《Echoes of the Mind's Eye: 13 Speculative Fiction Short Stories》


 Front Matter

    Echoes of the Mind¡¯s Eye


    13 Speculative Fiction Short Stories


    by Victor D. L¨®pez


    ___________________


    Copyright 2021


    No portion of this copyrighted book may be copied, posted, transmitted or otherwise used in any form without the express written consent of the author.


    ___________________


    In loving memory of loved ones gone never to be forgotten:


    Lita and Felipe (mom and dad)


    Remedios, Emilio, Mar¨ªa and Manuel (grandparents)


    Mar¨ªa Luisa Seoane (Marisita)


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Alberto Seoane


    Mar¨ªa Luisa Zapata


    Jos¨¦ and Manola Naveira


    Francisco and Alicia Naveira


    Emilio, Nieves, Susana, and Osvaldo Gordedo


    Rub¨¦n Gorde


    Mar¨ªa del Carmen & Torry Granja


    ___________________


    Author¡¯s Note


    The thirteen short stories in this collection span a lifetime, from my early undergraduate college days at Queens College in the late 1970s when two of the stories in this collection were originally written (Eternal Quest and Mergs, Or Why Godot Can¡¯t Come) to the present. Ten of these are reprinted from my Book of Dreams and Mindscapes collections (The Day the Dolphins Vanished, To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, What Price to Live the Dream?, Mergs (Or Why Godot Can¡¯t Come), Earth Mother, Justice, End of Days, The Riddle of the Sphinx: Solved, Mars: Genesis 2.0, and Eternal Quest). Three of the stories are new (Amor Vincit Omnia, Redemption and Modern Art and the Critics). All previously published stories in this collection have been re-edited and updated.


    Most of my books and scholarly articles published to date are non-fiction, primarily in the area of law. But fiction and poetry have been an important part of my life as both a reader and writer since my pre-teens. My professional writing¡ªtextbooks and trade books¡ªcontain ideas and analysis based on many months or years of research and are much more widely read than my published fiction and poetry. The latter, however, contain tiny pieces of my soul, and I hope reflect the tension that exists in the duality of the human spirit that is forever tethered to the earth while looking longingly to the sky, yearning to fly.


    I hope you will find this journey interesting and entertaining. I also hope most of the stories will allow you to view the world from a different perspective and leave you thinking. Most of all, thank you for accompanying me on my journey of exploration. I am very grateful to be in your company.


    Victor D. L¨®pez


    New York, January 2021

 Chapter 1: The Riddle of the Sphinx - Solved!

    The midday sun blazed in blinding glory directly over the Great Sphinx of Giza as Dr. Zahi Hawass, the famous Egyptologist whose love of Egyptian antiquity seems rivaled only by his love of the camera, faced the score of reporters with his well-worn Indiana Jones hat and best cat-who-swallowed-the-canary-smile.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. This is a great day for Egypt and the world,¡± he began with an enthusiastic smile and eyes sparkling like a sleepy child¡¯s on Christmas morning. ¡°Our efforts over the past year to excavate the recently found chamber under the right paw of the Sphinx is complete and we are ready to reveal its content for the first time. Please, come with me that we may share this moment together.¡±


    Without further ado and in an uncharacteristically brief fashion, Dr. Hawass turned to his left, gesturing for the cameras to follow. As he walked, he continued, turning to the cameras and beaming contentedly. ¡°We have uncovered a portal but have not yet broken the seal as we wish to share this moment with the world.¡±


    ¡°Zahi,¡± a reporter following closely to his right called out, ¡°Can you tell us what you expect to find?¡± The Egyptologist stopped and turned to the reporter, with a patient, avuncular smile, and stopped, facing the cameras directly.


    ¡°I have no idea, but I expect it will be wonderful things.¡± He then turned and took several steps before once again stopping and turning to the camera. ¡°You will see that there are no artifacts in the small antechamber we have uncovered, nor any artwork or extensive writing. There is, in fact, no traditional writing of any kind but for a line of undecipherable writing above a sealed doorway that is unlike anything that has been uncovered in the past.¡±


    ¡°You mean the writing is illegible?¡± the reporter interrupted.


    ¡°No,¡± Dr. Hawass replied, dabbing at his damp forehead with a large, white handkerchief. ¡°The writing is quite legible but is unlike any writing in the ancient or modern world. There are no glyphs, but previously unseen symbols over the doorway. The writing is not painted but etched onto the stone and glows quite visibly even in low light. I expect it will take us quite some time to decipher its meaning and the means utilized to achieve the bright glow, though we suspect it is some type of radioactive material similar to that used in instruments and watches in the recent past, though no trace of radiation has been picked up by our instruments.¡± He then resumed walking again towards the excavation, still some fifty feet away. ¡°It is all part of the mystery, and it augers well for whatever archeological treasures may be secreted beyond the sealed wall, don¡¯t you think?¡± His statement ended right on cue at the foot of the vertical tunnel that resembled more a well than the traditional entrance to a burial chamber.


    ¡°You must be careful descending the wooden ladder. There is only room for a few people down there as the antechamber is only approximately two meters by two meters and we already have two workmen down there ready to breach the sealed door. I can only take a camera operator down with me and will be happy to hold an extensive news conference later, once what lies beyond the seal is uncovered.¡±


    Dismissing the numerous questions shot at him by members of the media present with a wave of the hand, he pointed to the closest Egyptian camera operator and said ¡°You can accompany me. Careful, though. The workmen will steady the ladder below, but it is a long way down and the ladder will be unsteady.¡± He then stepped onto the ladder protruding above the meter-wide circular hole with the camera operator first filming his descent, and then following carefully, holding onto the ladder with his left hand as he balanced his light but awkward camera on his shoulder harness with his right hand, filming nothing but his handhold on the ladder as he descended, not wanting to break the suspense.


    Approximately three stories down, he finally hit solid ground, finding a chamber that appeared dug out of bedrock, with perfectly smooth walls everywhere but for the circular hole on the ceiling through which they had descended. The cameraman immediately swept his camera around the tiny room panning back to the limits of his camera¡¯s wide-angle view. Two workmen could be seen to each side of a wall directly opposite the ladder, covered in sweat to which clung rock granules and dust from their intense chiseling into the rock. The cameraman focused on the recessed symbols that arched above the perfect outlines of a rectangular door approximately a meter in width and two meters in height.


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    ¡°Keep the camera on the writing,¡± the Egyptologist commanded and wait to be amazed.¡± He then turned off the intense halogen lights by pressing a switch on the line leading to the dual work lights that had brightly illuminated the small room, and the symbols came alive with a blood-red glow from within the carved stone. The symbols themselves were reminiscent of geometric figures and mathematical symbols but were neither glyphs nor words in an unknown alphabet but a sort of combination of the two that was disorienting to the mind.


    ¡°We are about to begin. Please wear this dust mask,¡± Dr. Hawass told the cameraman, handing him a surgeon¡¯s mask and donning one himself. As he did so, he nodded to the workmen and signaled them to begin again as they sported their own dust-stained masks and began chiseling at the rock in unison.


    The simple hammer and chisel sounds in the small chamber was loud enough to force a twitch from the cameraman with each strike of the hammer. The workmen continued the jarring hammering to the center of the door which had no visible means of opening from this side of the chamber and, apparently, had not yielded to prior efforts at pushing, prodding or otherwise forcing it open. The fit of the door was so perfect as to leave only a hairline crack to distinguish the outline of where the door met the rest of the wall on polished rock that was incredibly smooth and free of imperfections.


    Five minutes later, as the camera captured the faint swirling dust produced by the rhythmic strikes of hammer on steel chisels, the ancient stone gave up its last efforts at resistance, leaving a small hole the size of a sharpened chisel end on the stone which had yielded a concave depression several inches deep as a result of the repeated blows with hammers on chisels. An instant after the chisel had broken through, a bolt of plasma flashed through with the intensity at the center of the sun, filling the chamber and shooting up through the well-like opening to the outside, instantaneously vaporizing the still smiling Egyptologist, the cameraman, and the chisel-wielding workmen continuing upwards through the circular opening to the surface like a coronal emission radiating outward beyond the orbit of Mars. Blackest shadows followed, flowing outwards like a billion bats exploding from a cave in which dynamite had been detonated, evil personified shrieking outward freed from the restrictive seal placed by the protectors of what would subsequently become a primordial cradle of civilization.


    The carved letters above the breached portal left by the victors of a galactic war whose final battle was fought on Sol millennia ago, and the remnants of whose vanquished hoards, forced to march through a portal to oblivion hidden below ground in an insignificant, life sustaining planet. The portal was then sealed, and a guardian erected to mark the spot¡ªusing local materials and a magnificent predator from this planet to serve as a warning to the locals to stay away from this site marked by the gods.


    With the passage of time and the rise of arrogant, foolish men who feared nothing but oblivion, the glorious lion¡¯s head and flowing mane were ordered to be defaced and carved into the likeness of Khufu whose megalomania could not be satisfied by building the largest monument to himself that the world has ever known by way of the Great Pyramid at Giza. The result would become the iconic figure that would spawn mysterious controversies among historians and Egyptologists in the modern era with its too-small head in proportion to the lion¡¯s body, the unavoidable result of having to fit a human face and headdress within the features of the original perfectly proportioned lion¡¯s head. In time, Khufu¡¯s face would itself be defaced by having its nose and beard chiseled away as clearly evidenced by the chisel scars left behind by the ancient defacers of the defacer. Whether the deed was done as some argue as an act of vengeance by another pharaoh, by religious zealots attempting to eradicate a blasphemous idol, or for some other reason, it matters little.


    With the original warning unheeded, this now lonely symbol stands as a pointless monument to the boundless foolishness of a now dead race which loosed once more upon an unsuspecting galaxy the unspeakable evil that had been conquered at great cost before the ascent of homo sapiens, a race which having learned nearly nothing since climbing down from the trees in its infancy ignored a blazing warning in a forgotten tongue above a portal it blindly breached. The words originally written there would much later be echoed by Dante, inspired by the residual record of that prehistoric struggle between good and evil and which in the original tongue, as in its later Latin version, could be translated as ¡°Abandon all hope all ye who enter.¡±


    <hr>

 Chapter 2: Eternal Quest - Part I

    The scent of a freshly cut lawn lingered softly in the air, floating upward with the light haze formed by the morning dew warmed by the rising sun. The sound of a riding mower gently buzzed in the distance as the grounds keeper, an elderly black man dressed in clean, well-worn coveralls, and sporting a frayed, too-large straw hat, slowly wound his way around the expertly and lovingly maintained grounds. Occasionally, he stopped the old mower to uproot an intruding weed that caught his eye.


    As the man stopped momentarily to retrieve a small fallen apple tree branch, a tiny wren sang tentatively a short distance away. The grounds keeper looked up, wiping his glistening brow with a large, soft cotton handkerchief, smiled, and whistled a short melody in the bird¡¯s direction; it was answered almost immediately by a long, undulating song. The man again replied in kind while continuing his work, and gained an even louder retort from the bird, which might be answering the call or simply trying to attract a mate.


    After a short while of point and counter point between the two, the man resumed his work as several new voices joined in from various places in the grounds, their songs and calls resulting in a chorus of somewhat dissonant sounds, as other birds joined the impromptu chorus undaunted by the mower¡¯s discordant hum.


    In the center of the grounds stood a large, square building, its walls a reddish-brown brick rising to the height of three stories, with its small, dark-tinted windows and sharp edges striking an incongruous, dissonant note amidst the otherwise pastoral setting.


    Inside the structure, in a small, private corner room on the uppermost floor, sat an obviously tired yet alert woman in her early thirties. Next to her, in a bed with raised, gleaming steel railings that seemed too large for its current occupant, lay a man who appeared to be perhaps two years her senior.


    The walls were clean, brightly white and spotless, although the paint was somewhat faded in a few places, and hairline cracks and small areas of chipped paint were discernible upon close inspection, particularly on the ceiling. The floor, though freshly polished, showed numerous old scars over its black and white checkerboard pattern tiles in places over which heavy equipment had been moved for many years. A hint of ammonia and alcohol hung in the air, along with more diffuse and less familiar scents which, while not of themselves unpleasant, were somewhat disquieting with their lingering, unnatural presence.


    The woman was lean, neither beautiful nor plain, with soft, light-brown hair which fell haphazardly about her shoulders in contrast to her spotless, if somewhat wrinkled, tan silk suit. She sat erect, despite being in obvious need of rest, both feet on the ground, palms resting on her knees. Her hazel eyes, bright and alert if somewhat reddened from lack of sleep, were fixed unblinking upon the man in bed whose eyes were open but unseeing as he lay connected to a respirator, with wires slithering outwards from his chest, arms, legs and forehead. A number of clear plastic tubes carried fluids to and from his body.


    The woman looked up, startled, as the door to the room abruptly opened; she had been too deep in thought to hear a set of approaching footsteps hastily clattering over the marble floor. A man, perhaps a year or two her junior, stood in the doorway. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and sported a pale-blue, sleeveless cotton shirt. He was rather handsome, if a bit portly, with a slightly receding blondish hair and large, clear brown eyes.


    ¡°Phil,¡± she exclaimed upon seeing the man walk in, rising to meet him. She greeted him with a warm embrace. ¡°I¡¯m so very glad you¡¯re here. I was afraid you wouldn¡¯t get my message.¡±


    ¡°I came as soon as I heard. What happened, Chrissie? You said Tom was in a coma. What are they...¡±


    ¡°Nobody knows yet, Phil,¡± she interrupted, gently pulling away from her friend and slowly turning towards the man in bed. Phil followed her glance, taking in the frail figure for the first time. He winced visibly, and barely heard Christine¡¯s voice over the raw wave of emotions that washed over him.


