The Euclidian: When Worlds Collide (uncut) Read online

  There was an assembly hall in every community, a large stone building in the middle of town used for ceremonies and cultural events. It had huge windows all around and a circular auditorium with long curved pews on the ground floor and several balconies to accommodate thousands of people. At the back of the auditorium was a large round stage with a door at the back for performers and presenters. To the sides of the stage there was box seating for shamans and village elders. Pico had hoped to sit there one day. Now it looked as if that day might never come.

  “My people,” announced the island shaman, “we are in the midst of a great calamity. Reports are coming in from all over the planet that vehicles have landed and are taking away our minerals. Vehicles in orbit are taking away our atmosphere. The loss of our atmosphere will mean the loss of all life on our planet.”

  The shamans crafted a plan to destroy the orbiting ship and the mining machines that were stripping their planet of its natural resources. Some of the shamans would use their stones to move the mining vehicles into the acid sea, which hopefully would disintegrate them. Others would focus on sending the orbiting ship into the sun.

  The shamans sat in a circle in the assembly hall, holding their stones. They connected with the large stone in the center of their circle, and with the shaman circles that had similarly formed across the other forty-six islands. They all focused on the giant ship above them, each touching the ship with their minds. They waited for the island shaman to strike a ceremonial gong in the assembly hall. Five strikes would signal execution of the plan, and at the fifth strike the shamans would push the vessel into the sun.

  On the ship, Captain Shisal monitored the mining operation to ensure everything went smoothly. Minerals were being harvested from all over the planet, separated and graded, and placed in the ship’s vast holds, each with a volume of a cubic kilometer. The type and purity of the elements in each hold was cataloged and the information sent back to headquarters to be registered in the global marketplace.

  During such operations, the Euclidian mining ships typically also collected a number of choice animal specimens to sell to collectors. Some species, even humanoids, might be harvested in their entirety for use as beasts of burden or servants. The humanoids on Cerebran were too small for manual labor purposes, the complex atmosphere they breathed made them too expensive to harvest and maintain. The ship would take a few and let the rest die as their atmosphere was depleted.

  The atmosphere was mined similarly to the minerals: the ship pulled it into giant distribution chambers that separated the different types of gases and compressed them for storage. Later they would be sold at high prices to highly-advanced planets that had destroyed their own atmospheres by over-industrialization. When one’s planet was facing extinction, no price was really too exorbitant.

  The island one shaman was informed that the shamans were ready and he gave the signal: Gong, gong, gong, gong, gong. Around the planet, shamans focused on one collective thought, to push the alien ship into the sun.

  On the ship, there was a jolt and a sudden acceleration. The ship was pulled from orbit and sped toward the sun. “What the hell is happening?” shouted Captain Shisal.

  “We are somehow being pushed into the sun,” replied the navigator.

  “Execute the Hoosenberg maneuver, now!” ordered the captain.

  “Negative gravity topside, positive gravity below being deployed.”

  The ship came to rest then slowly moved back toward Cerebran.

  “Weapons officer, report!” said Shisal.

  “I’ve found the source, Captain, and have aimed our weapons,” replied the weapons officer.

  “Fire! Navigator, prepare to compensate for the change in thrust once we have neutralized the attack.”

  The ship’s crew were not weekend scavenger hunters or spelunkers. They were warriors who understood that stripping a planet of its minerals and killing or enslaving its inhabitants might be met with overwhelming military or psychic force. They scouted each planet and nearby systems months in advance of an operation, and sometimes faced superior forces. But their ability to kidnap people at remote distances and their coercive techniques for gathering logistical information made them basically invincible. They had acquired new weaponry and the cooperation of species with tremendous capabilities. Their training and discipline would keep them ahead of those that desired to thwart their efforts.

  Seconds later, each of the assembly halls and all the people within were pulverized by blasts from the ship’s weapons. The ship moved back into orbit and resumed its mining operations.

  Captain Shisal was in a really foul mood. “Someone explain to me how this happened,” he commanded. “And get me the Species Analysis Officer, now.”

  The Species Analysis Officer and her assistant met with Shisal on the bridge. “Well, Captain, there are people on the planet who take on the role of shaman,” said the officer. “With the assistance of synaptic crystals they can move simple objects. A group of shamans can combine this generally innocuous ability to impact something as large and far away as our ship.”

  “Is your assistant aware of the research we’ve done on this planet?”

  “Yes, Captain”

  “Security, throw this fool” – Shisal indicated the Species Analysis Officer – “into the Zaron flea room and pump the audio ship-wide through the intercom. If this type of attack happens again,” he said to the assistant, “I promise I will not be as lenient with you.”

  Captain Shisal spoke to the crew over the intercom. “Now here this. The Species Analysis Officer failed to thoroughly examine a species on this planet, which resulted in a nearly fatal attack moments ago. As a punishment she will be placed in the Zaron flea room to be slowly and painfully consumed. All are asked to maintain silence so as to absorb this lesson without distraction. The safety of us all depends on everyone doing their jobs with dedication and thoroughness. That is all.”

