flowersflix
03-22-2012, 12:17 AM
That morning we saw the Atlantic hold its breath on the horizon. It crested an hour later, and, for a moment, seemed to hover over the bungalows and motels like a shimmering blue cloud.
“We should go,” I whispered to my stupid cat.
She looked at me with her eerie green slit-eyes and crooned. “Yes, Anthony. That would have been wise. But, as they say, ‘too little, too late.’”
She wet her paw and massaged the soft area behind her left ear.
That’s when it broke. There were a handful of us on the sixth floor, and the percussion rattled our ribs and knocked us flat.
The sea foamed around the foundation for what seemed like eons, and the windows worked the panes.
The new arrival in the sky, however, was unaffected. It was a gargantuan sphere of impenetrable black struggling for a view through the veil of debris. When things eventually cleared the beginnings of a ring split the morning sky. The centrifuge of rocks converged into a translucent halo a few weeks later.
Me and Beatrix—my Persian snot of a cat—gathered what we could and settled in the heartland. I found work as a toll both clerk, and she clung to the single transom of our dingy apartment as if it were a life preserver.
The job wasn’t too bad at first. There were people from all walks, and some of them actually took the time to say “Hi” or “Beautiful morning, ain’t it?” You know—the kind of chitchat that at least suggests they’re trying. I mean, sure, it’s the end of the world and all, but does that mean courtesy is obligated to curl up and die right alongside the Mayan calendar?
Like I said, some were pleasant, but most had the manners of a Billy goat. They slowed to a crawl and flicked change at me like I was an ashtray. Some of it landed in the collector, but most rolled off the cement curb and back into the lane. These are the ones you’ve seen on your commute—the ones that don’t even wait for the clerk to flip the light. Sometimes the cameras get their plates; sometimes they don’t. If you ask me, the automatons are finicky as hell.
You’d think it’d be the other way around. You’d think the machines would be predictable and that humans would be the creatures of emotion.
But you’d be wrong.
People seemed content with simply surviving. The Advocates said the economy must keep functioning and, of course, everyone agreed. It was all we could do to break away from our cud-chewing long enough to dole out meaningless nods. But, like I said, etiquette was integral. If we lost that, what was next?
No, people weren’t listening to the authorities. They were watching “Big Ebony.” No one was sure of its next move, and tension oozed from the streetlamps and park benches framing the untouched villages like toxic sap.
Because it came rocketing in and pumped the brakes, they were certain that it wasn’t just some random space rock. It had to have been piloted. Controlled. There was an intelligence there.
That’s why they staged the mission. It made sense. For all we knew, the thing could have clobbered us into oblivion before breakfast, so, instead of just sitting there like a bunch of hominid retards, it was deemed prudent that some sort of action be taken.
That’s when the transmission was received.
It came in the form of a low frequency radio wave. For two days, the object rippled. It looked like a bowl of oil concealing some insidious machine. When the tremors stopped, Earth held its breath.
A week later things had settled down and everyone assumed the worst was over. That’s when the broadcasts began.
“A document,” the sterling television anchor announced, “has been received. Federal officials say it demonstrates a startlingly proficient understanding of all six thousand-plus known languages. We now provide you with its English iteration. It’s important to remember, we’re told, that the document has been thoroughly scrutinized by the U.N., and that plans are being developed.”
The anchor, with his silver hair and thick eyebrows, vanished and was replaced by a plainly formatted announcement.
This is not the end of your world.
This is the beginning of the Transition.
Our presence is required in order to usher you past the Boundary.
The Transition has been conducted in this manner since the beginning.
You’re not the first. You won’t be the last.
A conveyance will be sent to the capital of each nation on the first day of the New Year.
Please nominate one ambassador.
He will meet with us for a two hour session that will answer lingering questions.
Additional instructions will follow.
That was it. After the broadcast, I walked down the street and watched as people walked out onto their lawns, crossed their arms and chewed on cigarettes. Responsible adults debated the document while children darted through flapping sprinklers.
“He,” a woman muttered. “Sexist bastards.”
The unbridled frenzy I’d expected never came. Order, it seems, can be achieved through something as simple as the six o’clock news.
* * *
“He” sat in the shade of the marble portico with his legs crossed for the better part of an hour, watching Earth fade into the gray atmosphere. It appeared first as a hazy marble and slowly vanished behind a cluster of unidentifiable evergreens at the top of a knoll.
“Mr. Grebner,” a man said, approaching with his hand extended. “I’m Macro.”
“Macro.” Grebner repeated the name and shook the hand. It was withered and shrunken—oddly brittle.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting. We’re extremely busy at the moment, as you might imagine.”
Grebner surveyed the man. His features were rigid. The skin around his eyes was rubbery and taught, revealing unusually large crescents of moist, pink tissue. His nose protruded sharply, like a stiff object trying to escape the confines of a balloon. At the top of his head was a tuft of red hair.
Macro wore a tuxedo. It was covered in a thin layer of dust and the black bowtie was crooked. The sleeves were too short, and his wrists hung at his sides like knots of rope.
The air on the new moon was cool and sweet. Feathered animals winged through the dusk and Grebner noted their similarity to geese.
“Well, I’ll get right to the point. You’re here to carry back answers that aren’t explained as clearly as you’d like in the document.”
Grebner loosened his collar and smoothed the lapels of his navy sport coat.
“Yes. We have a lot of questions.”
“Understood.”
Grebner cleared his throat.
“Okay. First things first: we want to know why this is happening.”
“What, specifically?”
“This. The ‘Transition.’”
Macro pulled a metal chair into the shade and smiled. His teeth were yellow and looked like old piano keys.
“It happens every so often. When a species needs a suitable, extremely specific habitat, things have to be rearranged. Typically, the transition centers around a fledgling race—as yours used to be.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you have been relocated before, and were, for a startlingly long period of time, uncivilized. All of this is explained in the document.”
Grebner shifted in his seat and folded his arms. He scratched the stubble sprouting from his chin and sighed.
“We read the document. We didn’t see anything of the sort.”
