploded outward, bursting into ever-widening circles. Pieces of me scattered and were gone, but my core, my soul, remained intact, glinting like a fiery ember. I became aware of others burning around me, for now I was not so alone.

My transformation was complete. I had succeeded in killing my smaller self and was reborn in the fire like a rising Phoenix. I had become the triangle, the triad, the converging balance of the three, the fourth whole.

I am still here, riding my cosmic vessel through oceans of time. Drinking my perpetual glass of mezcal, smoking my cigar, displaying my square wooden teeth.

Perhaps I am a star, you tell me. Go outside tonight and look for my painted white face, my black eyes, and my crooked clown grin. I promise to be blinking ever so brightly . . . just for you.

=[]=

Aaron J. French
, also writing/editing as
A.J. French
, is an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association. His work has appeared in many publications, including D. Harlan Wilson’s
The Dream People
, issue #7 of
Black Ink Horror,
the
Potter’s Field 4
anthology from Sam’s Dot Publishing,
Something Wicked
magazine, and
The Lovecraft eZine
. He also has stories in the following anthologies:
Zombie Zak’s House of Pain Anthology; Ruthless: An Extreme Horror Anthology
with introduction by Bentley Little;
Pellucid Lunacy
edited by Michael Bailey;
M is for Monster
compiled by John Prescott; and
2013: The Aftermath
by Pill Hill Press. He recently edited
Monk Punk,
an anthology of monk-themed speculative fiction with introduction by D. Harlan Wilson, and
The Shadow of the Unknown
, an anthology of nü-Lovecraftian fiction with stories from Gary A. Braunbeck and Gene O’Neill.

Gitte Christensen

=[]=

Set in a future of prim etiquette and Victorianesque reason, the following story reads a bit like a sensationalist harlequin novel. It is cheeky and smart and may even be considered a “cautionary tale.” Heed well our aquatic friends, as the final days of man
’
s dominance on Earth are explored. Gitte Christensen, whose crisp prose is as fun to read as it is thoughtful, captains her characters through an underwater world, finding both peril and romance in a
Whale of a Time.

=[]=

Chapter One: Introduction

No one would have believed in the last years of the twenty-second century that keen intelligences were scrutinizing humans on a daily basis as we went about our petty affairs. But newly launched into a golden age of reason, prosperity, and individualism, we had no idea that we would soon find ourselves standing amongst the ruins of our former greatness.

As a prominent player in recent events, I feel obliged to record my memories for the edification of forthcoming generations.

Let me begin with my credentials. I am Dr. Matilde Mayflower Rothbilden-Vandershaft. Due to my infamy, you doubtless recognize both my Real Name and former User Name (Lady Suzanne Claire de Lune). Indeed, you may feel that you already know me intimately, and possibly that is why you are reading this particular record from the Earth Archives, for as the Executive Director of the Earnest Rothbilden-Vandershaft Institute for Understanding Resurrected Cetaceans (ERNIURC), a User Group originally devoted to the Cousteauist Lifestyle, I often, as a child, was featured in my father’s documentaries, usually swimming with our whales or cavorting on our exclusive beaches.

You may also have seen adaptations of the Great Conflict with my character portrayed by various beautiful actresses. In renderings such as
Where Whales Sleep
and
Soldiers of Poseidon
, my team and I are depicted as heroes who strove in vain to warn the world of the coming war. Even the comedy
Diving Dimwits
interprets our actions as those of bumbling but well-meaning fools defeated by the bulwarks of human bureaucracy.

Conversely, to this very day, the multiple media presentations distributed by User Groups that were once our rivals mostly misrepresent us as traitors to the human race.

The truth, however, is neither as gallant nor as despicable as either of these versions.

At this point, I feel I must explain that although ERNIURC had indeed been fanatically Cousteauist during my father’s time (i.e. very Gallic, all science and minimal clothing), on inheriting the foundation, I realized my dream of becoming a Wellesvernian, and ERNIURC changed with me.

It is important to note this Lifestyle change because it explains much about the events to follow, and the manner in which I present them. That said, I shall begin my tale.

Chapter Two: The Captured Submersible

We were well into our expedition when disaster struck.

For three weeks, we had plied the ocean in our underwater vessel
Nautilus Revisited
, enjoying many Devonshire teas whilst we discussed inter-UG matters such as the strange sexual mores of the recreated Martians as interpreted by the newest faction of Heinleinists.

By the fourth week we were awaiting our scheduled highpoint. Since we had brokered an accord with an aerial chapter of the Wellesvernian Lifestyle called Tripod Raiders, and had negotiated a script which mostly involved much hiding and seeking amidst the waves whilst the Tripod Raiders sought to exterminate us, we were naturally taken aback when our submersible was suddenly seized and dragged downwards on a course contrary to our original agreement.

We were, we surmised at the time, at the mercy of another Lifestyle.