    ¡°At first the doctors thought it was a drug overdose. They asked me all kinds of questions about what medication he might be taking. They seemed not to believe that he didn¡¯t even drink alcohol or smoke--that ingesting any chemicals that might affect his mental processes would be unthinkable for him. The toxicology results verified that fairly quickly, though.¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Phil interjected impatiently, turning his attention back to Christine. ¡°What else did they find?¡±


    ¡°Not much, really,¡± she continued, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. ¡°All of his bodily functions are fine. Despite his emaciated appearance and obvious dehydration, they can¡¯t find anything wrong with him. His vital signs are normal, and his mental activity as evidenced by the EEGs they¡¯ve run seems, if anything, abnormally high.¡±


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± Phil again interrupted, ¡°How can he be in a coma and have high levels of brain activity? And why the hell is he in this state of near starvation? God, he looks like he hasn¡¯t eaten in weeks.¡± Phil¡¯s voice rose in keeping with his growing frustration and anger. ¡°What kind of hick quacks are examining him? How can they . . .¡±


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    ¡°Calm down, Phil,¡± Chrissie interrupted in a soothing, gently admonishing tone, fighting her own weariness while struggling to remain in control of her emotions. ¡°He¡¯s in good hands here, and they¡¯ve already called in two specialists--neurosurgeons, I think--from New York City. They should be here later on tonight. Since last night, they¡¯ve run all sorts of tests on him to try to determine what¡¯s wrong. So far they¡¯ve come up empty, but we¡¯ve got to be patient; they¡¯re doing everything they can for him with very little to go on. ¡°


    ¡°But they must have some idea of what might be wrong with him, at least,¡± he pressed, still angry, but a bit calmer.


    ¡°They don¡¯t, Phil. They simply have never seen a case like his. He will not respond to stimuli, and his body will not even carry out its autonomic functions unassisted at this point--he can¡¯t breathe on his own without the respirator. His pupils won¡¯t dilate, and even his kidneys have shut down, yet his brain appears to be hyperactive--and they can find no physiological reason for his condition despite the MRI and CT scans they¡¯ve run.¡±


    ¡°How did they find him,¡± Phil asked. ¡°And why wasn¡¯t he dead if he needs a respirator and a dialysis machine to live?¡±


    ¡°I found him, Phil,¡± she replied, looking back at the figure in bed, then continuing with some difficulty in a strained voice. ¡°It¡¯s strange, really. I hadn¡¯t seen him in years, not since . . .¡±


    ¡°I know, Chrissie,¡± Phil interrupted, the harshness and anger gone as quickly as they had arisen, displaced by a growing tenderness. He gently placed his hands on the woman¡¯s shoulders, and helped her sit down on a chair by Tom¡¯s bed, pulling a chair for himself from several feet away while continuing to speak in a softer tone. ¡°Next to you, I¡¯m the closest friend Tom had, and I hadn¡¯t seen him in at least five years. He was too busy with his work to socialize. Nothing personal, of course--he just had no time for friendship or other distractions,¡± he trailed off, a touch of bitterness returning to his voice. Then, softly brushing a tuft of hair from Christine¡¯s eyes, he added, ¡°I¡¯m just surprised you stuck around so long.¡±


    Chrissie¡¯s eyes narrowed for an instant, but she held Phil¡¯s gaze and quickly replied in even, restrained tones, ¡°He was the gentlest, kindest friend that you or I have ever had. There was nothing in this world he would not do for us, or for any of his many friends. Have you forgotten the time of your motorcycle accident, how he stayed by your side for ten days while you were near death? They wouldn¡¯t let your mom or dad stay, but he alternately pleaded with and threatened first the head nurse, then the doctors and finally the hospital administrator until they relented and allowed him stay. He slept by your side, strung out over two chairs until they discharged you, and watched over you every minute he could stay awake like an overzealous bodyguard. And that was by no means the first time he¡¯d proven his love or friendship to you.¡±


    ¡°I know, I know¡± Phil replied, mollified and somewhat embarrassed. ¡°I guess I just resent his having cast us aside. It¡¯s not easy being told that you¡¯re a distraction. I¡¯m sorry, Chrissie. Please go on. How did you find him?¡±


    ¡°I was driving home from work when I got an urge to see him. I can¡¯t explain it; you know I¡¯m not impulsive. I simply knew that he needed me. It¡¯s as if he had called out to me, drawn me to him. I had thought of him often, but had never felt that way before. I was several miles from his house, down by I88, but I got there very quickly. When I arrived, he wouldn¡¯t answer the door. I knew he had to be in; you know he was a virtual shut-in¡ªhe even had his groceries delivered and his dirty laundry picked up by a service. But more importantly, I felt that he was there. When he did not answer the doorbell, I did not ring again. I found his spare key in its usual hidey-hole by the front door and let myself in. I called out to him again, but there was no answer. I could see his study light was on and made my way there quickly. He was slumped over his desk, his face on an open book. I touched him; he was warm, but I could not see him breathe, and could not feel his pulse. I dragged him to the floor, laid him on his back and began administering CPR. I couldn¡¯t yell for help, since his nearest neighbor lives almost a quarter mile away, but I managed to call for help on my cell phone and continued CPR until an ambulance arrived about 25 minutes later. I rode here with him and called you, leaving you voicemail messages at home, work, and on your cell.¡±


    ¡°Did you see anything while you were there that might explain his condition?¡±


    ¡°No, but I didn¡¯t have much of a chance to look around under the circumstances. But that¡¯s an idea, though. Maybe one of us should go back; we might come up with something that could be of help to his doctors.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll go and bring back anything that might offer a clue on his condition.¡±


    With that he rose and waited for his friend to fish out Tom¡¯s key from her purse. After taking the key, he gently half stroked, half petted the back of her head, trying to reassure her that all would be well. He then turned to Tom, grabbed the railing of the bed, and tried to mouth something, but no words would come. The cold, gleaming steel against his sweaty palms sent a shiver through him. Fighting back his emotions again, he turned towards the door and rushed out.


    As he exited the hospital, the scent of cut grass and flowers flowed through him, as did the warmth of the sun on his face, letting him realize for the first time that he had been very cold inside. The gentle breeze, the sounds of birds, the puffs of white clouds lazily floating high in the sky, the sculptured hedges and carefully tended flower beds with their symphony of color and delightful perfume all helped to soothe his frayed nerves and lift his spirits.


    He took a moment to take it all in and, for an instant, was transported back to his college days. He could almost hear Professor Greenberg reading from Blake¡¯s Songs of Innocence. At his back he knew were the Songs of Experience--the decay, death, and disappointment of real life, of unfulfilled dreams that are the inevitable legacy of childhood¡¯s end. But if he did not turn around, he could almost deny the unkinder side of nature he was leaving behind, and dwell, if only for a moment, in the calming warmth of his surroundings which evoked a happier, more innocent time. The verdant boughs of heartwarming memories had long ago turned to brown, but he was both surprised and pleased to learn that they were not beyond sprouting tender shoots if he cared to turn his attention there¡ªif he was willing to look beyond the pain and disappointment of the real and dwell on a comparatively idyllic past.

 Chapter 2: Eternal Quest - Part II

    As Phil neared his car, walking down a winding path, he continued reminiscing about the simpler, happier time of his college days, where, in a campus not unlike these pastoral grounds, Tom, Chrissie and he had spent the best years of their lives. Seeing Chrissie again had begun in him a faint welling of emotions he thought he had left behind, or at least learned to keep submerged by years of practice taught by necessity. But she was still the same woman he had loved in silence, never voicing his feelings, knowing that her heart was not and could not ever be his.


    Yet he had shared countless dreams and memories far more intimate than the sexual relationship they would never have, and that he could not even fantasize about without engendering strong feelings of guilt and betrayal towards his best friend. Despite the still remembered pain of his secret, unrequited love, and despite his best friend¡¯s withdrawing into an inner world that left no place for him or for Chrissie, those years had left him with memories he would not have traded for anything in this or any other world.


    Phil reached his car, entered it, mechanically turned it on and began to drive away, his mind still floating in a mist of tenebrous recollections. A half hour later, as he approached Tom¡¯s house, Phil felt as if he were awaking from a troubled dream; he became aware of his driving, of the wind rushing through his hair and the soft guttural sounds of his uncharacteristically under-revved Porsche. He shook his head, trying to dispel the fragments of his haunting recollections. Looking at his speedometer, he noticed he was traveling at only 35 miles per hour in a 55 zone--a bit unusual for someone who¡¯d had his license twice suspended for having accumulated an excessive number of speeding tickets.


    ¡°Damn, I must be getting old,¡± he snickered out loud as he turned into Tom¡¯s driveway. He stopped abruptly and gazed around him in disbelief at the want of care evidenced by what had once been painstakingly well tended grounds. Gone were the white rosebushes that had flanked the driveway¡¯s entrance, and the cherry, apple and peach trees in the orchard to his right were all bereft of foliage, sporting instead dozens of large, ash colored gypsy moth cocoons bulging with the gorged bearers of doom for all nearby vegetation. The lawn had long ago gone to seed, and tall grasses and weeds grew from what had been impeccable flower beds. Everything was overrun by weeds, some nearly five-feet tall with dandelions and a wide range of other invasive species giving the front lawn a spectral appearance despite the bright sunshine. Sap oozed like honeyed, amber blood from trees whose fallen dead limbs littered the small orchard, some of which had fallen on the driveway and impeded his passage. Gypsy moths were not the only unwelcome guests. Carpenter ants had found a haven here, leaving behind a cankerous wounds and gaping holes in a large oak at the end of the driveway, by the front door. Nor had the house been spared. A shutter hung at nearly a 45 degree angle framing a large picture window with an extensive crack running along it diagonally from left to right; this had, at least, been temporarily repaired with several layers of three-inch wide transparent tape. The work of termites could also be observed around the windows and the door frame.


    Phil got out of his car, still dazed by the striking change in the surroundings since his last visit some five years ago. He strolled slowly towards the back of the house, noticing a thick coat of dusty grime covering Tom¡¯s ¡®63 Corvette, making its red color seem a mottled brown. Behind the house, nearly ten acres of woods were visible, as was a large natural pond. This had been Tom¡¯s private picnic grounds, always open to his friends some of whom could perpetually be found swimming in the pond, fussing around the large hardwood-fired barbeque, or simply laying in the sun most every weekend in the late spring, summer and early fall. Gone was the white sand Tom had carefully carted in for the small beach; only mud and mud-stained sand of a uniform brown color remained. Tall weeds and grass now covered most of the landscape here as well, with the majority of the trees faring only slightly better than the oak and fruit trees in the front of the house. The pond overflowed its banks with murky water from recent rains--a haven for mosquitoes, gnats and sundry other flying pests which hovered near its dark surface, drawn by the pond scum and the stench of decay.


    The house was a modest and unassuming three-bedroom ranch, but the grounds had always been maintained by a gardener--the only luxury Tom had allowed himself despite his considerable inherited wealth--and had been his most prized possession for the joy it brought both him and his friends. Phil could not imagine why Tom had allowed it to sink to such a level of neglect, and felt an oppressive pang of loss that seemed to grow more powerful with every breath he took. After surveying the grounds for a few minutes, he shuddered, blinked back the tears burning the corners of his eyes, and quickly paced back towards the house, unable to further endure the spectral surroundings.


    After fumbling in his pocket for the key, he found it and slowly opened the front door. Walking in after a moment¡¯s hesitation, he found the inside blanketed in darkness despite the bright sunshine outside. He groped to his right for the light switch, found it and flicked on the lights. Dark, heavy drapes hung over every window, and all the blinds were drawn. He glanced about and found the furniture much as he remembered it. In all, it was rather Spartan: a large, thickly cushioned wood-framed sofa with ample throw pillows and a matching loveseat, a rustic lamp table with a burnished bronze lamp on it, a coffee table and a 25-inch old-style wood console incorporating a turntable and amplifier that could only be seen today in movies set in the 1970¡¯s. A layer of dust covered everything in an ashen thin blanket, making the television¡¯s remote control unit on the coffee table look like a flattened, tailless dead mouse.


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    To the right of the living room, at the end of a short hallway, Phil could see some light bleeding out of a nearly closed door in Tom¡¯s study. He walked there with growing trepidation, drawn by the pressing need to help his friend, yet impeded by his strong emotions and the ghosts of memories brought to life anew.


    The room was exactly as he remembered it: a small desk in its center with book shelves covering every available inch of wall space. He knew the bedrooms would be the same. Only the living room had escaped the advancing bookcases that branched out from the study like appendages from some monstrous octopus, slithering relentlessly towards the world outside. Unlike the living room, this room was free of dust and was obviously well used. Phil could detect nothing out of the ordinary. At Tom¡¯s desk, he noticed various hand written notes and an open book, an old volume of Plato¡¯s Republic, bound in tooled leather, heavily annotated in Tom¡¯s crisp, clear handwriting and rather worn from use. A notebook computer sat atop Tom¡¯s desk, next to the open book. It was still on but Phil did not have the time to try to guess the password to bring it out of sleep mode and display whatever Tom had been working on. In any case, he was sure it would only show whatever academic paper or book Tom was currently writing.