His host didn’t respond.
Grebner watched the sun follow the arc Earth had taken minutes earlier. “How long have we been here—er, there,” he stammered, pointing toward the darkening sky.
“Almost six million years.”
“What about fossil evidence?”
Macro flexed his ears instinctively.
“You have evolved. You know this. That’s what the ‘fossil evidence’ indicates, isn’t it? It’s the nature of species to adapt, and that’s what you’ve done. It’s always encouraging to see progress after such a prolonged period.”
“Yeah, I know we’ve evolved,” Grebner said flatly, his palms pressed against the surface of the glass table that separated them. “I’m talking about dinosaurs. Ancient stuff. Things like that.”
“They were relocated, too.”
Grebner eyed the man. His lips were cracked and there was a thin line of dried blood just above his chin.
“Dinosaurs had their time, just as you have had yours. When you needed this planet, we moved them. They’re thriving in their current location.”
“You moved all of them?”
Macro massaged his neck, obviously irritated. “Yes. It’s not as hard as you think.”
“I think it’s pretty hard.”
“You’re wrong.”
“So why do we have bones? Evidence?”
“We only move the living.”
“Where were they moved to?”
“ ‘Ain al Rami’. In the system Nu Sagittarii.”
“What?”
“The star they orbit. That’s the name your species assigned it. It’s not far.”
“Right.” Grebner stood and paced the stone ledge of the floor, balancing on one foot where it gave way to a sloping courtyard. “So where did we—humans—come from? Not far?”
“Far.”
“How far?”
“Past the Boundary. It’s all in the document. Didn’t they have you read it?”
“Yes, but they asked me to seek clarification.”
“I see.” There was a gaping silence.
“Let’s walk.”
Macro stood, his knees trembling. He gripped the iron rail that lined the inside of the portico until the knocking subsided. Then they stepped into the darkness. The gray overhead had dissolved and stars winked, unhindered, amid a turquoise diorama. Inexplicable nebulae churned. They were silent walking through the detached yard, watching shadows stretch and congeal under the faint lamplight emanating from the mysterious compound etched into the hillside.
The aroma of some invisible plant drew Grebner into a grove of trees that seemed to worship the breeze. The place was pleasant.
“Scientology. Is that what this is? Are they right?”
“Who?”
“Scientologists.”
“No. They’re not right.”
“But you brought us to Earth?”
“Yes.”
“So how are they wrong?”
“We didn’t line you up around volcanoes and then incinerate you with hydrogen bombs in the hope that your souls would fuse to the living that survived. That’s not what we do.”
“What do you do?”
“We facilitate the Transition.”
“Are you God?”
“No.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know. Not us. We didn’t make you. We only helped with the move.”
“Who asked you to move us?”
“Those records are confidential.”
“Bull****.”
Macro plucked a mauve-colored fruit from a stalk and bit into it. Dark juice ran from the corners of his mouth. “Delicious,” he said, chewing loudly and staring vaguely into the black.
“You’re at a point where you can comprehend this. That’s why we decided to invite you here. We don’t want to incite panic. Nothing bad is going to happen. You’re simply relocating.”
“Why did you destroy our Moon?”
“Your moon?” Macro redirected the question to the trees. “It had served its purpose. When we brought you, your moon was like this. Fresh, alive: dense and lush. When you were ready, we put you on Earth and then turned it off.”
“What do you mean ‘turned it off’?”
“We only needed it for the tides…things like that. It costs money to keep a moon running. This satellite will serve many of the same purposes.”
“Let’s get back to your ‘employer’. You’re being paid to do this? All of this costs money?”
“Yes.”
“Is it correct to say that you were hired?”
“Yes.”
“And you won’t say by whom.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“We want to know about the species inheriting Earth.”
“Why?”
“Call it a healthy curiosity.”
“I wouldn’t call it healthy.”
“Okay. Just curiosity, then. Will you tell me?”
“The majority of the transitioning inhabitants haven’t evolved to your intellectual capacity, if that’s what you’re wondering. They’re mostly grazers.”
“What came before dinosaurs?”
“I can’t say.”
Grebner stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks and tried to make eye contact with his host. He stood stiffly and spoke with the deepest voice he could muster.
“I’m going to tell you something off the record.”
Macro didn’t respond.
“There is talk of resistance. There are rumors of war.”
Macro stepped gingerly among the wet plants. He led them out of the grove and into a prairie that dipped below the hill. It was white with fog, and a paved path wound through it like a stream of frozen pitch.
“I don’t think you understand. There won’t be a war. No one will be harmed, unless it’s by your doing. You will be relocated, and that’s that.”
“Where will we be relocated to?”
“Prima Giedi. Not far.”
“The planet we’re going to—is it like Earth?”
“Strikingly similar.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s bigger, but the atmospheric composition is virtually identical. There are minor differences, but you’ll adapt.”
“The document says our effects will be transferred. What about other things?”
“Like what?”
“The Eiffel Tower, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know. The Mona Lisa. Madison Square Garden.”
“Yes. All of that will go. Those are your effects.”
“Where will they be placed?”
“Let us worry about that.”
“What about the dead?”
“We only move the living.”
Grebner gasped when he saw Earth rise in the east. It was much sooner than he’d expected, and the mote of swirling cloud that concealed the warm oceans sloshing across the surface mirrored the simplicity of a crystal ball. The whole thing seemed a deception.
Macro hobbled out of the valley and his guest followed. He was awkward, like a scarecrow unsure of its footing.
“When, exactly, will the Transition take place?” He asked the question reluctantly, almost whispering it in hopes that Macro wouldn’t hear. He wanted to report that no answer had been given.
“Soon. The new inhabitants are almost ready. Times and dates will be supplied.”
“Can you be more specific? How soon is ‘soon’?”
“Soon.”
The sun peeked through the pale light clotting the landscape. Insects fluttered in the extraterrestrial dew. Macro turned and faced Grebner, his hands behind him in a stately manner.
“What other questions do you have?”
“I don’t know. I—just don’t know.”
“It’s all in the document.”