  Seconds later, buzzing could be heard across the ship followed by loud, blood curdling screams that lasted about three minutes and suddenly ceased. Instances of disciplinary action were infrequent, but consequential. Crewmembers understood the risk and reward of service aboard their ship. One tour on this ship could make the most junior person wealthy enough to enjoy a modest retirement. Multiple tours could make a person wealthy enough to have a great place to retire and an abundance of servants. These moments of public discipline merely encouraged the crew to focus on their jobs that much harder.

  Pico had left the assembly hall and gone out to the edge of the village to try to get a look at the mining machines. He wanted to see how the shamans destroyed those vehicles because he might have to do something similar someday. The machines were massive black metal vehicles on huge wheels, each bigger than the assembly hall. He watched as one excavated a hole in the ground and then rolled into it, scooping up material as it went. After a while it returned to the surface and ejected a large stream of material into a pile. The vehicle emitted a slight glow and then bounced up as its load was emptied. It then rolled back into the hole and repeated the process.

  The Euclidian mining vehicles were efficient. A laser mounted on the roof pulverized the ground while spinning scoops grabbed the material and threw it inside the vehicle. A system of belts and analyzers separated the sought-after material from the refuse. The vehicle returned to the surface when it was full, disposed of the refuse, and transported the remaining material to the orbiting ship.

  As Pico watched, the machines suddenly stopped what they were doing and one by one started floating into the air and off toward the nearby acid sea. First one vehicle and then another fell into the sea and disappeared with a loud hiss and a gurgle. The sea was a swirl of red, orange, and brown liquid and emitted caustic fumes. Anything unfortunate enough to fall in was quickly dissolved.

  Pico heard an explosion behind him, and immediately after the procession of floating vehicles ceased. Those that had not been destroyed in the sea returned to where they were
taken from and recommenced their mining.

  Pico turned to see smoke rising from Tor Hill. As the smoke lifted he could see that the hill had been reduced to rubble, and the assembly hall destroyed. Ships appeared from the sky and attacked the villagers. Pico was afraid that the invaders would kill him and everyone else on the planet. He decided that he had to save himself somehow. He examined one of the mining vehicles and noticed a maintenance panel that he thought he might be able to open and hide inside. He ran to the vehicle, but the panel was much too high for him to reach. The vehicle was about to return to its hole, and Pico was afraid that it would zoom off and leave him exposed to the attacking ships. He pulled out his shaman stone and focused on the panel’s two latches. The first one opened and then the second one. Now all he had to do was levitate inside, but he had not mastered the skill. Pico focused and launched himself toward the panel opening but missed it by a few inches. He slammed into the side of the vehicle, fell and rolled beneath it, dropping his sphere in the process. Pico, dazed, watched as one of the massive wheels rolled toward him. He reached for his stone and used telekinesis to pull it into his hand. With one last effort he levitated into the open panel and slammed the door behind him as the vehicle raced back into the tunnel it had dug for itself.

  CHAPTER 9

  MORGAN

  Across the universe, on a planet far from Pico’s, a boy near his age played in an alley. He had an old tennis ball and used an even older racquet to hit the ball against the brick wall of one of the buildings in the alley. Morgan dreamed of playing professional tennis. He was occasionally beaten handily at a local tennis club when he was lucky enough to sneak in. During tennis season he would hang out at the Radio Shack on K Street to watch the matches. He liked rooting for the underdog. He related to being the person with the odds against him. Morgan was five foot six inches tall, slender and athletic. He played basketball and softball with the neighborhood kids, but tennis was his passion. Unfortunately there were no tennis courts in his neighborhood, and his foster parents didn’t belong to a country club. Even if they had they probably wouldn’t have permitted him to go. At home, he was subjugated to performing chores, and that’s why he spent as much time as possible away from the house.

  Morgan’s foster family weren’t particularly fond of him. His foster mother had a special disdain for him. The fact that he came from a single-parent household in the projects made her feel that he was a hoodlum unworthy of her love. The only reason that she housed him was because of the extra money she earned from the city. She tolerated interacting with Morgan only long enough to tell him to do his chores. As a matter of fact, he did everyone’s chores. He sometimes got smacked for not washing the car well enough or forgetting to bring clothes home from the cleaners.

  Morgan’s foster family lived in a three-bedroom house in the heart of DC. While it was a comfortable house, he rarely got to enjoy it. He mostly kept to himself, hiding out in the alley, practicing tennis and dreaming of playing at Wimbledon and leaving his dreary life behind. Backhand, forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand, forehand. Always the same drill. Then he would arrange bottles and cans from the dumpsters and use them as targets to improve his aim. But it wasn’t like playing against a real person, which he got to experience only on rare occasions.

  While banging away at the targets, Morgan often imagined he was a superhero battling criminals with his racquet of power. He would strike down the mightiest villain with his power balls. In reality he was happy that his racquet could hit balls at all. He had fished it out of a dumpster near the DC Tennis Club. He found old balls in the same area. It was amazing what some of the club members considered junk. He sometimes stood at the fence and watched people play real tennis. He imagined himself valiantly defeating them in a tournament.