    Turning his attention away from the computer, Phil opened the top drawer of the desk and found it full of numerous writing implements and blank sheets of paper. The second drawer contained a stack of various manuscripts, all bearing Tom¡¯s name. The first one bore the title ¡°Western Philosophy: An Ongoing Reaction to Plato¡¯s and Aristotle¡¯s Epistemologies.¡± Phil grimaced, and thumbed through several other papers underneath it with equally useless titles. These represented an eclectic mix of scholarly work in a range of disciplines that included philosophy, physics, and mathematics. He wrinkled his nose at these as well and slammed the drawer shut with a mixture of distaste and frustration.


    In the last and largest drawer at the bottom of the desk he found a curious mixture of artifacts, books and papers. Most seemed trivial, and some were unexplainable--candy wrappers, old movie ticket stubs, theater programs, concert tickets, a couple of college literature and poetry anthologies, and sundry other items that could hold meaning only for Tom. Underneath these, Phil found and extracted a small metal box; this he placed on top of the desk and opened it after briefly struggling with a rusty latch. It contained some sheets of paper with writing, and assorted snapshots. It was the latter he looked at first. His hands trembled slightly as he looked through pieces of his own past, their shared past now so seemingly distant and irretrievable. All their old friends were there, as well as dozens of pictures of Chrissie, Tom and Phil taken over a period of more than a decade, many around this very house and grounds, some at college, and a few on the many trips they¡¯d taken together. Tom had, after all, kept these. This fact deeply moved him for reasons he could not easily understand. He finally lost control of the emotions he¡¯d been unsuccessfully trying to rein in and wept, sobbing quietly for some time.


    After a while, he regained control of his always volatile emotions, put down the photos and turned his attention to the papers in the box. Some were letters. He recognized Chrissie¡¯s handwriting and his own on several. These he did not read. Finally, he found a carefully folded sheet of paper at the very bottom of the box inside a smaller tooled wooden jewelry box. He carefully unfolded it and began to read a poem in Tom¡¯s own hand on a half sheet of paper torn from a spiral-bound notebook:


    Oh half remembered, fleeting, happy time,


    When nothing mattered more than love and play,


    Imagination was then in its prime,


    And life began anew with every day.


    A flower was then a joy, a mystery,


    And not a petal, root and simple stem,


    And life was full of wondrous fantasy,


    Untainted by the intellect of man.


    That time is gone now, It cannot return,


    The fruit¡¯s been swallowed, its slow poison kills,


    And yet my fallen heart will always yearn,


    For that ephemeral time of unknown skills.


    Oh false god, knowledge, daily you destroy,


    All that was holy in me as a boy!


    Eyes glistening, he folded the piece of paper and replaced it in the small, wooden box in which he¡¯d found it, then placed the small box inside the larger metal box and took the box with him out of the room. A close inspection of every room in the house turned up no clue such as might help unravel the mystery of Tom¡¯s present condition. He dutifully checked all other drawers and cabinets, paying close attention to the bathroom medicine cabinet for hopeful signs of any substance Tom might have purposely or inadvertently ingested that might explain his condition, but none was found. His medicine cabinet contained only a fresh bottle of Mylanta, a half-empty bottle of aspirin and nothing else.


    In the kitchen, all Phil could find was a brown, half-desiccated half head of iceberg lettuce and several half-liter bottles of spring water. He even searched the spider-infested unfinished basement for clues, but Tom had clearly not been there in quite some time. Aside from some large, complex cobwebs, all he could find there were dozens of filing cabinets stuffed with scholarly papers, both published and unpublished works, not unlike the dozens of similar manuscripts in Tom¡¯s study desk drawer. Although philosophical treatises were clearly the dominant field represented here, there were also published works on a mind boggling range of subjects. There were also hundreds of dusty journals lining bookcases along every wall covering an equally dazzling range of disciplines. Inspecting several at random, he found many that contained articles published by Tom. If Tom had devoted his life to the pursuit of knowledge, he had certainly not squandered it away in idle thought.


    Finding nothing in the house that might help to explain Tom¡¯s condition, Phil made his way outside again, taking with him the metal box he¡¯d extracted from Tom¡¯s desk with the intention of giving it to Chrissie in the hope that it might bring her some comfort--and some validation for her loyalty and love for Tom through the years. After locking the door, he allowed the warmth of the sun to wash over him for a few moments before getting into his car and making his way back to the hospital; he immediately began to feel a better as if the sun were cleansing away the sepulchral chill and mustiness he¡¯d experienced inside and burning away the fogginess in his mind.

 Chapter 2: Eternal Quest - Part III

    Tom was unaware of his present condition and would not have been much troubled by it were he to have known it. Every minute of every day for more than a decade had been spent in trying to disassociate himself from the distractions of the flesh, in an attempt to obtain the Platonic ideal of attaining truth through introspection--of trying to see past the imperfect shadows of the physical world into the realm of the true forms. He was neither bitter nor troubled by the currents of criticism which sought for some years to carry him away, branding him as misguided, then as a reactionary fool clinging with mindless tenacity to obsolete notions of reality, and finally as an amusing anachronism that no longer needed to be acknowledged or explained away. He was only mildly annoyed when his scholarly treatises were no longer published by the leading peer-reviewed journals of philosophy; if they could not validate his views, it was not a reflection on his work, only on the fatuousness of what passed for referees in academia these days. He had not obtained his Ph.Ds. in philosophy and physics for anyone¡¯s benefit but his own, and did not need the approval of his peers to legitimize his theories. And, in any case, his work in his other fields of physics and mathematics  was published regularly.


    He had learned long ago to cast off his emotions, to develop and enhance the power of his mind by shedding off the yoke of the body¡¯s destructive, distracting influence on the quest for truth. And his self-denial had paid off handsomely. His body had, of course, suffered in the process, but that was of little consequence to Tom. The ancient Greeks, he felt, were misguided in pursuing the ideal of a healthy body and a healthy mind. To treat the body and the mind as equals was sheer folly. Certainly an infirm body would interfere with mental processes; the body must be given rudimentary nourishment and care; else it would die. But what is the logic in devoting endless hours in selecting one¡¯s diet, in exercise, or, worse, in leisure? Who but a fool would add five years of life through constant pampering, exercise, and perfect nutrition while wasting ten years of life in the process?


    Flesh is the primordial enemy of the mind; its needs, wants and constant yearnings are an intolerable distraction which, far from being encouraged, must be eradicated through studied self-denial. Surely anyone could see that. But it is far easier to deny an obvious fact than it is to admit it and then lack the fortitude to implement its logical conclusions. Such is the destructive power of the flesh, that it will obfuscate the mind, not only clouding reason, but making it serve its purpose through endless rationalization, ignoring anything that threatens its narrow, hedonistically defined comfort zone. How sad, he thought, that the old sophists, those cursed foes of truth, had finally won over the minds of modern humanity which prizes expediency, pragmatism, political correctness and the comfort of the status quo above its very soul.


    Tom floated motionlessly in an endless void. He was deprived of sensory information, but his mind was keen and sharply focused.  While he could not touch, hear, see, smell or speak in his present condition, he was not in a state of complete sensory deprivation, for his mind could sense its surroundings, though not quite clearly, as if he were watching a poorly tuned old analog television set through oil-stained glasses. Though incorporeal, he was self-aware. He recognized his state as one of preparation for entering into a new realm of consciousness, a communion with the realm of the true forms--of absolute truth.


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    He¡¯d been close before so many times to attaining true enlightenment; but every time, some accursed facet of his appetites would drag him down to earth again, the profane weakness of the flesh damning him to the shadowy realms of the pedantic existence we call life. He knew the signs well by now; he recognized the halfway place between shadow and light wherein he¡¯d dwelt so many times before--a higher plane of existence leading to absolute truth.  Even now, he felt the power of the true forms, newly draped in evanescent shadows, thinly veiling their true essence this close to their source. Absolute truth, absolute beauty, absolute knowledge were all tantalizingly close, within his grasp.  If he could only sustain his mental strength a bit longer, he would be able to lift the cursed blinders of the flesh at long last.


    He was not a religious person; this was not for him a chance to commune with God. He did not, in fact, believe in God, at least not in the traditional sense.  Religion, for him, was no different than all the institutions and ideas derived from the minds of men and women:  it represents only an imperfect vision of a higher reality as filtered by the imperfect perceptions, conceit, self-interest and perpetual self-delusion that are the banes of humanity.  He believed in Plato¡¯s view of the soul as perfect and all-knowing before making its journey to the material world.  There may not be a physical River Styx for the soul to swim across on its way to the earthly plane--a river whose waters bring forgetfulness of the absolute truth with which the soul begins its earth-bound journey--but the principle is certainly accurate:  in being born we forget all that we knew when our spirits were free and existed in the plane of the true forms.  Through introspection, though, we can reverse the mind numbing effects of our physical existence and recapture the glory of our preexistence.  This was Tom¡¯s lifelong quest:  to regain the glory that his soul had lost in melding with the flesh¡ªto perceive good and evil, absolute beauty, and absolute truth.


    As he neared the final stage of his life-long intellectual journey, he floated like a weightless, shapeless cloud through which flowed many shadows on their trek from the realm of the forms into that of the material world.  As they flowed through him, they left behind the faintest hint of their true essence, not unlike the intoxicating waft of a good perfume worn by a beautiful woman that gently suffuses itself on a bystander long moments after she has passed by.


    ¡°Chrissie,¡± Tom thought, or rather felt, for just a moment, but then the moment passed, and he pressed on.


    Yes, he knew this path quite well. He also knew that the mental power necessary to push onward towards the final veil in this halfway place would be great indeed, and would require a colossal effort. But he was patient, and determined to utilize the last reserve of energy in his dying soul, if need be, to push onward towards the light.

 Chapter 2: Eternal Quest - Part IV

    Chrissie sat by Tom¡¯s side, her left hand on his, through the bars of his bed rail, while she gently brushed his brow with a small moist towel with her right hand. She had been speaking to him incessantly throughout the past two hours, alternating between running her fingers through his thinning, prematurely gray hair and gently caressing his face, his arms, and his shoulders. She had related to him every story that came to mind from their college days and had cried and laughed many times in the retelling.  He had not responded, but she persevered undaunted; she felt certain that a part of him could hear her and hoped that the emotionally charged stories of past shared experiences might help to bring him out of the murky depths of his coma.


    When Phil arrived, she looked up anxiously, but saw at once in his face that he had nothing useful to report. Phil fixed his eyes on her, noticing for the first time the dark circles that welled beneath her eyes, the disheveled hair and the redness in her hazel eyes. He also noticed the faint lines that time had begun to sculpt upon her face, a face which once had been--and still was, for him--most beautiful. She looked alert and sat with an erect posture that belied the extent of a physical and emotional exhaustion too great for her to fully hide. He looked away after a few silent moments, a bit too quickly, perhaps, afraid of looking in her eyes any longer, afraid...¡±


    ¡°Did you find anything?¡± she queried, trying to sound hopeful, but knowing the answer.


    ¡°Nothing of use, I¡¯m afraid. But look, I found something I thought you might like to see,¡± he answered, handing her the metal box he¡¯d taken from Tom¡¯s home.  ¡°It¡¯s full of pictures and personal letters.¡±


    Chrissie took the box and immediately opened it.  She first opened the small tooled wood box which Phil had left on top of the papers and photographs. She opened the folded sonnet that Phil had previously read.  She recognized it immediately as a poem Tom had penned in class in response to Professor Miller¡¯s statement that despite its apparent simplicity, writing a Shakespearean sonnet was a task that most of the students would find very difficult to complete. Tom had smiled broadly, torn a piece of paper from his notebook and handed her the sonnet less than ten minutes later, before the class ended. ¡°He¡¯d only laughed at us when we liked it, said it was just a joke; but he had kept it after all,¡± she noted more to herself than to Phil in a low voice.  Then, bending over Tom¡¯s body, she read the poem to him out loud through glistening eyes and in a tremulous voice, hoping that he could hear, and might remember.


    * * *


    Tom drifted through the darkness, or so he hoped, since there was no reference point from which to judge motion on this plane. Yet he must move forward, by probing ever onward; else there would be nothing but an eternal empty womb of tantalizing newly draped shadows drifting by on this plane--a veritable hellish torment, to be forever bound to dwell so close to truth, taunted by insubstantial ghosts of reflected light draped in equivocal darkness.


    There was no sense of time here; he might be drifting but for the space of half a heartbeat, or for a hundred years. There was only his will: the power of his mind to maintain his presence on this plane and allow him to probe onward towards the light as long as his strength remained. That strength had failed him many times before, but he was determined that it would not do so now.  So he pushed onward, ever forward, focusing the considerable power of his mind to penetrate outward, to bring him closer to the realm of truth.


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    The silent battle raged on endlessly for Tom, his faculties weakening, his receptive abilities dulling and fading.  And yet he pushed onward, beyond endurance, beyond reason, and nearly beyond hope. Then, as only the faintest glimmer of psychic strength remained, he seemed to sense a distant change--an evanescent, far off shimmering hint of light. He pushed on with the last remnants of his ebbing mental strength and was rewarded by a more palpable presence of light. It was just a bright point at first, like a too-distant star just at the fringes of perception. Slowly, steadily it grew, with no further effort on his part. His drained strength palpably returning to him very gradually, as he was now pulled in by the light, rather than having to push towards it, as though he had crossed the event horizon of a black hole. The darkness seemed to draw him to it, towards the light, like a ravenous vortex that fed upon the void and transformed it into energy and invigorating life. It grew for Tom, as he approached it, and the vague shadows increased, only now visibly trailing auras of their true essence, making much clearer impressions upon his consciousness as they rushed past him, some passing through him, away from the light and into the darkness now receding behind him.