“I suppose it’s no good to ask about philosophy, or the meaning of it all. Or whatever.”
“The meaning of what?”
“It. Everything. Life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“A long time.”
“So what do you think? About life? I mean, really. What the hell are we doing here?”
Grebner didn’t mean to laugh when he said it, but he did. He felt he was on the verge of something significant, and it made him giddy. It was intangible, but he sensed it as if it were an approaching thunderstorm. The ambassador hung on this transcendent being’s every passing breath. His lungs burned in anticipation and Macro stood, still and perfectly motionless, for a long time. When he didn’t speak, Grebner started panting.
“Come on. Let’s try to get beyond the formalities. You’ve been around a while. God knows how long. You’ve got to know something. What am I supposed to do? Go home and tell everyone that ‘It’s all in the document’? I’ll be crucified. You’ve got to give me something.” The ambassador suddenly seemed panicked. “If you don’t want to me to say anything, I won’t. This is off the record. Forget about the hell they’ll put me through. Forget I mentioned that at all. I’m not recording this or anything. I just want to know, for my own understanding, what the purpose is. Just some tidbit. I’ll pocket it. It’ll just be between you and me.”
Macro didn’t speak.
“Please. Just a little something about it. Existence. The goddamn cosmos!”
He caught himself drooling and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His breathing was labored, and it was the first time he had been truly angry in years. Macro turned, and, to Grebner’s surprise, was grinning.
“Well, I can say one thing.” He leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone. “I have been around for a while. You’re right about that. I won’t say how long, but here’s a ‘tidbit’ for you: I oversaw your second Transition. The contract for your species was highly sought after. It took years of negotiating for us to secure it. We thought we had lost it several times.” Macro turned and waded through the mist. He spoke over the gradual slant of his shoulder. “All in all, Transitioning is a very lucrative enterprise.”
Macro shook Grebner’s hand and left him standing in the wake of radiation pouring from the rapidly rising star. The alien walked backward as he bid his farewell. “It’s time for you to return. There’s much to be done. You’ll be fine. It’s all in the document.”
Grebner returned to the portico dejectedly and buzzed for the receptionist. “Christ,” he muttered after glancing down at his slacks.
His fly was unzipped.
* * *
I quit the toll booth after three weeks and hit the road.
My first job in Wichita was working at a smarmy used book shop called “The Epilogue.” The place was incredibly archaic, but, in some weird way, satisfying. Watching people lean through the freshly Windexed doors with thin e-readers plastered to their sides was educational. It was as if they’d entered a parallel dimension. I think it had something to do with the smell of worn paper; the must of curled jackets looping in on one another.
Typically, people browsed the aisles for no more than thirty minutes—apparently killing time while on a lunch break—and only exhibited minimal curiosity at the gems sealed in the glass case obstructing the register.
Every once in a while a balding man with a pencil mustache showed up (and almost always on Monday). He picked through the romance novels gingerly, as if they might transmit some unspeakable venereal disease, using a ballpoint pen to prod the covers and examine the notes scrawled across the faded title pages. One day, after the man had departed later than usual, I couldn’t resist the urge to peel back the jacket of his most recent fancy (a delightful little number titled Loins Engulfed, whose cover showed a ridiculous Fabio beefcake hovering over a woman who had been photographed mid-orgasm). The note, scribbled in pink, said: “Hey, Crystal—stuff this in your pillow and think of me every time you get lonely.”
I reflexively dropped the book. It was like I’d suddenly realized it was a dead tarantula.
“Anthony!” my butch she-boss bellowed from her perch near the fantasy volumes. “Pick that up. What’re you doing?”
I rolled my eyes—ducking just low enough behind the cases so as to conceal my upturned middle finger—and retrieved the paperback.
“When you’re done, get over here. Someone wants to see you.”
I sprang up and peered over the racks like a prairie dog.
I assumed, with unfounded anxiety, that it was the bald man with the fetish and the pre-pubescent mustache. I was wrong.
A square individual, wearing a neatly pressed pinstripe suit, stood beside the register. His hair was oily, and he’d cut himself shaving. A red knick the size of a corn kernel lingered just below his Adam’s apple.
“Mr. Fiendesien?” My last name clicked off his tongue. “I’m Argentine.”
“Call me Anthony.” I extended my right hand and forced a smile. This was all much too formal. His lips were as straight as a gun barrel.
Mr. Argentine didn’t shake my hand. Instead, he straightened his knees and reached into his coat pocket.
“You’ve been issued a summons.”
I didn’t like that word, “summons,” and I made no effort to conceal my disdain. Argentine couldn’t care less.
“Summons? For what?”
“Document organization and archival.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Preparation for the Transition. You’ve been drafted.”
Maybe it had to do with my penchant for literature; my desire to be surrounded by these artifacts that almost everyone considered unnecessarily cumbersome in an electronic world dominated by an infinite arrangements of zeroes and ones. Who knows?
The possibility of being roped into the federally-spearheaded Transition process was something I’d never given any credence, because, for all intents and purposes, it was absurd. It was rare for officials to actually execute an Order of Summons—in fact, the general populace had been so enamored with the notion of the Transition upon its revealing that there had been an overwhelming number of volunteers. This, I think, had to do with the sheer possibility—the potential for answers.
Mr. Argentine explained that I had forty-eight hours to organize my things and report to the depot in Andover.
I thanked him sarcastically and crumpled the blue piece of paper. I made sure he saw the gesture. He frowned, squared his jaw and shoulders, and marched out of the shop.
I followed him to his car and stared at the black sport utility vehicle as it rumbled from the lot. The Epilogue’s “WELCOME” sign burned in neon orange just overhead and cut through the encroaching dusk. When I turned to pay one last tribute to the quirkiest place I’d ever been employed, I noticed Big Ebony cresting the line of uneven shingles.
But it wasn’t ebony. It was white. Well, more like whipped cream; like it had been dunked in Elmer’s glue.
It looked startlingly like the Moon.
