It was a giant: teardrop-shaped, black as the night it drifted through…all the grandeur and mystery of the universe made solid and riding silently before us. Like meeting the dear old Loch Ness monster—something that ought to exist, even if it’s impossible.
Almost twenty years have passed and still I cannot decide if it was a ship or a single giant creature, if it was alive or dead. One thing I know: it was not some oddly pitted rock.
Rachel looked at it with something like terror in her eyes. She could not bring herself to speak.
“Dock by it,” I said without hesitation. “Tell the crew it’s only a drill. I want this kept secret.”
“Is it safe?” she asked.
“Do what I ask, please, Rachel. Let’s consider this an order, shall we?”
While she brought the ship about and matched velocities with the anomaly, I put on a Vac/suit and found some chalk. I was in a state of burning excitement, fully alive for the second time in my life.
Yes, child. I went out the airlock, leapt through the void to the anomaly’s flesh, and scrawled huge letters on its midnight scales: HA HA. IT’S ME. HELLO!!!
Now I, Gerald Ashworth, own the universe. That’s how I feel. Perhaps the mystery will reach some far-off planet and start some new life cycle; perhaps it will fall into a sun or black hole; perhaps it will simply drift on until the great enfolding embrace of the cosmos reunites all matter and energy at the end of time. A little piece of me rides through the universe’s depths, and makes them pregnant with possibility.
Only you and I know this secret. I was out of sight of the Coventry when I wrote the message; Rachel must have been curious, but didn’t ask questions. I begged her to tell no one what we had seen, and she agreed.
So, you may ask, why am I telling this to an unborn grandchild when I’ve kept it secret from everyone else? Because you are a complete unknown. Maybe you’ll be a great leader, or an artist, or a scientist; maybe you’ll be a modest factory worker; maybe you’ll be a criminal, or a lunatic, or a doctor. A world of possibility.
I shall put this letter into an envelope and leave it for you to open on your eighteenth birthday. I own the Earth and I own the universe. Through you, I can own the future.
HA HA. IT’S ME. HELLO!!!
VARIATION C: ANGEL
(FURIOSO)
(FURIOUSLY)
CONTACT: JULY 2038
I am in hell you are in hell this is hell we are all in hell. Amen.
Say amen.
Say it!
Your voice sounds young today, demon. What are you pretending to be this time?
Simon Esteban. A student. Student of what, psychology or demonology? Never mind, that was a joke. I have a lot of psychology students visit me, Simon Esteban. You’d think I was the only madwoman on Mars.
Yes I know I’m on Mars and I know I’m in hell. Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am large…I contain multitudes. My name is Legion, for many demons have entered me.
That’s in the gospels. “Gospel” means “good news.”
My other name is Rachel. “Rachel” means “Gentle innocent.”
I enjoy irony as much as the next person.
I’m not what you expected, am I, Simon Esteban? Different from textbooks, different from case studies, different from typical profiles.
I can’t imagine you’ll ask any of the right questions. You’ll start on my childhood, toilet-training, who fucked me first, and all that sewage. Do you want to know why I blinded myself? Do you want to know why I dug fishhooks into my eyes and pulled with all my strength, yes picture that, Simon Esteban, you with your eyes whole and round, picture the sight of the points hovering a hairs-breadth away, the clean dividing line between past and future as the points touch the corneas, the moment of resistance from the lens, then dig, pull, shred, so fast and strong the pain can’t stop you soon enough, and the little sucking slurping pop as it is all over and sight gushes out in a flood…do you want to know why I did it? Because Oedipus did. The real Oedipus: not your puerile Freudian infant mooning over his mommy and playing with his pee-pee, but the King of Thebes, the hero who answered the Sphinx, the man who faced what he had done and knew he had to cleanse himself regardless of the cost.
When you’re dirty, you must cleanse yourself, Simon Esteban. Or else you go mad.
Haven’t they told you the story? Or are you simply lying in the hope I’ll reveal myself?
I killed an Angel.
Rachel, Gentle Innocent, was sent an Angel in the darkness of the deepest night, and she slew it in cowardice, out of fear and envy and hatred.
I won’t tell you what it looked like. That’s a secret God wants me to keep. God won’t always hate me. Someday I’ll cleanse myself totally. You can’t watch me forever. Only the Angels watch forever.
In the darkness of space, the Angel first appeared unto me and me alone, in all its beauty and mystery. But when I saw it, I was sore afraid. I feared its strangeness and faltered.
Another went forth to greet it, and walked with it, and talked with it, and when he returned his face shone and his countenance was transformed. Then in my heart I hated the Angel, for I had feared it and had not taken its hand. And I envied him who had touched its being and basked in its glory; him also did I hate.
Then did we leave the Angel and travel on to safe harbor, where I fled unto the Legions of Caesar; and there did I tell them of the Angel and where it could be found. I told them also lies, that it had hidden in dark ambush and attacked our ship with fierce beams of light that bid fair to destroy us. Then Caesar sent out ships of war to do battle with the Angel and destroy it. And from that day to this, the Angel has never been seen again.
Only after the Angel’s destruction did I see what I had done. And seeing what I had done after seeing what I saw, I wished that I could no longer see. And so it was done.
Amen.
Say amen.
You don’t know what to believe, do you, Simon Esteban? Is it a lie or delusion or metaphor or truth? Lie, delusion, metaphor, truth, metaphor, delusion, lie, back and forth, up and down, doh, mi, so, doh, so, mi, doh, the hateful arpeggio, lie, delusion, metaphor, truth, metaphor, delusion, lie.
I can’t tell them apart anymore. That means I’m mad.
When I talk, no one else can tell them apart either.
I don’t know what that means.
VARIATION D: BOGEY
(ALLEGRO ALLA MARCIA)
(QUICK MARCH TEMP)
CONTACT: NOVEMBER 2038
I know it’s easy to hate the military….
Jenny, would you look at me?
Would you look at me, please?
No, I won’t go away. Your father was my best friend and he would have wanted me to explain why he died. Frankly, your feelings don’t enter into it at all.
Yes, I suppose that is a typical military attitude.
Let me say this: I’m about to tell you a military secret. If someone finds out, I’ll be imprisoned for life. Maybe even executed. And I’m going to tell you anyway, even though you hate my guts and might turn me in when I’m finished. I’ll do what needs doing, without balking at the consequences or deluding myself it will be appreciated. And that’s a typical military attitude too.
A second mate on a Mars-Earth freighter came to us and reported her ship had been subjected to laser fire from a non-Terran-attributable source. Of course we were skeptical—she was a high-strung, frantic sort of woman, and obviously close to some kind of breakdown. The point was, had she seen a bogey because she was unstable, or was she unstable because she’d seen a bogey?