    As his mental strength slowly increased, Tom felt a new distraction interfering with his concentration; a far off force was pulling him backward again, away from the light, clouding the sharpness of his thoughts with diffuse, distant, ephemeral shimmering of remembrance. For an instant, he thought of his old friends, especially Chrissie again, but also Phil; he almost heard her voice, and saw her reassuring face in his mind¡¯s eye.  He seemed to share again a special warmth, the gentle stirrings of long-suppressed emotions which awakened an old longing and gently strummed his nearly atrophied heart strings.


    But he caught himself in time; on that road lay only perdition, for he could sense the power of his emotions fighting for control, seeking to pull him down, to submerge him in the shadows and replant him in the baser clay from which humanity sprang, weighing him back, as always, away from truth into the muck and mire of pedantic life.


    He focused once again the now reinvigorated power of his mind, pushing down the destructive emotions and memories where they could do no harm, severing the restraining bindings of the flesh which sought even now to keep him from obtaining final communion with the realm of the forms. Through a supreme effort of his uncommon intellect, he reasserted his will and finally inexorably severed the chains that bound him to the flesh. He sprang forward as an arrow released from a powerful longbow, propelled with increased force inexorably towards the growing brightness that, in the absence of the restraining power of his emotions, could freely once again draw him to itself.


    The luminescence quickly grew brighter and, though still distant, became painful as it touched him directly. The undistilled essence of every abstract idea humanity had ever formed burned through his mind along with raw feelings, and the pure essence of every living thing in the universe coursed through him all at once.  And still the light grew, as did the intensity of the ever-purer forms exploding into his consciousness, consuming his mind with their irresistible power and searing his soul with their unbearable import.

 Chapter 2: Eternal Quest - Conclusion

    ¡°Good morning,¡± a young intern on her morning rounds called out, bursting into the room unexpectedly just as Chrissie finished reading the poem to Tom. The doctor smiled, realizing she had startled them, and headed for the old-fashioned chart at the feet of Tom¡¯s bed. She examined it, then turned to the various life support equipment, and made several adjustments. She then turned her attention to the two friends. ¡°You¡¯re going to have to leave the room in a few minutes;  I need to change the urine-collection bag and recheck his catheter, then I¡¯ll have one of the nurses give him a sponge bath.  After that, he¡¯ll be taken downstairs to the lab for another CAT scan of his brain as the first one failed to show any anomalies, so you won¡¯t be able to see him for at least an hour, but probably closer to two.¡±


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t we wait outside and then wait here for him when they take him down?¡± Chrissie asked.


    ¡°You could,¡± the doctor replied, ¡°but there¡¯s really no point to it. We won¡¯t have any new test results for several hours and the specialists won¡¯t arrive until later this evening. I suggest you get something to eat¡ªthe food here¡¯s actually pretty good. Or go home if you live close by to freshen up a bit,¡± she said, smiling at Chrissie. ¡°We¡¯ll phone or text you if anything changes.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Phil replied as Chrissie seemed about to object. ¡°I think that¡¯s a good idea, Chrissie. I know you don¡¯t want to go home, but we can at least grab a bite at the cafeteria. Later on, after we get the results of the new tests, I can take you home for a quick shower and a change of clothes.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not the least bit hungry, Phil; I¡¯d rather stay here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not exactly hungry either, but this is going to be a long night.¡±  Phil replied, gently coaxing her to her feet. ¡°Besides, there¡¯s nothing we can do for him now, and he¡¯ll need us at our best when he wakes up. Food and some strong coffee would help in that regard,¡± Phil added, in the most optimistic voice he could muster. ¡°I promise¡ªwe¡¯ll eat something and come right back.¡± She quietly, reluctantly acquiesced, rising slowly while glancing over at Tom, whose open eyes held no expression.


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    ¡°I¡¯ll be back in a few minutes,¡± the doctor said, turning around and heading out of the room. ¡°Remember, we won¡¯t have any news for at least an hour or two, so take your time.¡±


    * * *


    Tom was still traveling towards the light at an ever-accelerating pace, plunging towards the core like an object past the event horizon of an immense wormhole. And as he approached what he sensed to be the end of his journey close to the light¡¯s source, communing at last with the simplest, purest, unadulterated essence of truth, his shattering mind let out an agonizing silent scream of despair radiating outward towards the furthest reaches of time and space. He knew. He knew now, but could find no way to retrace his steps, to escape the awful truth, to undo what had been done, or to find even the solace of the hope, of redemption.


    He reached outward with unbearable anguish, trying to fight off the irresistible despair engulfing him, groping to find within himself that which was no longer a part of him, grasping outward towards the now receding light with the last embers of his dying soul. . . .


    * * *


    Phil and Chrissie were walking out of the hospital room, with Phil slowly closing the door behind them. They were unaware of Tom¡¯s right arm, rising slowly from the bed, reaching out for them, his fingers slowly extending and clenching in a futile grasping gesture for which he could not muster the necessary strength. For an instant, the veil of darkness lifted from Tom¡¯s eyes sufficiently for him to see the blurry vision of his retreating friends, and of the door to his room closing behind them. For a moment, he continued reaching out towards them intently, despairingly, his arm finally falling to the bed as two pairs of footsteps echoed over the marble floor, fading in the distance, drowned out by the wheezing sound of the respirator pointlessly making Tom¡¯s chest rise and fall rhythmically, his eyes still open but growing duller, a single tear winding its way down his ashen cheek.

 Chapter 3: Justice (short story and direct link to my reading of it in one of my podcasts)

    Time: The all too near future


    Place: A courtroom


    Setting: Final sentencing of a prisoner convicted of the last remaining capital offense on the books of a kinder, gentler, fairer world in which equality is no longer a mere aspiration.


    ______________________


    The prisoner stares impassively into the camera. The bright lights causing beads of sweat to form above his eyes, forcing him to squint. His perspiration-soaked thinning hair lies flattened unflatteringly against his forehead. No sound can be heard other than the faint hum of the air conditioning whose airflow is directed from the high ceiling above the high seats of the three judge panel, towards the three judges, keeping their immediate area comfortably cool. The camera trained on them remains a respectful distance away, and no harsh lights illuminate their somber countenances.


    All three judges stare at the camera showing no emotion, their hands folded in front of them on the surface of their capacious bench atop which three equal stacks of papers are placed before them. Everywhere on earth citizens watch the unfolding drama over the neural net that provides a fully immersive experience indistinguishable from reality, effectively placing every person on the planet in the courtroom as the Chief Judge begins to speak in a clear, deep, resonant voice.


    ¡°The evidence against you has been examined. This tribunal finds you guilty of the charges against you by unanimous vote. Have you anything to say before we pass sentence?¡±


    The camera cuts back to the prisoner. The lights brighten around him and the heat rises perceptibly, adding fresh fuel to the trickle of sweat flowing down his flushed face which causes a bead of sweat to form at the end of his nose that he is unable to swat away because his wrists are restrained by metal bands at the armrests of his metal chair, outside the viewing range of the camera¡¯s tight zoom on his face.


    ¡°I am guilty of no crime,¡± the prisoner protests in a muffled voice full of palpable weariness and resignation.


    ¡°You are guilty of the most heinous of crimes,¡± the Chief Judge contradicts, raising his voice and causing the prisoner to visibly tremble. ¡°That is not open to debate. This is your final chance to make what amends you may to those whom you have harmed through your selfish, deviant act. It will have no effect on this Court¡¯s sentence.¡±


    ¡°But I have done nothing wrong,¡± the man emphatically protests again, as ribbons of perspiration roll down his neck and deepen the growing ring of dark sweat absorbed by his bright orange jumpsuit, leaving a collar of dark moisture around his neck.


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    ¡°Silence!¡± the Chief Judge hisses through tight lips. ¡°The record will show that the prisoner is unrepentant. This Court finds that he willfully, maliciously and without justification removed his neural connector with the purpose and effect of severing his connection to the neural nets. We further find that the motivating factor for this most egregious, malevolent and repugnant crime was the attempt to abandon the Common Consciousness and establish his individuality separate and apart from the Communal Mind. We further find that the subject is in full possession of his legal faculties and capable of understanding the criminal nature of his acts, and, perhaps most tragically, that he fails to see the enormity of his crime.¡± The Chief Justice falters slightly, and takes a breath before delivering the final words of the Court¡¯s sentence with a slight tremor in his voice. His learned colleagues look on impassively during his momentary pause, and he continues. ¡°It is, therefore, the judgment of this Court that you will forever remain disconnected from the nets from this day forward.¡±


    Upon hearing the Judge¡¯s words the prisoner¡¯s eyes open wider, attempting to digest their import. Could it be? Might he finally be allowed what he believed to be his unalienable right to be an individual for the first time in his life? Is the opportunity to live in a world in which he can finally have original thoughts and genuine emotions unshared with the Collective? Can it be that the individuality and privacy he craved his whole life are truly finally to be his?


    The joy he feels nearly makes him faint with relief, allowing him for the first time the possibility of hope as tears well in his eyes, and he finds he cannot speak, cannot express even the simple words ¡°thank you¡± to the Court. It is as though he were emerging from a life-long nightmare, as if. . .


    ¡°The prisoner¡¯s IP address, 999.999.999.999, shall be erased from the Nets,¡± the Judge continued as the prisoner¡¯s tears now freely flow. ¡°His existence shall be forever stricken from the Collective Consciousness lest it germinate there and once again grow sedition in our midst.¡± The weeps openly, even as he smiles broadly.


    ¡°The death sentence for this most heinous of crimes is hereby commuted so that the prisoner may be allowed the individuality he craves for the rest of his natural life, devoid of the comfort of our collective humanity or the distracting influences of life.¡±


    The Chief Judge then pauses, takes a deep breath, and looks at the prisoner who now shudders with relief. He then continues in a slow, resonant voice. ¡°It is further ordered by this Court that the prisoner shall have his eyes, eardrums, tongue and olfactory organs surgically removed that he may not see, hear, or speak with any other human being for the rest of his natural life. Thereafter, he is remanded to a hospital where he shall be restrained to a bed and tended to by robotic life support aids that he may be denied the comfort of feeling another human beings warm touch upon his skin. The sentence of this Court shall be carried out immediately and shall be witnessed by all the citizens of Earth as partial reparation for this most heinous of crimes against humanity.¡±


    The prisoner¡¯s screams last only a few moments as an anesthetic is administered and the cameras are re-arranged in preparation for justice to be carried out.

 Chapter 4: Amor Vincit Omnia (Love Conquesr All) - Part I

    Last night I found the love of my life. She was drowning in a shallow pool of muddy water, not far from my door. I rescued her, gently carried her home, revived her, and tenderly washed her body clean as she trembled beneath my gentlest touch. Her tears soon dried as she found herself protected, safe, dry, warm, and lovingly placed on a comfy couch. I stared at her for hours as she slept, captivated by her beauty and grace, even in sleep. I could not take my eyes away from her. She had not spoken a word to me, but that did not matter. I could feel a connection between us at a level beyond that of mere words. It is as though my whole life had been nothing more than a winding path leading to her side. I knew instinctively that we would never be apart.


    When she awoke, I stared at her eyes which seemed to hold flecks of gold, silver, and copper unlike anything I¡¯d ever seen before, giving her an exotic, other-worldly appearance. She stared at me for the longest time, wide-eyed and unblinking. I smiled at her trying to reassure her that all would be well. In time I asked her whether she wanted me to take her anywhere in particular, but she seemed to draw back, averting her eyes, communicating without words that she did not have a home. I sensed what I took to be her fear I that I might take her back to the sidewalk where I had found her. Her reaction simply broke my heart. I tried to reassure her that she would have a home with me for as long as she wanted it. She seemed relieved and I thought I could see her gently shudder as one often does after a good cry. I placed her close to me and she seemed happy and content. We eventually both fell asleep together on my couch, with my cradling her gently in my arms. I had not known such peaceful, restful sleep in decades.


    Over the next months we became inseparable. She sat next to me as I wrote, my muse and silent critic. I could look at her and know when she thought my words needed revision or when I was writing myself into a corner as I sometimes do. At such times she giggled like the tinkling of tiny bells¡ªthe most wonderful sound I¡¯d ever heard. She listened with endless patience and empathy as I shared my fears, hopes and dreams and eventually entrusted me with her own. My wife was away as she often is during this time of year, and I opted not to tell her about my new love. There was no point in doing so as I knew her reaction would be derisive or worse, perhaps one of relief. Moreover, the relationship with my new soul mate was strictly platonic and would remain so. We would never consummate our love as that was impossible for us both under our current circumstances. We never discussed that; it was simply a given. Nevertheless, we grew very close, as close as any two beings could ever be, uncaring that sex could never be a part of our relationship. This was not a real problem for me as forced celibacy is something the majority of men married for decades know only too well, if not happily. It would be small sacrifice and one I was more than willing to make for a spiritual closeness I had never imagined possible.


    Unlike my wife who screams at me regularly whenever we¡¯re together or speak over the phone, my true love never once so much as gave me a dour look. I had grown accustomed to finding peace by spending most of my time in a room other than that which my wife occupied at any given time¡ªpreferably one on a different floor and different wing of the house. With my new love, however, the exact opposite was true. She seemed happy only when near me, and I knew peace only when she was by my side. We seem to have formed an almost symbiotic relationship, drawing strength from a closeness that had nothing to do with possessiveness or jealousy but grew out of a pure, powerful love that seemed to hold us both captured in its orbit.