* * *
Grebner was only a few hundred kilometers from the object when the metamorphosis began. The way the first layer peeled from the artificial body was like watching a snake strain against the bark of an invisible tree. It collected in an accordion fold at the planet’s poles before quickly unraveling into the emptiness beyond. What remained was a slowly fading planetesimal that appeared ghostly, as if it had been completely drained of blood.
Grebner wondered if the portico he’d occupied only thirty minutes earlier had survived.
The ambassador tried to envision the pandemonium sweeping Earth. The planet was just beyond his reach, twisting on the other side of the six-inch-thick porthole like something alive, the permanence of the vast continents and deceptively tranquil seas triggering memories of his grandmother’s matryoshka.
Her Russian-born husband had given her the dolls after returning from his annual dealings with the Soviet investors. When in its assembled form, the hand-painted object looked like an urn perched on the mantel above her fireplace, and Grebner, then still a boy, conjectured that it contained the remnants of any one of her six dead collies. For him, the dolls were nothing more than gruesome manifestations of death that he afforded a wide berth.
When Grebner was older and had come for the obligatory summer rendezvous, Granny called him into the living room one afternoon when the house was particularly quiet. She removed one of the matryoshka from its altar and placed it on the coffee table. The skin loose on her fingers, the old woman massaged the object until it opened. Inside, Grebner saw duplication; concentricity. The infinity of funhouse mirrors.
The dolls slowly shed one another, and it was like staring into the heart of an onion. Grebner was stunned by their individual detail: the way the cheeks blushed in perfect circles; the floral patterns fanning the dolls’ circumference like vibrant tattoos; the innocence of a bygone era as suggested by drum-tight bonnets.
That was thirty-six years ago.
When Grebner entered the mesosphere, he continued to imagine that the chaos emanating from the cities would be palpable; that the long postulated sixth sense would alert him to something primordial—instinctive.
Instead there was only the dull hum of the transport’s throttle as it prepped for the final stage of reentry.
* * *
Working in the document facility was like being inside of a clock. The machines ticked, and everyone moved as if they’d been slathered in grease. It was all very efficient.
Including myself, there were approximately fifty-two people. We were forced to examine paperwork: federal tax forms, state papers—even rejected job applications.
A mysterious talcum was sprinkled on our palms and fingertips every morning by a machine that looked like an espresso maker. It was like the chalk gymnasts use. The stuff increased our grip, but, by the time the first shift break whistle sounded, it had usually solidified into some sort of lunar paste.
The experience redefined “monotonous.” On occasion, any one of the four shift leaders would pace the facility floor with his—there were no women—hands clasped rigidly behind his back as if he were Hitler’s chief S.S. captain. Of course, the threat of being shot in the stomach or hanged by piano wire wasn’t real, but it was understood that none of us should occupy more than thirty seconds to determine the worth of any given document. The shift leader we most frequently endured was Lars.
That’s right. His name was actually Lars.
He was a lean college intern that, to the best of our knowledge, didn’t have a surname. The boy stomped around the tiled halls in polished boots that echoed like gavels. Lars also wore a wide atomic clock that displayed green numbers across the lapel of his uniform; the device sporadically barked the hours left until commencement of the Transition.
I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him; he was a prick, no doubt, but if he didn’t put his polished boot up our collective asses it meant an even larger one would find its way up his. And it was an important duty. After all, a slice of human history rested in our chapped hands. Sure, the digital stuff had already been encoded on thumbnails and packed away in plastic crates for the impending journey, but these pulpy manifestations of the paper-and-ink era were largely nebulous. They’d been filed away some decades prior, but nobody had any real need for their reference.
But here, in the face of their destruction, it was reasoned that they should be organized; catalogued and launched with the rest of the artifacts. And, as much as I dreaded the inevitable paper cuts that shredded the webbing of my hands and the candle wax gunk that caked my forehead by the end of every shift, even I had to admit that there was something to this.
After all, it’s not often that one is privileged enough to break his fingers doing something as noble as sorting out history.
* * *
When Grebner touched down in Houston he was ushered into a concrete room that buzzed with three florescent bulbs. His superior, a gentleman of Iroquois descent with a crew-cut and a paisley necktie, sat in a steel chair at the end of a long table. The man motioned for Grebner to take the single empty seat.
“You didn’t find out anything.”
The man flexed his fingers, allowing them to pop one at a time. It was a tick Grebner had only casually observed during previous meetings, but here each hollow click suggested a tolling; a death knell; a summons.
The man’s eyes were black; a barely discernable line ringed his pupils, and, in the harsh light raining down from overhead, they seemed every bit as ominous as an event horizon.
“Well?”
Grebner checked to make sure the fly of his trousers wasn’t at half-mast.
“You’ve already seen the tape.”
The fingers stopped clicking. There was only the grating hiss of the bulbs, and then the man was on his feet.
“Yes. I have. And you didn’t find out one damned thing we asked you to.”
After unbuttoning his coat, the man sat on the edge of the clean table.
“You realize the gravity of your situation, of course. You were delegated ambassador—it was your job to get the answers.”
Grebner didn’t budge.
“You’ve seen the tape.”
After threading his fingers together angrily, the man stood and returned to his chair.
“Yes, I told you—I saw the tape. We’ve all seen it. The Transition is in less than three days, and you let this guy run us in circles.”
“I pressed him as hard as I could.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“What would have been?”
“What?”
“What would have been enough?”
“If you had done your job. If you had pried answers out of him; if you’d found out the truth—that’s what.”
“What truth?”
The man turned red.
“Don’t try pulling your bull**** on me.”
Grebner nodded, stood politely, and left the room.
* * *
The following Wednesday, the defunct ambassador leaned against the splintered railing circling his deck. The purple light screaming from the new moon intensified, and Grebner had to hold a hand over his brow so as to see the spinning disc edging from between the two bare mountains cutting through the midday blue in the east.
When it became too much, the aging negotiator bowed his head sheepishly and backpedaled toward the sliding door that led into the kitchen. There, at least, he could lower the shades; embrace the simple solace of a frosted glass of ice water.
There he could drink. He could swallow.