I was most annoyed by the setback. It confirmed my belief that there were simply too many Lifestyles vying for space on a finite planet, and that the World Government was far too enamored with the income generated by UG permits to seriously tackle the issue. Most UGs, I must interject, then as now, did respect each other. The Robinsons were family oriented naturalists and the Tikites provided highly educational adventures, but hooligans like the Buccaneer Coalition and the Viking Raiders were out of control, causing nothing but trouble for more moderate ocean users.

So, the situation was this: our valiant submersible
Nautilus Revisited
, under the capable guidance of Captain Lucan Lightfoot (RN: Stuart Troubadour) and his stalwart first officer, Commander Jeremy Chatham-Smythe (RN: Trevor Brown), struggled to pull free. Communications officer, St. John Fitzgerald (RN: Rajiv Sikh) attempted to make radio contact with the invasive UG to protest our plight. The Right Honorable Catherine Veronica Brontë (RN: Jazee Freecloud), our languages expert, stood at St. John’s side ready to parlay should a tongue other than English be required.

Despite our troubles, all was going well. Faced with such adversity, our only option was to exercise our improvisational skills. St. John, true to his role, placed an arm about Catherine’s shoulders, offering comfort as gentlemen do in such trying situations. I was pleased to note that Chief Scientist, Professor Vladimir Boronsky (RN: Bruce Wong) showed great restraint under duress, his intellect visibly peaked by our predicament. The Professor’s assistant, Geoffrey (RN: Geoffrey), however, inexperienced at projecting the composure required at all times by our Lifestyle, looked gauchely terrified.

At that point, as befits a lady, I retired to my cabin to record my thoughts and emotions in my diary. Whilst I was seated at my escritoire, Captain Lightfoot rapped upon my cabin door. His report was most unsettling.

Our radar man, it transpired, had just informed Captain Lightfoot that we had been captured by a gigantic creature with tentacles of a prodigious length and suckers large enough to secure our valiant vessel, which he had then insisted must be a kraken. Captain Lightfoot conveyed that the radar man knew about such creatures from his grandfather, also a naval man (Real World not UG), who had run into a similar behemoth after an anti-containment group had liberated specimens from a recognized supplier of Lifestyle monsters and then released them into the wild.

“But those poor, patchwork creatures cannot survive long beyond the comforts of their laboratory tanks,” I protested.

“Nonetheless, our evidence supports the hypothesis, Lady Suzanne,” said Captain Lightfoot, backing out of my cabin. “We’ll know for certain tomorrow.”

“Since our radar man is not an accredited megafauna expert, I deem it safest to defer all decisions until then,” I said, to which the good Captain concurred and left.

Chapter Three: Kraken

After a night of restless sleeping, and upon completing my ablutions and donning a stunning outfit of blue velvet with yellow trimmings, I discovered that a note had been slipped under my door informing me that breakfast would be served on the bridge.

I found my colleagues, plates in hand, gathered before the large observation window.

“Ah, you’re just in time, Lady Suzanne,” said Captain Lightfoot. “We’re about to discuss our plight.”

I secured a portion of marmalade on toast from the buffet which had been set up amongst the consoles, and joined my fellow Wellesvernians. We were no longer in open waters, but travelling through an underwater tunnel lit with multiple rows of running lights. The external illumination allowed us a good view of the beast towing our vessel, and it was, we all agreed, definitely a kraken of the classical type favored by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

“Told you so,” said the radar man.

I threw a disapproving glance at the conversational interloper, who was staring at a luminous screen and toggling a console, but he displayed no shame for having interrupting us, just as he had hitherto shown no gratefulness for his fortuitous position on board our vessel, i.e. the privilege of experiencing our enviable Lifestyle and receiving a substantial remuneration to boot. Once again I regretted that it had proved impossible to procure a paid up Wellesvernian for the position, as being a radar man apparently involved the actual possession of technical skills.

Needless to say, this verification of the kraken caused much excitement. We all wondered how Lord Tennyson had come to know the beast so well, and we speculated whether the great man might have once found himself in a situation similar to ours.

“Forget the damned poetry,” shouted the radar man. “Ask some relevant questions. Like who rigged those lights out there? And what power source are they hooked up to?”

A scandalized silence ensued.

Professor Boronsky recovered his composure first and said, “Despite his appalling manners, this radar person is most correct. Who indeed has established an infrastructure capable of functioning so efficiently at such stygian depths?”

“We’re obviously dealing with Wellesvernians of the nefarious sort,” said Captain Lightfoot. “So this, then, is undoubtedly a secret sea lair.”

We all shivered with excitement.

The radar man shook his head. “You’re a pack of damned fools,” he said, and stomped off.

Captain Lightfoot was furious and directed his ire at me. “As Lifestyle Director, you must do something about that person, Matilde. I cannot immerse myself with his jarring comments,” he said.

“The rest of you concur?” I asked.

Everyone nodded. So, with as much decorum as I could muster, I ran after the radar man, my skirts skimming the sides of the narrow corridors and requiring much angling and hoisting at each hatchway. When I caught up with him, I confronted the radar man about his frequent contractual breaches. He simply smiled, stepped up, took me into his arms and, ignoring my ladylike struggles, kissed me.