    I could gently caress her for hours without her complaining that I was mussing up her makeup or her hair¡ªor smacking my hand away, telling me to stop making a pest of myself. She never pulled away if I wanted to hold her during an entire movie. And she never once complained that I cooked too much food or tried to sabotage her diet by bringing home loads of the unhealthy, high fat and sugary snacks I loved. Her willpower was incredible¡ªI could have plunked her in a bathtub full of the most delectable ice cream and she¡¯d just lie there smiling impishly or sticking out her tongue at me, without taking so much as a single bite or complaining about the cold. But she thoroughly enjoyed seeing me eat, and, unlike my wife, never complained that I chewed my food too noisily, that I ate too fast, or that I did not use a plate and dropped too many crumbs if I decided to eat a cookie while watching television. Like my wife who is also a good cook but sees cooking as a chore, she preferred to let me do the cooking; but unlike my wife she thoroughly enjoyed watching me cook my favorite dishes, or inventing something completely new without a recipe, flying by the seat of my pants as is my preferred method of gastronomic experimentation. I could feel her trying so hard not to laugh at some of the monumental failures of these experiments, but much more often saw her beaming with pride at the more frequent successes, though she herself seemed to live on nothing but love and air.


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    She never complained about my wanting to watch a football game or when I railed against a referee¡¯s bad call¡ªor at a newscaster¡¯s inventing rather than reporting the news, for that matter. She never hoarded the remote, unlike my wife who always shoots a feral look in my direction and growls softly if I so much as look at the remote firmly clutched in her hands whenever we watch television together. Nor did she ever interrupt the shows I loved at the very worst possible moment by reading to me whatever caught her attention on her tablet at that moment and then complaining endlessly if I did not pay close attention (quizzes would often follow) to whatever the Duchess of Who Knows Where had said or done or what new outrageous lunacy was being spouted by the latest of the 437 aspirants to their party''s nomination for president.


    I¡¯ve always preferred strong, independent, highly intelligent women. Most men have a favorite part of the female anatomy that they fixate on¡ªbreasts, thighs, legs, bottoms (some will even occasionally claim eyes, noses, or lips, though I suspect they¡¯re lying). I like curves and reproductive organs just as much as the next guy, forced celibacy notwithstanding (and yes, eyes, lips, noses, earlobes legs, feet, toes, arms, hands, and fingers too, for that matter). But by far my favorite, and unquestionably the sexiest, female organ of all is the brain.


    Men are nothing if not easy to read and understand¡ªand not just when it comes to our favorite body parts or recreational activities. We are as easy to manipulate as a cat in a dark room by someone wielding a laser pointer. But women are a species altogether different. The average man can no more understand the working of a woman¡¯s mind than he can explain the finer points of quantum mechanics, quantum entanglement, or the physics that underlie spooky action at a distance. (In fairness, neither could Einstein who was one of the brightest among us.) A smart woman can look a man in the eyes for a minute and read his heart, his soul and guesstimate his I.Q. with roughly 95 percent accuracy and probably the balance in his savings account. A smart man looks a woman in the eyes and sees . . . blue, green, hazel, brown or more likely, breasts. Women pay attention and notice (and, alas, remember forever) E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. The survival of the species depends on it as men would be oblivious if their three-year-old child took a nap on a busy street, played with porcupines, or tried to ride a bear cub as a pony if there¡¯s a game on (and even if there¡¯s not). Women are great at multitasking. Men can usually walk and chew gum at the same time, but that¡¯s pretty much the extent of our multitasking ability.


    Women often expect men to be able to read their minds, just because they can so easily read ours. (Here¡¯s a newsflash ladies, WE CAN¡¯T. I know you¡¯ll find it hard to believe, but it¡¯s true. You can torture us about it until the cows come home but that will change nothing.) And they love to act as judge, jury, and executioner in determining our guilt for real and imagined transgressions alike¡ªdue process of law be damned. I¡¯ve been sentenced to the silent treatment for weeks on end without a clue as to what horrible transgression I¡¯d committed. Asking for an explanation of the charges, let alone trying to mount any defense when we might actually be able to make an intelligent guess at what they might be, merely gets a loud tongue lashing from the bench, with additional time added to the sentence for contempt of court¡ªkind of like getting a red card in football (soccer for my American friends who believe Football means America¡¯s adoption of a more violent form of rugby with body armor and inscrutable rules) for arguing after getting booked by the referee. Unlike judges, wives are likely to literally (and not just metaphorically) throw the book (or anything else close to hand) at husbands who have the temerity to question the charges against them. Attempting to actually mount a defense is the only remaining crime to which capital punishment is gleefully accepted by the fairer sex (pun, not sexism, intended). But none of that applies my new, true love. The most I ever get is a gentle look that could be interpreted as mild disappointment¡ªnever anger or disapproval¡ªon the rare (but not unheard of) occasion that I make a complete ass of myself.

 Chapter 4: Amor Vincit Omnia (Love Conquesr All) - Part II

    I¡¯ve often said that every woman is beautiful in her own way (by which I mean the overwhelming majority of women with some notable exceptions, if I¡¯m being completely honest) at every age. I know this to be true. I¡¯ve always been partial to petite women myself and have fallen in love with a couple of them in the past. My new love fits that category as well, though she is slight even for my taste. Nevertheless, I find her body nothing short of perfect¡ªhard, beautiful curves, yet small in a way that makes me want to protect her. Don¡¯t misunderstand me¡ªshe is rock-solid and more than capable of cracking the hardest skull of any would-be assailant. She can more than take care of herself. Unlike my wife, however, any man looking at her other than through my eyes would not likely find her to be objectively beautiful. There is little chance of construction workers breaking into the song ¡°Some Guys Have All the Luck¡± as happened on occasion when my wife and I walked down the street when we were dating, and the song was new. (True story¡ªI was so annoyed once that I turned around and replied ¡°some guys deserve it¡± to the cheeky guys singing while longingly staring at my wife (girl friend at the time) as we approached, walked by the worksite, and continued on.) But that matters little. Outer beauty fades in time, for even painfully beautiful women, of which I¡¯ve also known a few. But not the inner beauty of my true love that has been hers long before I met her and will be hers long after I turn to dust.


    Some women suffer the unfortunate effects of PMS, and a few a tragically terminal condition I¡¯ve long ago labeled PPMS (perpetual pre-menstrual syndrome) that appears to afflict them from the cradle to the grave. But my love always has the sweetest disposition. She is never on edge, unpleasant or hormonally unbalanced in any way. She loves to go with the flow. In contrast, going anywhere with my wife has been a real problem for years. I¡¯d be dressed and ready to go out¡ªmind you in half the time it takes her to get all gussied up¡ªonly to have her point at me in disbelief and exclaim ¡°You¡¯re going out like that?¡± That always sends a chill up my spine as I know I will get no help as to what she means if I ask, and I¡¯ll be damned if I can ever see anything wrong with what I¡¯m wearing. My outfits are always clean, free of holes (be they fashionable kind some idiots pay extra for or the free ones we get from moths and ¡°energy efficient¡± washing machines that wash twenty pounds of dirty clothes in two thimble-fulls of water with two or three drops of sulfuric-acid-based detergent).


    Although I know asking only makes it worse, invariably I fall into my own personal Kobayashi Maru ¨C the hell of a no-win scenario without James T. Kirk¡¯s ability to reprogram the software so that averting disaster is a possible outcome. Actually, for nearly all men, marriage itself is an endless iteration of a personal Kobayashi Maru¡ªkind of like hell, except that it is not necessarily eternal (it just feels that way). So, stupid me will invariably ask, ¡°What¡¯s wrong with what I¡¯m wearing¡± which always leads to one of two possible responses: 1. a rolling of the eyes followed by a tight-lipped silent treatment of indeterminate length; or 2. a response along the lines of ¡°If by this time you¡¯re too dense to know the answer, I¡¯m not going to tell you.¡±


    Now please understand, it¡¯s not as though I¡¯m wearing coveralls to the opera or white shoes after Labor Day (which I understand is no longer punishable by death in my state). That leaves me to wonder what the hell I¡¯ve done wrong now. Of course, I surreptitiously take in what she is wearing while she¡¯s tapping her shoes impatiently, arms crossed under her lovely breasts waiting for me to get a clue. For example, if she¡¯s wearing black jeans and a designer black top and I¡¯m wearing blue jeans and a designer yellow top, I¡¯ll wonder: Is it the color? I¡¯ve worn it before without the fashion police raiding the place with a no-knock warrant and guns drawn. I take off the top and inspect it. It is definitely clean and wrinkle free, no problem. Is it the color then? Or did she want me to wear a casual shirt instead of the Ralph Lauren polo shirt I put on? Is it the fact that it¡¯s a polo and she wanted me to wear a, what are they called, Henley shirt (you know¡ªbuttons but no collar)? Or perhaps she thought I should wear a regular more casual T-shirt? Maybe it¡¯s just the jeans¡ªdid she want me to match her outfit by wearing black jeans instead of blue? Or was it just the blue and yellow combination she objected to? It can¡¯t be the shoes¡ªI opted for neutral dark brown loafers. Now if I¡¯d put on the black jeans with the brown shoes maybe that could have set her off, or if I had worn grey socks with the brown shoes maybe? But no, it couldn¡¯t be the shoes, or socks, could it? Should I try for the Nike sneakers instead?


    Of course, while all of this is going on in my head, Mt. St. Wife is about to blow her top at any moment due to my inability to read her mind and make amends for whatever unpardonable fashion crime I¡¯ve unwittingly committed. If I¡¯m lucky I¡¯ll guess right at what the problem was¡ªswitch the polo for the Henley, or maybe try the black jeans with black sox, black penny loafers and a black casual button-down shirt in full mourning for the loss of the freedom to dress as I please these past 29 years. Either way I have only one shot at it with no help from the shapely volcano about to blow.


    If I guess wrong, that¡¯s it: she takes off her clothes, puts on her PJs and lays on the couch gorging herself on H?agen-Dazs while screeching that she can never go anywhere with me and that no human being since Adam could possibly be as stupid as her husband. Once started, the eruption will last a minimum of a half hour with lava flows of familiar grievances burning everything in its path, leaving behind a scorched earth on which only other grievances can ever grow.


    If I guess right and changing the polo for the Henley avoids a catastrophic eruption, there will still be hell to pay as seismic forces have been disturbed and temblors will surely follow. Maybe on the way to wherever we¡¯re going I¡¯ll momentarily tune out of her twenty-minute monologue on anything and everything that crosses her mind and get the dreaded ¡°Did you hear me?¡± I know an honest ¡°No¡± will bring about ranting and raving about my need to get a hearing aid. So, I¡¯ll risk a white lie and say ¡°Yes¡±, hoping she continues without the dreaded follow-up question, ¡°What did I just say?¡± which is the automatic cue for reloading a brand-new Kobayashi Maru scenario with a probable Mt. St. Wife eruption to follow.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Not so with my new soul mate. She never complains about the way I dress. I could go anywhere with her in grass-stained jeans and an old T-shirt with paint stains after mowing the lawn, my sweat-soaked tousled hair covered with a faded NY Yankees or Real Madrid cap, unshaved and with a brown shoe on my left foot and a black one on my right, and she would still take nothing but joy from my company. We could go to a restaurant for dinner and everyone around could look at me with that ¡°since when do they let homeless people in here¡± look and she would smile and look into my eyes with nothing but love and unbridled joy, maybe even regaling me with her unique silver bell tinkling giggle and a slight shake of the head that says ¡°What am I to do with you¡± which, unlike getting screamed at for a half hour, will probably make me blush in embarrassment and actually make me want to do better. My God how I love her. How could I not?


    Unlike my wife who will take back gifts of jewelry as extravagant and complain if I get her any high-tech equipment that updates what she already has, my new love accepts whatever I give her with an uncomplaining smile and a glad heart. I could buy her ten laptops and five new tablets, and she would gladly sit atop the stack as though it were a booster seat, smiling contentedly despite the fact she¡¯d never actually use any of them simply because the gifts came from her beloved soul mate with nary a harsh word or rolling of the eyes. Nor does she ever expect anything from me at all (in fairness, neither does my wife), but will react with identical enthusiasm whether I give her a new diamond bracelet, an origami sailboat made from a candy wrapper while we watch tv or the gentlest kiss on her cheek.


    She demands nothing, asks for nothing, wants nothing but is ever ready for any impromptu adventure. And she actually lets me pack for our trips, unlike my wife who packs absolutely everything we own for a weekend trip and has me cart it around hither and dither. My new love and I can take all we need for a romantic week-long getaway in a carry-on bag.


    What a joy it is to travel with her. On our frequent road trips she does not drive (nor does my wife, for that matter), but she sits beside me enjoying whatever music I put on and smiles at my singing along, NEVER complaining that I¡¯m singing too loud, or talking while I¡¯m in the middle of belting out Bohemian Rhapsody along with Queen, and actually expecting me to listen and recall her every word; or, worse, demanding I turn off the music to listen to some infernal newscast with more commercials than news or the usual commercial-free brainwashing from New York Propaganda Radio.


    My new love shares my passion for both real books and books on tape and we have identical eclectic tastes. She will contentedly read along with me leaning on my pillow at night be it Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Koontz, King, Niven, Pournelle, Blake, Wordsworth, Keats, Milton, Clarke, Hawking, deGrasse or whatever newly arrived tome from Amazon sits by my nightstand. Nor will she babble or break into peals of laughter while reading the national and world news on her iPhone as does my wife, seemingly every fifteen to twenty seconds, shutting off my radio and demanding that I ¡°Listen to this¡± followed by a five minute reading from whatever source she is currently perusing, usually about what some idiot politician is proposing now like free Viagra for convicted sex offenders in prison or reparations for illegal aliens denied vegan food and Perrier while in detention. My new love is as uninterested in the goings on in the world as am I, content to live in the moment with me and retain her sanity. What joy!