He could allow the mystery of the life-giving substance to settle in his gut once and for all.
***Thanks for taking the time to read Matryoshka. Please take a second to visit the link below to rate the story.
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“We should go,” I whispered to my stupid cat.
She looked at me with her eerie green slit-eyes and crooned. “Yes, Anthony. That would have been wise. But, as they say, ‘too little, too late.’”
She wet her paw and massaged the soft area behind her left ear.
That’s when it broke. There were a handful of us on the sixth floor, and the percussion rattled our ribs and knocked us flat.
The sea foamed around the foundation for what seemed like eons, and the windows worked the panes.
The new arrival in the sky, however, was unaffected. It was a gargantuan sphere of impenetrable black struggling for a view through the veil of debris. When things eventually cleared the beginnings of a ring split the morning sky. The centrifuge of rocks converged into a translucent halo a few weeks later.
Me and Beatrix—my Persian snot of a cat—gathered what we could and settled in the heartland. I found work as a toll both clerk, and she clung to the single transom of our dingy apartment as if it were a life preserver.
The job wasn’t too bad at first. There were people from all walks, and some of them actually took the time to say “Hi” or “Beautiful morning, ain’t it?” You know—the kind of chitchat that at least suggests they’re trying. I mean, sure, it’s the end of the world and all, but does that mean courtesy is obligated to curl up and die right alongside the Mayan calendar?
Like I said, some were pleasant, but most had the manners of a Billy goat. They slowed to a crawl and flicked change at me like I was an ashtray. Some of it landed in the collector, but most rolled off the cement curb and back into the lane. These are the ones you’ve seen on your commute—the ones that don’t even wait for the clerk to flip the light. Sometimes the cameras get their plates; sometimes they don’t. If you ask me, the automatons are finicky as hell.
You’d think it’d be the other way around. You’d think the machines would be predictable and that humans would be the creatures of emotion.
But you’d be wrong.
People seemed content with simply surviving. The Advocates said the economy must keep functioning and, of course, everyone agreed. It was all we could do to break away from our cud-chewing long enough to dole out meaningless nods. But, like I said, etiquette was integral. If we lost that, what was next?
No, people weren’t listening to the authorities. They were watching “Big Ebony.” No one was sure of its next move, and tension oozed from the streetlamps and park benches framing the untouched villages like toxic sap.
Because it came rocketing in and pumped the brakes, they were certain that it wasn’t just some random space rock. It had to have been piloted. Controlled. There was an intelligence there.
That’s why they staged the mission. It made sense. For all we knew, the thing could have clobbered us into oblivion before breakfast, so, instead of just sitting there like a bunch of hominid retards, it was deemed prudent that some sort of action be taken.
That’s when the transmission was received.
It came in the form of a low frequency radio wave. For two days, the object rippled. It looked like a bowl of oil concealing some insidious machine. When the tremors stopped, Earth held its breath.
A week later things had settled down and everyone assumed the worst was over. That’s when the broadcasts began.
“A document,” the sterling television anchor announced, “has been received. Federal officials say it demonstrates a startlingly proficient understanding of all six thousand-plus known languages. We now provide you with its English iteration. It’s important to remember, we’re told, that the document has been thoroughly scrutinized by the U.N., and that plans are being developed.”
The anchor, with his silver hair and thick eyebrows, vanished and was replaced by a plainly formatted announcement.
This is not the end of your world.
This is the beginning of the Transition.
Our presence is required in order to usher you past the Boundary.
The Transition has been conducted in this manner since the beginning.
You’re not the first. You won’t be the last.
A conveyance will be sent to the capital of each nation on the first day of the New Year.
Please nominate one ambassador.
He will meet with us for a two hour session that will answer lingering questions.
Additional instructions will follow.
That was it. After the broadcast, I walked down the street and watched as people walked out onto their lawns, crossed their arms and chewed on cigarettes. Responsible adults debated the document while children darted through flapping sprinklers.
“He,” a woman muttered. “Sexist bastards.”
The unbridled frenzy I’d expected never came. Order, it seems, can be achieved through something as simple as the six o’clock news.
* * *
“He” sat in the shade of the marble portico with his legs crossed for the better part of an hour, watching Earth fade into the gray atmosphere. It appeared first as a hazy marble and slowly vanished behind a cluster of unidentifiable evergreens at the top of a knoll.
“Mr. Grebner,” a man said, approaching with his hand extended. “I’m Macro.”
“Macro.” Grebner repeated the name and shook the hand. It was withered and shrunken—oddly brittle.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting. We’re extremely busy at the moment, as you might imagine.”
Grebner surveyed the man. His features were rigid. The skin around his eyes was rubbery and taught, revealing unusually large crescents of moist, pink tissue. His nose protruded sharply, like a stiff object trying to escape the confines of a balloon. At the top of his head was a tuft of red hair.
Macro wore a tuxedo. It was covered in a thin layer of dust and the black bowtie was crooked. The sleeves were too short, and his wrists hung at his sides like knots of rope.
The air on the new moon was cool and sweet. Feathered animals winged through the dusk and Grebner noted their similarity to geese.
“Well, I’ll get right to the point. You’re here to carry back answers that aren’t explained as clearly as you’d like in the document.”
Grebner loosened his collar and smoothed the lapels of his navy sport coat.
“Yes. We have a lot of questions.”
“Understood.”
Grebner cleared his throat.
“Okay. First things first: we want to know why this is happening.”
“What, specifically?”
“This. The ‘Transition.’”
Macro pulled a metal chair into the shade and smiled. His teeth were yellow and looked like old piano keys.
“It happens every so often. When a species needs a suitable, extremely specific habitat, things have to be rearranged. Typically, the transition centers around a fledgling race—as yours used to be.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you have been relocated before, and were, for a startlingly long period of time, uncivilized. All of this is explained in the document.”
Grebner shifted in his seat and folded his arms. He scratched the stubble sprouting from his chin and sighed.
“We read the document. We didn’t see anything of the sort.”
His host didn’t respond.