  Morgan’s real life wasn’t as grand. He was born to an unwed teenage mother. He never met his father, about whom his mother spoke fondly. She dropped out of high school soon after he was born. Her parents disowned her and she had to work two jobs to make ends meet. Still they were happy together. She loved her son and worked hard to give him the best things in life. He went to private school where he was allowed to cultivate his imagination. He dreamed big and imagined he could do anything. He drank in science like it was Kool-Aid. Morgan and his mother had a great life together. They stayed in a one-bedroom apartment in a nice building in a poor part of DC. Though the neighborhood was somewhat dangerous, their building was safe.

  Morgan’s mother often read to him, played board games with him, and walked with him to the nearby park. She made sure that he could swim and play the games that kids typically played. One day, while teaching Morgan to shoot pool, she fell to the floor and started to convulse. An ambulance took her to the emergency room of a nearby hospital where tests revealed that she had a small tumor in her brain. The tumor was probably operable, but Morgan’s mother didn’t have adequate health insurance even to cover the cost of proper tests, let alone an operation to remove the tumor.

  “Mom, what did the doctor say?” asked Morgan.

  “She said I just need to rest. I’ll quit one of my jobs for a while until I’m feeling better.”

  She was soon released from the hospital, but she never got better. She called her parents to ask for help, but they refused to take her call. Over time her condition worsened and she eventually fell into a coma and lay in a hospital bed awaiting the inevitable.

  Morgan was picked up by Child Protective Services early on during his mother’s sickness and placed into foster care where he prayed every night for his mother to get well and save him from his life of misery. He went to see her most every day. He sat by her bed and spoke to her lifeless body that used be so full of energy. She shared a room with another comatose woman who was much larger than his slender mother. Reportedly, this woman had driven into a parked car while reaching for a Big Mac she dropped just out of reach below the steering wheel.

  Morgan sometimes brought a book and read to the woman who so often had read to him. Though she never responded, Morgan believed that she could hear him. He would rub her hands and tickle her feet and whisper in her ear with no response. He so much wanted her to come back to him. “Momma,” he pleaded, “please wake up and take me home. Don’t leave me with those mean people. You won’t have to do anything, just come back to me, please!”

  Living with his foster parents was a real change. He had to go to a public school that wasn’t quite the bastion of learning his private school had been. His foster parents never read to him or played board games and rarely took him anywhere.

  His foster father was a congressional aide. His foster mother worked part-time at the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art. She often took her own three kids on outings, telling Morgan he had too many chores to do to join them. His chores included the dishes, clothes, floors, windows, dusting, yard work, and anything else she could think of. Upon returning home she always badgered him about not having everything done. His three foster brothers had little to do with him.

  Morgan slept in a tiny corner of the family’s basement. It was lightly furnished, damp, and poorly lit. He had a small dresser next to his bed for some of his clothes, and the rest he hung on the clothesline that ran across the basement ceiling. Each day after school he would visit his mother, do his homework, and start on his chores. If he was lucky he could sneak out for a little while and practice tennis in his favorite alley. At night he read comic books or adventure novels with a small book light his mother had bought him.

  The last thing he did before going to bed was pray. Mostly he prayed that his mother would get well, but also to be placed in a nicer foster home. Morgan wondered why God sometimes let a wonderful person like his mother get sick so young. He and his mother had gone to church almost every Sunday, and at night she prayed with him. She was always nice to people – sometimes too nice, he thought. And what did he have to show for it? He was without his mother, and slept in the basement of a house run by the foster mother from h
ell. That night he just cried.

  CHAPTER 10

  CULTIVATING OPERATIVES

  Pico was happy to be inside the maintenance panel hatch though he was being jostled back and forth as the vehicle went about its mining efforts. At least he was safe from the attacks going on outside. The vehicle continued mining for the next several hours and then, after sending a final load up to the ship, it fell silent.

  Pico was wondering what would happen next when an electric charge ran through his body and he passed out momentarily. When he came to, something had changed. He sensed that he wasn’t on Cerebran anymore.

  “What’s that beeping in the vehicle storage bay?” yelled the operations supervisor. He stood in a room full of display screens with readouts, indicator lights, alarms, and communications windows. This control center managed the internal operations of the ship and monitored all the electrical, plumbing, and climate control systems, as well as the storage bays and exterior doors. It was one of many different control centers, and each one had a backup: one missed signal could mean death to the crew or loss of valuable cargo. The captain often tested the operations department to ensure they were on the ball. Missing an alarm could cost you your salary, your job, or your life. One of the drills they ran was the Trojan Horse, to simulate someone trying to sneak onboard by hiding in a vehicle or using a transport device. This time it wasn’t a drill.

  “Sir, there’s an intrusion alarm in vehicle bay 117 that occurred after vehicle XY26 arrived from the planet,” said an operator.

  “Security!” the operations supervisor shouted.

  “Yes,” said a voice from the command console.

  “We have a suspected Trojan Horse in vehicle bay 117.”

  “Transport it to security bay five. Security bay five team, prepare for receipt of suspected Trojan Horse. Examine it for possible hostiles. This is not a drill.”