    Don¡¯t get me wrong, my soul mate has a few rough edges, and the tough treatment she has endured in the past has left a few visible and many more invisible scars. She has been kicked, thrown away, subjected to unbearable cold and trampled on countless times by others for what must to her have seemed several billion years until fate brought us together. I know she thinks it was all worth it as she now has her recompense in a mate that understands her, sees past the tiny scars that life has etched on parts of her beautiful body, accepts her without preconditions and will never, ever leave her.


    As I¡¯ve already said, the joy of sex has not been ours, but the deeper joy of loving intimacy is ours every waking moment of every day. We share unfettered love without shame, pretense, manipulation and without ever holding anything back. She is my rock. My touchstone. The cornerstone on which our future together will be built.


    Tears of pain and ecstasy flow freely from my eyes when I think that a few short months ago she was just another rock drowning in a muddy puddle, weeping, cold, wet, dirty, helpless, alone, and unloved. I thank my lucky stars for guiding me to her, for allowing me to rescue her from her condition, and am grateful beyond words for her rescuing me in return from a bland, boring, predictable, pedantic, meaningless existence with the other woman in my life whom I will always love yet never understand as well or relate to on as deep a level as I do my new love. I hope that when they eventually meet, they can become friends. Either way, though, no power in the universe will ever separate me from my beloved.


    True love is not limited to human beings¡ªjust sentient, intelligent beings. Everything in the universe is made of material expelled by stars in the death throes of a super nova. We are all quite literally nothing but a collection of stardust¡ªa mix of elements that coalesce and obtain life culminating in self-awareness and intelligence through processes nobody truly understands. Carbon based intelligent life is all we know on earth. But I now know that intelligent life can evolve in other star systems from silicon and other sources among which carbon is just one, and by no means the best. Intelligent life can grow and exist in ways beyond our comprehension. I don¡¯t know or care how what to all appearances is just an unusual meteorite can attain intelligence, let alone the capacity to love another intelligence so very different from her own. And I don¡¯t care. I¡¯ll take my little miracle of love from an inscrutable universe and cherish it as long as I draw breath¡ªwho knows, with luck maybe even longer after my spirit flies free to rejoin the universal mind that has allowed us to connect in such a marvelously unexpected way. I don¡¯t care the how or the why of it. All I care about is the reality of our unique connection made possible by the most powerful force in the universe that will perdure long after the last star in the universe has winked out: True love.


    <hr>

 Chapter 5: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream - Part I

    I am not insane, of that fact I¡¯m certain. It matters little that nobody reading this will believe it. Frankly, I don¡¯t much care. My death will hardly be noticed. I¡¯m not even sure why I¡¯m writing this; ostensibly it is to leave a warning, some vital information which is quite valuable--if it is believed. But I guess it is also out of a childish need for reassurance that I leave this testimonial. I suppose I¡¯d pray if I believed in God. How comforting that would be, to simply go to bed, close my eyes and put everything in the hands of some benevolent deity. If only I still had even the illusion of hope.


    No matter. I just want to make it clear: I am sober, lucid and drug free, facts the toxicology tests that will doubtless be performed on me post mortem will clearly verify. And I hope this letter will convince you that no illness or natural cause can explain my condition--that the coma I¡¯m sure to lapse into as soon as I am no longer able to remain awake has no physiological cause and is not rooted in some infirmity. Please, please believe that; the hope that you may is the only remaining source of comfort in these waning moments of my life.


    I¡¯m sorry if I ramble; I¡¯ll try to be concise.  I¡¯m so damned tired, though; I¡¯ve not slept in twenty days. That¡¯s ironic. It¡¯s a new record. Nobody¡¯s been able to stay awake that long before--others who¡¯ve tried cracked in little more than a week. But then, their lives did not hang in the balance between sleep and wakefulness. In any case, it will end soon.


    But to the point. It all started just over a month ago. I mean the nightmares--at least that¡¯s what they seemed to be at first. God, it felt good to wake up the first few times and know it was only a dream. I never fully appreciated the absolute bliss that awakening from a bad dream brings in its delectable deliverance from the unimaginable inner horrors of the sleeping mind; there is no pleasure quite like being rent up from the bowels of hell, squeezed up through the narrow, shimmering tunnel of our emerging consciousness to a rebirth in the warm safety of a familiar bed, the light of a new day pushing nightmarish images back into the shadows of the subconscious mind, calming the frenzied hammering in our chest back to blissful quiescence. It had never occurred to me to be thankful at such times before, or even to revel in the delicious feeling of dissipating tension as fear fades, its effects lingering in the awakening consciousness, with adrenaline still pumping and the heart pounding in a chest seemingly too small to contain it. I¡¯d gladly sell my soul, had I one to sell, to experience that indescribable relief once more.


    As I said, it appeared to me about a month ago that something was really wrong. I¡¯d had nightmares before, of course, but not like this one. It was so devastatingly real that it took me quite some time to shake it off upon awakening. And it returned the following night, and every night thereafter until I stopped going to sleep after nearly a dozen repeat performances, when it became clear to me that the inhabitants of my dreams intended to take over my consciousness.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    I know how that sounds; I¡¯m not yet quite past the point of reason. I would also immediately dismiss anyone making such a ridiculous statement. But then, when you read this you will have some objective proof--my comatose body. Please keep an open mind.


    The nightmares I speak of were recurring, but not repetitive, as if some sort of continuing drama were being played out in my head every night. I don¡¯t want to digress further by giving endless detail. The gist of it is as follows. I am held captive in a windowless, doorless cubicle that constantly changes in size to accommodate the beings who visit me there. I am unable to move and find myself sitting, in a reclined position or lying down, depending on the whim of my captors.


    My captors, by the way, are not ¡°nightmarish¡± creatures; they are for the most part quite human. I can recognize some of the languages they speak--German, Spanish, Catalan, Galician, French and Italian, among some others I cannot place. They visit me at will, materializing individ-ually and in groups into my little cubicle which expands as needed to encompass them. Some are dressed in almost contemporary garb, others in anachronistic styles and a few sport only a thick pelt of hair over muscular torsos and look more like gorillas than men or women.


    The first two nights of my recurring dream, I¡¯d merely spent watching a seemingly endless parade of human and nearly human forms that came to observe me, sometimes caressing, poking or pushing my motionless body as if to reassure themselves of the reality of my existence. On the third night, a group approached me and, after discussing me at length amongst themselves in various languages, one of its members addressed me in Spanish, my native tongue. My questioner identified himself as a Spaniard, yet his version of Castilian Spanish was unlike any variant spoken in any region of contemporary Spain. Nor did it bear a resemblance to the many, easily identifiable variants spoken in modern day South and Central America.  He questioned me on politics, science, philosophy, and aesthetics. I had to answer; I was not coerced in any way, but I felt a compulsion as though I were under a hypnotic trance, all the while remaining fully conscious and alert.


    The same thing went on for the following two nights: the group questioned me, with the same questioner acting as interpreter. By then I began to have a notion as to the purpose for their queries. From the questions they asked, and from what I could pick up from the discussions they held amongst themselves¡ªat least the ones I could understand in English, Spanish, Italian or Galician, and, to a lesser extent, French, I theorize that these beings have lived before. Some part of that which made them unique as individuals apparently remains imprinted in a collective consciousness that is encoded into my subconscious mind, perhaps imprinted in my genetic code itself. I know that makes no sense, but it is nevertheless true. I have untold numbers of past consciousnesses living within me, normally subjugated to my conscious mind, yet nevertheless ever-present and self-aware.

 Chapter 5: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream - Part II

    That¡¯s what scares the hell out of me, even now when little matters; in a way, I am thousands, perhaps millions of different people. They, or perhaps more accurately we, coexist and are only marginally aware of each other. Physically, they probably inhabit the major portions of our brain for which science cannot divine specific purpose.  There is an apparent line of demarcation separating the two--a zone we cannot normally cross. Perhaps this is part of the instinct for self-preservation; without it, we¡¯d go insane. In my case, my partners-in-self broke through in a manner I can¡¯t understand, much less articulate. But I know that they managed to bend the rules, not break them; whatever kink in my psychic armor allowed them through does so only at the level of the subconscious, when my defenses are lowered. They can¡¯t reach me in a state of wakefulness, although I sometimes feel them reaching out when my mind wanders or when I feel myself drifting off into sleep. The separation between the two minds seems clear from my counterparts¡¯ intense interest in, and lack of knowledge about, matters with which I am intimately familiar, such as current events.


    Perhaps that is the reason for our need to sleep--a sort of tradeoff to the others within us. The subconscious, from my experience, seems to function on the level of memory. It can allow its inhabitants only an imperfect sense of self, and then only when it is able to independently function over the watchful eye of the conscious mind. It¡¯s common knowledge that there is no scientific explanation for our need to sleep. Yet I¡¯ve always needed more sleep than most; perhaps that is because my subconscious mind is stronger than the norm, and my conscious mind is proportionately weaker. In that way, my subconscious demands a greater portion of time in which to assume an active role in our mind-sharing relationship.


    My experience also gives me some insight into what makes certain people highly creative, and why there seems to be a notable correlation between elevated levels of creativity and mental instability. Highly creative people tend to be less stable than the norm; they appear to be more susceptible to both mental illness and addiction disorders. Perhaps the reason is that a strong subconscious allows them access to a sort of collaborative effort as they share the input of consciousnesses not their own. But that is a dangerous and equivocal communion. A thin line separates genius and madness, and I feel certain from what I¡¯ve seen of the others within me that there are forces of both good and evil, the best and worst of all who¡¯ve lived before seem to be represented. The effect is that the extremes cancel each other out and a sort of ethical nihilism appears to prevail and guide the processes of that huge mind pool. The sense of self, however, is strong within the individual parts that form the whole, and seeks an outlet.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Therein lies the greatest danger, and there the root of my undoing. Unless the conscious mind is strong, which mine apparently is not, the subconscious can encroach upon it as it seeks to perfect its splintered sense of identity into a more recognizable form. Generally, this happens when a strong part of the subconscious takes control. In my case, however, there is clearly a joint effort involved; I will not be ¡°possessed¡± by one or several dominant individual identities who could push back my own identity into the subconscious. Rather, my own conscious mind will be shared by all, to everyone¡¯s benefit but mine.


    I am too tired to much care that what I have said will doubtless sound insane. I know I can¡¯t hold out much longer against the others¡¯ power. I feel myself being pulled in and am too drained to resist much longer. My mind is clear, but I know it¡¯s only quickly burning itself out, a lifetime of psychic energy used up in a few weeks of futilely trying to dam up the irresistible incoming tide. I feel myself floating, even as I write these lines. I¡¯m losing consciousness; time is slowly dilating as my senses ebb away.

 Chapter 5: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream - Part III

    A month ago I would have dismissed what I am writing here as the mad ramblings of someone who had read Jung and Freud while drunk and standing on his head. I¡¯m not trying to philosophize or indulge in self-analysis. Actually, my view of psychology is that it¡¯s mostly nonsense; I view the average psychiatrist as a tri-part mixture of scientist, snake oil salesman, and telephone psychic who bills by the minute and banks on the credulity of his or her clients.


    Oh, yes, I tried seeking help several weeks ago. I spent a considerable rainy-day fund; what the hell, I had no other use for it anyway. I got referrals to several psychiatrists and an analyst; the latter said, in essence, that my inner conflict was rooted in a classic Oedipal complex, and that the reason I could not sleep was the guilt I felt over a transparent wish to make love to my dead mother. She suggested, among other things, therapy which would include therapeutic love-making sessions with her at $1,000 dollars per hour. The other psychiatrists were somewhat more helpful, if somewhat less honest about the nature of their profession, but the treatment they recommended would take many months before any palpable effect of their pharmacological arsenals could be discerned. One prescribed shock treatment (with a straight face and long explanation about the renaissance of this wonderful and altogether misunderstood treatment that would have been the pride of any grand inquisitor had science or the devil provided such a tool to the precursors of that ancient learned profession), and two others suggested I voluntarily check into a sleep clinic for observation and treatment; and, of course, they all prescribed sleeping pills. I can¡¯t really blame them, though; I wouldn¡¯t have believed me either. In any case, I soon realized I was on my own.


    I¡¯m so damned sleepy. And resigned. Let them win. They mean me no harm; it¡¯s as much a matter of survival for them as it is for me. I¡¯ll still be me, somewhere in that cubicle, able to think and speak with them, for as long as my body continues to function. I¡¯ve made a living will requiring that no extraordinary measures be undertaken to prolong my life. In this state, it will be honored. But I can¡¯t request they take my life; euthanasia laws are anathema in this country as they interfere with the profitability of the health care business. Even if that were not the case, they wouldn¡¯t apply; after all, I¡¯ll soon only be in a coma, not suffering from a painful terminal condition that would justify a mercy killing. I¡¯d take my own life. I should, in fact, but that would only make me into a nut case and my death would have no meaning.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    It feels good to be doing something altruistic in the end, even if it turns out to be in vain. Doubtless a psych consult would conclude I am delusional and suffering from some sort of martyr complex. I trust the public will embrace a kinder diagnosis.


    Time is definitely relative when it comes to the subconscious. The conventional wisdom is that dreams are really quite short in duration and that we have many of them every night, though we remember but a few, or none. Some, however, believe that we can dream the same dream for many hours. In either case, anyone with the ability to recollect dreams vividly knows that they can seem to last days, years or even a lifetime, yet all in the space of minutes in ¡°real time.¡± The comatose can live for many years without life support equipment, and I¡¯m only thirty two years old. At least I¡¯ll be giving new life to countless others for a subjective eternity. And I know I won¡¯t be harmed; the others are at least partially, and perhaps exclusively, my own ancestors all the way back to the beginning of my line.