Grebner watched the sun follow the arc Earth had taken minutes earlier. “How long have we been here—er, there,” he stammered, pointing toward the darkening sky.
“Almost six million years.”
“What about fossil evidence?”
Macro flexed his ears instinctively.
“You have evolved. You know this. That’s what the ‘fossil evidence’ indicates, isn’t it? It’s the nature of species to adapt, and that’s what you’ve done. It’s always encouraging to see progress after such a prolonged period.”
“Yeah, I know we’ve evolved,” Grebner said flatly, his palms pressed against the surface of the glass table that separated them. “I’m talking about dinosaurs. Ancient stuff. Things like that.”
“They were relocated, too.”
Grebner eyed the man. His lips were cracked and there was a thin line of dried blood just above his chin.
“Dinosaurs had their time, just as you have had yours. When you needed this planet, we moved them. They’re thriving in their current location.”
“You moved all of them?”
Macro massaged his neck, obviously irritated. “Yes. It’s not as hard as you think.”
“I think it’s pretty hard.”
“You’re wrong.”
“So why do we have bones? Evidence?”
“We only move the living.”
“Where were they moved to?”
“ ‘Ain al Rami’. In the system Nu Sagittarii.”
“What?”
“The star they orbit. That’s the name your species assigned it. It’s not far.”
“Right.” Grebner stood and paced the stone ledge of the floor, balancing on one foot where it gave way to a sloping courtyard. “So where did we—humans—come from? Not far?”
“Far.”
“How far?”
“Past the Boundary. It’s all in the document. Didn’t they have you read it?”
“Yes, but they asked me to seek clarification.”
“I see.” There was a gaping silence.
“Let’s walk.”
Macro stood, his knees trembling. He gripped the iron rail that lined the inside of the portico until the knocking subsided. Then they stepped into the darkness. The gray overhead had dissolved and stars winked, unhindered, amid a turquoise diorama. Inexplicable nebulae churned. They were silent walking through the detached yard, watching shadows stretch and congeal under the faint lamplight emanating from the mysterious compound etched into the hillside.
The aroma of some invisible plant drew Grebner into a grove of trees that seemed to worship the breeze. The place was pleasant.
“Scientology. Is that what this is? Are they right?”
“Who?”
“Scientologists.”
“No. They’re not right.”
“But you brought us to Earth?”
“Yes.”
“So how are they wrong?”
“We didn’t line you up around volcanoes and then incinerate you with hydrogen bombs in the hope that your souls would fuse to the living that survived. That’s not what we do.”
“What do you do?”
“We facilitate the Transition.”
“Are you God?”
“No.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know. Not us. We didn’t make you. We only helped with the move.”
“Who asked you to move us?”
“Those records are confidential.”
“Bull****.”
Macro plucked a mauve-colored fruit from a stalk and bit into it. Dark juice ran from the corners of his mouth. “Delicious,” he said, chewing loudly and staring vaguely into the black.
“You’re at a point where you can comprehend this. That’s why we decided to invite you here. We don’t want to incite panic. Nothing bad is going to happen. You’re simply relocating.”
“Why did you destroy our Moon?”
“Your moon?” Macro redirected the question to the trees. “It had served its purpose. When we brought you, your moon was like this. Fresh, alive: dense and lush. When you were ready, we put you on Earth and then turned it off.”
“What do you mean ‘turned it off’?”
“We only needed it for the tides…things like that. It costs money to keep a moon running. This satellite will serve many of the same purposes.”
“Let’s get back to your ‘employer’. You’re being paid to do this? All of this costs money?”
“Yes.”
“Is it correct to say that you were hired?”
“Yes.”
“And you won’t say by whom.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“We want to know about the species inheriting Earth.”
“Why?”
“Call it a healthy curiosity.”
“I wouldn’t call it healthy.”
“Okay. Just curiosity, then. Will you tell me?”
“The majority of the transitioning inhabitants haven’t evolved to your intellectual capacity, if that’s what you’re wondering. They’re mostly grazers.”
“What came before dinosaurs?”
“I can’t say.”
Grebner stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks and tried to make eye contact with his host. He stood stiffly and spoke with the deepest voice he could muster.
“I’m going to tell you something off the record.”
Macro didn’t respond.
“There is talk of resistance. There are rumors of war.”
Macro stepped gingerly among the wet plants. He led them out of the grove and into a prairie that dipped below the hill. It was white with fog, and a paved path wound through it like a stream of frozen pitch.
“I don’t think you understand. There won’t be a war. No one will be harmed, unless it’s by your doing. You will be relocated, and that’s that.”
“Where will we be relocated to?”
“Prima Giedi. Not far.”
“The planet we’re going to—is it like Earth?”
“Strikingly similar.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s bigger, but the atmospheric composition is virtually identical. There are minor differences, but you’ll adapt.”
“The document says our effects will be transferred. What about other things?”
“Like what?”
“The Eiffel Tower, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know. The Mona Lisa. Madison Square Garden.”
“Yes. All of that will go. Those are your effects.”
“Where will they be placed?”
“Let us worry about that.”
“What about the dead?”
“We only move the living.”
Grebner gasped when he saw Earth rise in the east. It was much sooner than he’d expected, and the mote of swirling cloud that concealed the warm oceans sloshing across the surface mirrored the simplicity of a crystal ball. The whole thing seemed a deception.
Macro hobbled out of the valley and his guest followed. He was awkward, like a scarecrow unsure of its footing.
“When, exactly, will the Transition take place?” He asked the question reluctantly, almost whispering it in hopes that Macro wouldn’t hear. He wanted to report that no answer had been given.
“Soon. The new inhabitants are almost ready. Times and dates will be supplied.”
“Can you be more specific? How soon is ‘soon’?”
“Soon.”
The sun peeked through the pale light clotting the landscape. Insects fluttered in the extraterrestrial dew. Macro turned and faced Grebner, his hands behind him in a stately manner.
“What other questions do you have?”
“I don’t know. I—just don’t know.”
“It’s all in the document.”
“I suppose it’s no good to ask about philosophy, or the meaning of it all. Or whatever.”