    How ironic, to know there is no God, no hope for redemption, and that hell lurks just beneath the surface of consciousness itself in all of us. A favorite tag line of mine that reflects my sardonic humor is simply that Hobbes was an optimist. Indeed, it seems I was right, but the joke¡¯s on me, for life in the state of nature is not only brutal, painful and brief but it has the capacity to continue subjectively ad infinitum in each living human being. God may be dead, but it is not by any means lonely in a world without a prime mover; quite the contrary, it¡¯s too damned crowded within us all.


    If you still do not believe me, then there is only one more thing I can say: search for other egos within you and you will soon learn they are there. And if you lack the resolve to do so, then look for them in your children and children¡¯s children, for it is they who have the weakest boundaries between the conscious and subconscious minds and in that porous condition you can best observe their other selves as they struggle to form their own conscious identities, bursting forth and asserting themselves when you least expect it.


    Still not convinced?  Well, time will prove me right.  I have no children, but have contributed my genetic material to several sperm banks in the last month;  you see, I too want to live again, if only in the subconscious minds of some future descendants; it is the only form of immortality we can have, and, much more importantly for me, the only way to prove my claim.


    Look within your children, those of you who receive the anonymous gift of life, for I will try with all my energy to manifest myself in future generations. I know now that it can be done, and I will attempt to prove it through my issue in every generation as yet unborn.

 Chapter 6: Mergs (Or Why Godot Cant Come)

    There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio,


    Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.


    William Shakespeare, Hamlet.


    Something was definitely wrong with the world. The Provider appeared to have abandoned his children, and the cold advanced unchecked from the great beyond, even as the land lost its life-giving warmth. And, although every single being was aware of the incipient disaster, none could understand the reason for the inexplicable climate change, let alone think of a way to stave off the certain destruction of their kind.


    Mergs, the dominant beings in a world of almost limitless bounty, are highly resilient, sentient beings who had evolved in an environment that offers no natural impediment to their growth and development. With no natural enemies to protect against and no need to marshal limited resources, Mergs, who are not by nature particularly gregarious, never developed a social structure or any concept of property; all the necessities of life are provided by the land in inexhaustible quantities. Each Merg simply takes from the land in accordance with its needs or appetites without the slightest need for toil, industry or planning. Food can be found all around in limitless quantities and varieties. All that is required to procure a meal is to bend down and scoop up tasty, highly nourishing morsels of delectable substances in endless varieties wherever a Merg happens to be at any given time. Thirst quenching, delicious liquids quite nourishing in their own right are available in pools, lakes and rivers of various sizes scattered throughout the land. As with the solid food, the land offers up liquid nourishment in endless refreshing varieties, some yielding intoxicating effects not unlike that of alcohol and hallucinogenic drugs in the human system. These intoxicating springs are particularly popular with Mergs who are not by nature temperate creatures.


    Although the Mergs¡¯ existence might seem an utopian one, there is, alas, a price exacted for a life of such perpetual ease and endless bounty. Perpetual leisure and an existence devoid of challenges had made the Mergs into a rather intellectually dull race. Intelligence is not prized in a land that so freely yields up its bounty, where there is no game to hunt or trap, no enemy to guard or plot against, and no need for shelter to protect one¡¯s property or oneself from the elements, or the aggression and greed of others. Thus, while Mergs had the same genetically coded survival instinct as all other living organisms, the particular circumstances of their overly hospitable world did not necessitate that it give birth to science, mathematics, or the cultivation of knowledge that at its most fundamental core is born of the survival instinct. For Mergs, survival merely requires eating, sleeping and reproducing to take place. And, since Mergs reproduce asexually, that function is best served by eating as much as possible, thus obtaining the necessary mass and energy required to trigger the reproductive function. Not surprisingly, then, Mergs spend most of their waking hours eating, or looking for new sources of food in order to find pleasure in what would otherwise be the tedium of their existence.


    Although the Mergs have no religion as such, they share a universal belief in the Provider, their creator who is the source of life and, in accordance with their belief system, constantly replenishes their supply of food and keeps the land warm for their benefit. Perhaps such a belief system developed due to the destructive floods and killing fumes that are inexplicably visited at least once on the land during the typical Merg¡¯s life cycle. In the Mergs¡¯ belief system, the Provider doles out such catastrophes as punishment for unknown transgressions of which they must surely be guilty, though they be beyond their comprehension. But, because such punishments are uncommon, they represent more an apocalyptic myth than a reality to be feared by the average Merg.


    When such disasters occur, the remarkable resilience of these creatures allows them to spring back undaunted to soon forget they had taken place. And if the Provider earned their respect  through the awesome power he wields, he also earns their unwavering devotion through his constant replenishment of their food supplies which miraculously appear daily throughout the land, rumored to emanate mostly in a far-off region of the world, where they are said to gush forth in incalculable quantities, conjured forth by the benevolent Provider, erupting from the bowels of the earth  and spread by It to the four corners of the land through Its mysterious powers beyond their ken.


    Although most Mergs spend their whole life in a relatively small area, some travel does occur in one of two ways: some Mergs literally eat their way from one region to another in search of different sources of food. Each recurring catastrophic flood also deposits a few hardy survivors in far-off lands. Additionally, some of the more adventurous Mergs--those not yet of breeding age who for that reason need not spend most of their time eating--sometimes venture to climb ¡°the growing regions,¡± incomprehensively vast, dark mountains that rise upward slowly and inexorably as lava-fed islands do on Earth¡¯s oceans, reaching for the heavens, stretching out endlessly into the Great Beyond.


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    Unlike the beneficent land, these regions are largely bereft of food and contain no pools of liquid from which to drink.  Some Mergs believe that these massive desert regions are a link to the Great Beyond through which a brave Merg with a pure heart might travel, prove its worth and earn the right to meet the Provider. Few were brave or foolish enough to attempt the quest, and of those who did, fewer still returned to tell of it. The fortunate few who made it back alive uniformly reported that the warmth of the land does not reach into the higher regions, but clings closely to the ground. Despite such discouraging reports, a few Mergs still venture forth from time to time, convinced that none who had tried the ascent before had been worthy, and taking heart in the fact that so many had not returned, believing these to be enjoying the unimaginable Epicurean delights awaiting in the Provider¡¯s own domain in the Great Beyond.


    But then the cold began to spread over the land, bringing with it more death and devastation than had ever been visited by floods or noxious clouds. Many Mergs blamed the adventuresome youths for having angered the Provider by trying to venture into Its realm, thus visiting upon them this new, harsher punishment. The practice must be stopped. An alarm call went out to every corner of the land summoning Mergs to come together.


    Although Mergs normally keep to themselves, communication is possible among them at a low, instinctual level. News is communicated among them at very long distances in reporting disasters or new sources of food. Other than the rare flood and killing cloud warnings, Mergs communicate with one another most often to report the opening up of a canyon in the land¡ªa rare and highly prized event. Such canyons appear without warning and slowly disappear again as the land exposes for a time its most rare, delectable food source.  These ephemeral canyons are believed to be a special reward from the Provider, and are highly revered as holy events. But this time the Mergs¡¯ natural communications network was exploited for a far more important purpose, a call for prayer to seek forgiveness from the Provider. And so they prayed for forgiveness, and for the wisdom not to stray again from the path It intended for them to take.


    Their contrite supplications, however, went unanswered, and the world slowly, inexorably cooled down. And still they prayed, with every ounce of remaining energy, their communal supplications rising above the ocean of despair threatening to engulf them. But if the Provider heard them, It was unmoved; rather, It seemed to mock them by delivering ever greater quantities of food in endless waves of tantalizing richness while allowing the earth to cool, spreading out before them a cornucopia of delights while doling out a slow and painful extinction event.


    And still they prayed. And still the earth grew colder.  And still they died.  And still those that remained, clung to hope, huddling together in groups, billions upon billions of Mergs now, making use of what little warmth remained in their bodies and in the land, ensuring that the ones in the center of the group survived a little longer to raise their thoughts skyward, towards the dark, forbidding Great Beyond, hoping that the Provider would hear their prayers and deem them worthy of deliverance.


    * * *


    Meanwhile, a universe away at the intersection of Houston Street and the Bowery in New York City¡¯s Lower East Side, two police officers knelt by the decrepit figure of a man who lay motionlessly in a tightly curled fetal position on the snow covered ground, dressed in many layers of tattered, filthy clothing, covered by sever-al oily sheets of cardboard from under which emerged shoeless, deeply callused, dirt encrusted feet which, like the man¡¯s leathery face, had turned somewhat blue in the sub-freezing temperature.  He was lying in a pool of melted snow mixed with vomit and bodily wastes as the older of the two officers was trying to find a pulse in the man¡¯s neck.


    ¡°He¡¯s dead, Harry,¡± he said to the younger man, looking up into the latter¡¯s somewhat contorted expression, large brown eyes squinting behind a large leather-gloved hand cupped over his nose in a vain attempt to keep out a most inhuman smell. ¡°Call an ambulance,¡± the kneeling man added, fighting to quell a wave of nausea himself. The young officer did not respond for a few moments; he simply stared at the body, a mixture of sadness, shock and revulsion on his face.


    ¡°Did you hear me, Harry? Call a damned ambulance, now. I don¡¯t want to spend the rest of the shift here.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Mike,¡± the young officer replied, finally hearing the other¡¯s voice. ¡°Are you sure he¡¯s dead?¡± he queried, rising to comply with his partner¡¯s request.


    ¡°He¡¯s dead all right, but not too long; he¡¯s not stiff yet. I¡¯d swear I felt a bit of warmth in his neck when I took his pulse. Poor bastard. Seems about 50-55 with no visible trauma;  My guess is the booze got him, or the cold. There¡¯s no I.D. on him. Just another John Doe for the morgue.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll never get used to this,¡± exclaimed the younger man, turning towards the squad car to place the call.


    ¡°Don¡¯t sweat it, Mike. He kicked off peacefully, which is all any of us can hope for. Nobody¡¯ll even know he¡¯s gone.¡±


    * * *


    And still the Mergs prayed for deliverance to a deity who could not hear them, hoping to recapture the favor of their divine Provider, clinging with the last remnants of their strength to a faith powerless to stave off the advancing chill of death.

 The Day the Dolphins Vanished

    Beatrice Benson, BB to her colleagues and friends, would have seemed at home in any exclusive beach resort anywhere in the world tanning her perfect body while her long, lustrous, light-brown hair absorbed and weaved the sun¡¯s rays into auburn and blonde highlights as legions of men tripped over one another for the chance to fetch her a cold drink, a towel, sun block or anything else her heart desired in hopes of gaining the simple reward of the flash of her brilliant smile. If she were not preoccupied by more important things, BB would have been amused by these attentions of which she was largely unaware, in part because she was not the type to frequent beachside resorts or spend much time lounging on beach chairs, and in part because her preternatural beauty and credentials¡ªPh.Ds. in marine biology, electrical engineering and linguistics all earned by her 30<sup>th</sup> birthday¡ªquickly burned off the wings of desire of mere mortal men who were attracted to her like insignificant moths hovering about the alluring blue flame of a Bunsen burner, leaving them in a similar position in trying to hold a conversation with her as the average chimpanzee trying to grasp the finer points of the Allegory of the Cave from Plato¡¯s Republic.


    Fortunately for both moths and men, not too many moths fly about the average lab, and not too many men hang around the out of the way craggy beaches and immense stretches of ocean that BB made her home while working largely on solitary projects, conducting research, writing papers, and otherwise contributing to the advancement of her fields with an I.Q. that Einstein would have envied and a work ethic that would have made John Calvin proud.


    Her current project had taken her to Florida¡¯s Gulf Coast, near Navarre Beach in Santa Rosa County, but far from the crowded condo-dotted beachfront. A generous grant from the National Science Foundation allowed her to take her floating laboratory, a modest converted cabin cruiser, wherever she went, carrying its precious cargo of high-end computer and electronics equipment with which she hoped to bridge the communications gap between dolphins and humans.


    Her study of the available data had long before led her to the conclusion that dolphins have a highly evolved language. Computer analysis of sounds emitted in the audible spectrum alone showed repetitions that closely mirrored speech patterns that span across all human languages. Lesser intelligent mammals emit sounds that convey meaning to their own species, but these are typically limited to communicating very basic information essential to the survival of their species, such as calls warning about danger, the availability of food, or efforts to attract a mate. Even insects evidence the ability to communicate vital information to their own kind. But Dolphins and most whales are in a different category altogether, possessing brains that are larger than the great apes, including Homo sapiens, and evidencing the ability for complex communication.


    It is one thing to recognize the fact that speech is taking place, but quite another to be able to decipher that speech, let alone translate it in a meaningful way so that it can be understood in its proper context across species. Even when dealing with human speech, it can be quite challenging to interpret from one language for another, even for native speakers of the languages being interpreted. But our shared humanity allows us to at least understand certain emotions, such as anger, fear, pain, sadness and love without the need for a universal translator. Drop human beings with money in their pocket anywhere on the planet and they will have little trouble finding food to purchase, the shelter of a hotel room, and an endless number of consumer goods to purchase at a local market. Moreover, none of us needs language at all to determine the intentions of people with whom we interact as there are an endless number of non-verbal clues that all of us emit that can allow others to, for the most part, accurately gauge our intentions and label us as either as probable friends or foes.