“The meaning of what?”
“It. Everything. Life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“A long time.”
“So what do you think? About life? I mean, really. What the hell are we doing here?”
Grebner didn’t mean to laugh when he said it, but he did. He felt he was on the verge of something significant, and it made him giddy. It was intangible, but he sensed it as if it were an approaching thunderstorm. The ambassador hung on this transcendent being’s every passing breath. His lungs burned in anticipation and Macro stood, still and perfectly motionless, for a long time. When he didn’t speak, Grebner started panting.
“Come on. Let’s try to get beyond the formalities. You’ve been around a while. God knows how long. You’ve got to know something. What am I supposed to do? Go home and tell everyone that ‘It’s all in the document’? I’ll be crucified. You’ve got to give me something.” The ambassador suddenly seemed panicked. “If you don’t want to me to say anything, I won’t. This is off the record. Forget about the hell they’ll put me through. Forget I mentioned that at all. I’m not recording this or anything. I just want to know, for my own understanding, what the purpose is. Just some tidbit. I’ll pocket it. It’ll just be between you and me.”
Macro didn’t speak.
“Please. Just a little something about it. Existence. The goddamn cosmos!”
He caught himself drooling and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His breathing was labored, and it was the first time he had been truly angry in years. Macro turned, and, to Grebner’s surprise, was grinning.
“Well, I can say one thing.” He leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone. “I have been around for a while. You’re right about that. I won’t say how long, but here’s a ‘tidbit’ for you: I oversaw your second Transition. The contract for your species was highly sought after. It took years of negotiating for us to secure it. We thought we had lost it several times.” Macro turned and waded through the mist. He spoke over the gradual slant of his shoulder. “All in all, Transitioning is a very lucrative enterprise.”
Macro shook Grebner’s hand and left him standing in the wake of radiation pouring from the rapidly rising star. The alien walked backward as he bid his farewell. “It’s time for you to return. There’s much to be done. You’ll be fine. It’s all in the document.”
Grebner returned to the portico dejectedly and buzzed for the receptionist. “Christ,” he muttered after glancing down at his slacks.
His fly was unzipped.
* * *
I quit the toll booth after three weeks and hit the road.
My first job in Wichita was working at a smarmy used book shop called “The Epilogue.” The place was incredibly archaic, but, in some weird way, satisfying. Watching people lean through the freshly Windexed doors with thin e-readers plastered to their sides was educational. It was as if they’d entered a parallel dimension. I think it had something to do with the smell of worn paper; the must of curled jackets looping in on one another.
Typically, people browsed the aisles for no more than thirty minutes—apparently killing time while on a lunch break—and only exhibited minimal curiosity at the gems sealed in the glass case obstructing the register.
Every once in a while a balding man with a pencil mustache showed up (and almost always on Monday). He picked through the romance novels gingerly, as if they might transmit some unspeakable venereal disease, using a ballpoint pen to prod the covers and examine the notes scrawled across the faded title pages. One day, after the man had departed later than usual, I couldn’t resist the urge to peel back the jacket of his most recent fancy (a delightful little number titled Loins Engulfed, whose cover showed a ridiculous Fabio beefcake hovering over a woman who had been photographed mid-orgasm). The note, scribbled in pink, said: “Hey, Crystal—stuff this in your pillow and think of me every time you get lonely.”
I reflexively dropped the book. It was like I’d suddenly realized it was a dead tarantula.
“Anthony!” my butch she-boss bellowed from her perch near the fantasy volumes. “Pick that up. What’re you doing?”
I rolled my eyes—ducking just low enough behind the cases so as to conceal my upturned middle finger—and retrieved the paperback.
“When you’re done, get over here. Someone wants to see you.”
I sprang up and peered over the racks like a prairie dog.
I assumed, with unfounded anxiety, that it was the bald man with the fetish and the pre-pubescent mustache. I was wrong.
A square individual, wearing a neatly pressed pinstripe suit, stood beside the register. His hair was oily, and he’d cut himself shaving. A red knick the size of a corn kernel lingered just below his Adam’s apple.
“Mr. Fiendesien?” My last name clicked off his tongue. “I’m Argentine.”
“Call me Anthony.” I extended my right hand and forced a smile. This was all much too formal. His lips were as straight as a gun barrel.
Mr. Argentine didn’t shake my hand. Instead, he straightened his knees and reached into his coat pocket.
“You’ve been issued a summons.”
I didn’t like that word, “summons,” and I made no effort to conceal my disdain. Argentine couldn’t care less.
“Summons? For what?”
“Document organization and archival.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Preparation for the Transition. You’ve been drafted.”
Maybe it had to do with my penchant for literature; my desire to be surrounded by these artifacts that almost everyone considered unnecessarily cumbersome in an electronic world dominated by an infinite arrangements of zeroes and ones. Who knows?
The possibility of being roped into the federally-spearheaded Transition process was something I’d never given any credence, because, for all intents and purposes, it was absurd. It was rare for officials to actually execute an Order of Summons—in fact, the general populace had been so enamored with the notion of the Transition upon its revealing that there had been an overwhelming number of volunteers. This, I think, had to do with the sheer possibility—the potential for answers.
Mr. Argentine explained that I had forty-eight hours to organize my things and report to the depot in Andover.
I thanked him sarcastically and crumpled the blue piece of paper. I made sure he saw the gesture. He frowned, squared his jaw and shoulders, and marched out of the shop.
I followed him to his car and stared at the black sport utility vehicle as it rumbled from the lot. The Epilogue’s “WELCOME” sign burned in neon orange just overhead and cut through the encroaching dusk. When I turned to pay one last tribute to the quirkiest place I’d ever been employed, I noticed Big Ebony cresting the line of uneven shingles.
But it wasn’t ebony. It was white. Well, more like whipped cream; like it had been dunked in Elmer’s glue.
It looked startlingly like the Moon.
* * *
Grebner was only a few hundred kilometers from the object when the metamorphosis began. The way the first layer peeled from the artificial body was like watching a snake strain against the bark of an invisible tree. It collected in an accordion fold at the planet’s poles before quickly unraveling into the emptiness beyond. What remained was a slowly fading planetesimal that appeared ghostly, as if it had been completely drained of blood.
Grebner wondered if the portico he’d occupied only thirty minutes earlier had survived.
The ambassador tried to envision the pandemonium sweeping Earth. The planet was just beyond his reach, twisting on the other side of the six-inch-thick porthole like something alive, the permanence of the vast continents and deceptively tranquil seas triggering memories of his grandmother’s matryoshka.
Her Russian-born husband had given her the dolls after returning from his annual dealings with the Soviet investors. When in its assembled form, the hand-painted object looked like an urn perched on the mantel above her fireplace, and Grebner, then still a boy, conjectured that it contained the remnants of any one of her six dead collies. For him, the dolls were nothing more than gruesome manifestations of death that he afforded a wide berth.
When Grebner was older and had come for the obligatory summer rendezvous, Granny called him into the living room one afternoon when the house was particularly quiet. She removed one of the matryoshka from its altar and placed it on the coffee table. The skin loose on her fingers, the old woman massaged the object until it opened. Inside, Grebner saw duplication; concentricity. The infinity of funhouse mirrors.
The dolls slowly shed one another, and it was like staring into the heart of an onion. Grebner was stunned by their individual detail: the way the cheeks blushed in perfect circles; the floral patterns fanning the dolls’ circumference like vibrant tattoos; the innocence of a bygone era as suggested by drum-tight bonnets.
That was thirty-six years ago.
When Grebner entered the mesosphere, he continued to imagine that the chaos emanating from the cities would be palpable; that the long postulated sixth sense would alert him to something primordial—instinctive.
Instead there was only the dull hum of the transport’s throttle as it prepped for the final stage of reentry.
* * *
Working in the document facility was like being inside of a clock. The machines ticked, and everyone moved as if they’d been slathered in grease. It was all very efficient.
Including myself, there were approximately fifty-two people. We were forced to examine paperwork: federal tax forms, state papers—even rejected job applications.
A mysterious talcum was sprinkled on our palms and fingertips every morning by a machine that looked like an espresso maker. It was like the chalk gymnasts use. The stuff increased our grip, but, by the time the first shift break whistle sounded, it had usually solidified into some sort of lunar paste.
The experience redefined “monotonous.” On occasion, any one of the four shift leaders would pace the facility floor with his—there were no women—hands clasped rigidly behind his back as if he were Hitler’s chief S.S. captain. Of course, the threat of being shot in the stomach or hanged by piano wire wasn’t real, but it was understood that none of us should occupy more than thirty seconds to determine the worth of any given document. The shift leader we most frequently endured was Lars.
That’s right. His name was actually Lars.
He was a lean college intern that, to the best of our knowledge, didn’t have a surname. The boy stomped around the tiled halls in polished boots that echoed like gavels. Lars also wore a wide atomic clock that displayed green numbers across the lapel of his uniform; the device sporadically barked the hours left until commencement of the Transition.
I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him; he was a prick, no doubt, but if he didn’t put his polished boot up our collective asses it meant an even larger one would find its way up his. And it was an important duty. After all, a slice of human history rested in our chapped hands. Sure, the digital stuff had already been encoded on thumbnails and packed away in plastic crates for the impending journey, but these pulpy manifestations of the paper-and-ink era were largely nebulous. They’d been filed away some decades prior, but nobody had any real need for their reference.
But here, in the face of their destruction, it was reasoned that they should be organized; catalogued and launched with the rest of the artifacts. And, as much as I dreaded the inevitable paper cuts that shredded the webbing of my hands and the candle wax gunk that caked my forehead by the end of every shift, even I had to admit that there was something to this.
After all, it’s not often that one is privileged enough to break his fingers doing something as noble as sorting out history.
* * *
When Grebner touched down in Houston he was ushered into a concrete room that buzzed with three florescent bulbs. His superior, a gentleman of Iroquois descent with a crew-cut and a paisley necktie, sat in a steel chair at the end of a long table. The man motioned for Grebner to take the single empty seat.
“You didn’t find out anything.”
The man flexed his fingers, allowing them to pop one at a time. It was a tick Grebner had only casually observed during previous meetings, but here each hollow click suggested a tolling; a death knell; a summons.
The man’s eyes were black; a barely discernable line ringed his pupils, and, in the harsh light raining down from overhead, they seemed every bit as ominous as an event horizon.
“Well?”
Grebner checked to make sure the fly of his trousers wasn’t at half-mast.
“You’ve already seen the tape.”
The fingers stopped clicking. There was only the grating hiss of the bulbs, and then the man was on his feet.
“Yes. I have. And you didn’t find out one damned thing we asked you to.”
After unbuttoning his coat, the man sat on the edge of the clean table.
“You realize the gravity of your situation, of course. You were delegated ambassador—it was your job to get the answers.”
Grebner didn’t budge.
“You’ve seen the tape.”
After threading his fingers together angrily, the man stood and returned to his chair.
“Yes, I told you—I saw the tape. We’ve all seen it. The Transition is in less than three days, and you let this guy run us in circles.”
“I pressed him as hard as I could.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“What would have been?”
“What?”
“What would have been enough?”
“If you had done your job. If you had pried answers out of him; if you’d found out the truth—that’s what.”
“What truth?”
The man turned red.
“Don’t try pulling your bull**** on me.”
Grebner nodded, stood politely, and left the room.
* * *
The following Wednesday, the defunct ambassador leaned against the splintered railing circling his deck. The purple light screaming from the new moon intensified, and Grebner had to hold a hand over his brow so as to see the spinning disc edging from between the two bare mountains cutting through the midday blue in the east.
When it became too much, the aging negotiator bowed his head sheepishly and backpedaled toward the sliding door that led into the kitchen. There, at least, he could lower the shades; embrace the simple solace of a frosted glass of ice water.
There he could drink. He could swallow.
He could allow the mystery of the life-giving substance to settle in his gut once and for all.
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