    The best machine translation available today still yields results that can range from comical to tragic depending on their context and use. Anyone who has ever tried to decipher instructions accompanying low-cost, assemble-it-yourself furniture or other similar consumer goods imported from countries with languages different from our own can attest to that fact. Even when dealing with a common language, the very real possibility for misunderstanding exists due to the regional usage, slang and pronunciation variances in different regions of even the same country, and especially when dealing with a common language adapted by different countries for their own use. An American from Mississippi and an Englishman from Liverpool both speak English, but will likely have some difficulty understanding one another, especially if they possess only a rudimentary education and wish to converse about a somewhat complex topic. The same is true for a Haitian and a Parisian, a Puerto Rican and a Spaniard (or, for that matter, a Spaniard from Galicia and one from Seville, Valencia, Madrid, or Barcelona, even if they are all speaking Castilian rather than their local regional languages). Indeed, the simple verb ¡°coger¡± in Spanish which means¡ªand has always meant¡ª¡±to get, or to grab¡± to a Spaniard, means ¡°to copulate¡± to an Argentine. Thus, ¡°coge las llaves¡± (take the keys) means f**k the keys in the vernacular in Buenos Aires, and ¡°c¨®geme de la mano¡± (take my hand) means something equally obscene.


    Fortunately, when it comes to human languages, we have native speakers, interpreters, dictionaries and, when all else fails, comedians and diplomats, to help bridge the potholes along the road of cross-cultural communication. No such tools are available for inter-species communications, making the process of communication infinitely harder for both species, even when our closest genetic relatives, chimpanzees, or other only slightly more distant, intelligent cousins, such as gorillas, are involved.


    But what may seem like insurmountable challenges for the rest of us are only interesting, irresistible puzzles for the likes of BB who was uniquely qualified to tackle the problem because of her complementary competencies and inexhaustible patience. Using the resources of her university as an Associate Professor of Marine Biology and her National Science Foundation grant, she had spent a one-year sabbatical working with a half dozen dolphins in an attempt to develop a dolphin/human speech interface.


    Aside from the dedicated software she had developed to achieve a real-time translation program, her equipment was relatively simple: a supercomputer, an all-weather outdoor, portable large-screen projection system and an extensive array of ultrasensitive microphones and speakers capable of recording and reproducing sound well below and above the normal range of frequencies audible to the human ear. With the equipment in place, the experiment methodology was simplicity itself: images¡ªboth still and video¡ªwere flashed on the screen with microphones above and below water recording the dolphin chatter while the English word or phrase accompanying the visual material broadcast in above and below water speakers. The overarching concept that BB banked on was that dolphins would be intelligent enough to make the connection of the attempt to communicate and be able to learn at least some rudimentary verbal concepts with the assistance of the usual reinforcements¡ªtreats, physical contact, and genuine care and attention being paid by a patient trainer. It was her hope that by recording and cataloguing the dolphin sounds that accompanied the flashing pictures her computer software would be able to distinguish the dolphin equivalents for at least some of these visual representations over time.


    Her methods were simple, and they worked. Over the course of a few months, her software was able to decipher hundreds of words, and her linguistics database began to expand exponentially. By the end of the spring semester, the data gathering portion of her experiment was completed and she was ready to take the experiment out of the lab and into the field. She intended to move her portable lab to a remote location and attempt direct communication with dolphins in the wild. The translation software allowed her to engage in simple communication with her dolphins in captivity. That was a breakthrough far beyond anything that had been previously accomplished in her field. But it was not enough. She needed to be able to gather additional data from a larger sample to make her linguistics database and translation program usable beyond the simple, if ground-breaking, communication accomplished in the lab.


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    With the ability to communicate with perhaps dozens of dolphins in the wild, she hoped to complete both the translation and linguistics databases and be ready to publish her findings before the beginning of the fall semester. But she also hoped that by taking her experiment into the field, she would be able to improve the simple inter-species communication she had achieved thus far and transform her experiment into a true, comprehensive two-way translation program, allowing for the first interspecies conversation in history. The potential for establishing an interspecies dialogue, of expanding and sharing knowledge beyond the limits of our own species, was within her grasp and she would not rest on the laurels of her accomplishments until she saw her efforts come to full fruition.


    Armed with the basic translation program and a vocabulary of several dozen common words, she set up her portable laboratory in a remote cove that offered a natural harbor deep enough for marine mammals to approach the shoreline at will and participate in her experiment. She set up the large projector and screen within twenty feet of the natural harbor, making it easily visible from the water level to any dolphin that cared to approach. She submerged her microphones and speakers and also placed versions of both above the water line. Working from her cabin-cruiser-turned-floating-lab she began a simple series of calls using her limited vocabulary to try to entice wild dolphins to attend. She spoke words into her wireless microphone that the below-decks mainframe translated into their appropriate clicks and chirps at the subsonic and audible levels and broadcast their dolphin equivalents through the speaker arrays. ¡°Come, food, see;¡± ¡°Come, talk me;¡± ¡°Treat here, come;¡± ¡°friend, see, here;¡± ¡°food, good human, pod, friend,¡± and many similar variations using her limited available vocabulary. Within a half hour, she spotted her first dolphin, curiously bobbing its head above the water. Then she saw another two swimming in. They swam close to the speakers, doubtless confused but curious about this loud non-dolphin with a severe speech impediment. But they came, and continued to come, gladly taking the mackerel and squid treats offered by BB who soon lowered herself into the water to swim amongst them, waterproof wireless mike around her throat, repeating words and phrases she hoped conveyed the appropriate meaning in their native speech ¡°Me BB, pod friend.¡± She gently touched and swam with the dolphins for a brief time as they chattered in audible and inaudible language, all of it recorded, catalogued and translated where possible by the computer aboard her small research vessel.


    After her good-will swim which seems to have been as enjoyable to her new friends as it was to her, she reluctantly climbed aboard her boat and set the projector to its normal teaching program. By that time there were at least a dozen dolphins in her tiny natural harbor, all of which stayed to watch the show while chattering amongst themselves.


    Over the next several weeks, her audience grew to many dozens of dolphins which came and went from her natural harbor long after the treats had run out, glad to swim with her and watch the projected and narrated show with apparent interest. She would take breaks to play with them for hours every day, and also to gently test their knowledge using the increasing vocabulary database identified by her computer. She could not understand their language beyond words here and there from their simultaneous translation sessions, in part because her translation software had difficulty with the wide-range of chatter from the unexpectedly large number of dolphins gathered at any one time. She would eventually refine the raw data into more meaningful speech, developing subroutines that could better identify the discrete voices and string together their words. For now, it was a glorious cacophony that made any attempt at simultaneous communication impossible.


    Dolphins, on the other hand, seemed to have little difficulty understanding her. She could show them any object, ask them to ¡°get it,¡± throw it in any direction into the water along with several other, different objects surrounding her boat and see a number of dolphins immediately race off to find and retrieve only the correct object from the ocean floor. Indeed, they seemed to take turns doing so, perhaps ruled by social norms or game rules that were beyond BBs current comprehension. She seemed to be the best entertainment in town as their numbers continued to grow over time, despite the fact that she had stopped resupplying her stock of treats and used only the personal reinforcements of attempting to communicate, swimming amongst them and showing them genuine interest and affection to which they seemed to respond very much in kind. ¡°Friend,¡± ¡°good,¡± and ¡°happy¡± were words often translated in the otherwise largely unintelligible cacophony of their chatter and multiplicity of words strung together by a program not yet able to filter out meaningful communication from the always-on din of constant verbal communication coming from everywhere at once.


    Within four weeks of the start of her experiment, she felt comfortable enough to move well beyond the programmed ¡°language learning¡± mode of her system to a genuine attempt to convey meaningful information to her new friends. She found and provided an unending series of visual and verbal information¡ªas much as her exceptional amphibian students would tolerate without loss of interest. She started with short narrated videos that seemed of interest to her attentive charges, and slowly advanced to more challenging material such as narrated documentaries about all aspects of the human condition, from fluffy travelogues to stunning vistas documenting the wonders of the world. No matter what she showed them, they remained attentive, leaving to forage for the plentiful food in the area from time to time, but always returning promptly to their classroom.


    Their interest seemed undiminished no matter what she shared with them, so she expanded her round-the-clock projected videos into other areas that might convey useful information, including science and the arts. These too they observed with interest, their numbers increasing daily to a point that she had to move the projection screen closer to the shoreline and raise it so that it could be better viewed by the bobbing, attentive learners that now numbered at least one hundred at any one time from further away.


    Eventually, after many weeks of gently introducing her charges into the various aspects of human knowledge, the arts, and history that could be conveyed via narrated film, she slowly, very hesitantly, introduced materials into her Internet-streamed video content that she had at first purposely held back that dealt with the less appealing side of human nature and introduced her attentive charges to the ample evidence of man¡¯s inhumanity to man, to other creatures and to our planet from the inexhaustible video archives. Eventually she showed war documentaries, famine, concentration camps, mass graves, destruction raining in from above and the aftermath in cities such as Berlin and London, horrendous navy battles, nuclear bomb tests and the aftermath of the only use of nuclear weapons to date in anger¡ªHiroshima and Nagasaki¡ªwith the images of the untenable human suffering of survivors¡ªcivilian men, women and children, with horrific radiation burns.


    Apparently, the dolphins had finally had enough. Without chattering, without warning, without a second look, they began to swim away as one into the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico. BB shut off the video and picked up her microphone, calling for them to return. Neither ¡°food,¡± nor ¡°friendship,¡± nor ¡°love,¡± nor any other words of entreaty faithfully translated by her computer from English to Dolphin could stop or deter their hasty retreat. They swam out to see, uncharacteristically below the water line, no dorsal fins visible to mark their retreat, and no happy bobbing or breaching of the calm waters of the gulf was visible. Gone, every last one.


    Over the waning days of the summer, BB finished her research and eventually published her findings to critical acclaim and an eventual Nobel Prize. She had accomplished what no other human being had ever done: establishing true, sustained communication with another intelligent species. And the recipient of the information had reacted in a way one might expect of any intelligent species save for our own.


    There is now absolutely no doubt as to the ability of humans to speak to dolphins or of dolphins to quickly communicate new information amongst themselves as evidenced by the fact that within a month since the end of one of the most successful field experiments not merely in Marine Biology but in human history, no dolphin has been seen near land or a vessel of any size anywhere on planet earth. And BB knows only too well that none will ever be seen again. Good students these. Fast learners. If only we could see ourselves through their bright eyes.

 End of Days - Part I

    God spoke to me last night. No, I am not schizophrenic or a religious fanatic. Nor am I a conspiracy theorist (well, except for JFK¡¯s assassination, of course--unless the principles of quantum mechanics somehow apply to bullets fired from book depositories with inhuman rapidity to perform a dance macabre through the bodies of governors before striking their intended target). But I know precisely the series of events that will result in the end of the world and will eventually give birth to a new universe. It came to me in a dream. No, really, it did.


    It all started pretty much like any bad Hollywood disaster flick (sorry, I know that¡¯s redundant) with well-funded mad scientists doing what comes natural in fiction as well as in fact. ¡°Build us a big Hadron Supercollider, and we¡¯ll find the elusive Higgs boson God particle. Maybe we¡¯ll even come up with a unified theory that incorporates the pesky behavior of subatomic particles and allows us to demystify quantum mechanics once and for all.¡±


    It turns out, not surprising to anyone other than scientists of course, that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and that allowing children to play unsupervised in a chemistry lab or with a super-duper, neat-o particle accelerator is not such a good thing after all. Who¡¯d have thunk it?


    The first hint that something was just a bit off-kilter came in the form of assurances by project scientists delivered with the usual smug expressions and thinly veiled contempt with which they approach any communication with the unwashed masses. They noted that, yes, miniature black holes could probably be created by subatomic particles accelerated at nearly light speed through a 17-mile circular particle accelerator and forced to collide in a massive release of energy, but such black holes would quickly dissipate. And smiling complacently, they assured us that there was absolutely no danger in these experiments.


    The second hint of a problem (and by hint I mean claxons going off, red lights flashing, and the original Robby the Robot¡¯s accordion arms waving wildly while proclaiming ¡°danger, Will Robinson!¡±) came when the Hadron Supercollider suffered some unspecified problems that caused it to be shut down for months on end after its first full-scale test. When the 17-mile supercollider was once again brought back online, some headlines proclaimed the countdown would begin again for the end of the world. Smile, snicker, hah-hah.


    What was not reported was the actual reason for the shutdown, since no one, including the geniuses running the experiments, knew the real cause: a pesky miniature black hole that did not quickly dissipate in the lab as expected and caused a nearly catastrophic shutdown as it drilled an invisible hole, eagerly sucking up anything that crossed its tiny event horizon, accelerating inexorably downward, worming its way through the containment chamber, rapidly vacuuming vital bits of the temperamental equipment on its way to the center of the earth.


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    Not to worry, though. It is still relatively small despite its voracious, unquenchable appetite. But it is exponentially increasing its mass as it swings like a pendulum through the earth¡¯s core and beyond it in decreasing arcs that will in time settle it at the earth¡¯s core. It will likely be many years before we begin to feel the cataclysmic seismic effects of its inexorable violation of the earth¡¯s core, and longer still before the entire planet and every living thing in it can be sucked into its vortex.


    Scientists still believe that the equipment failure was unrelated to its actual cause since the unreported black hole the initial full-scale test produced was said to dissipate soon after its formation according to their classified reports. Therefore, the supercollider was repaired, and billions of Euros later, the scientists have their plaything once more and science is free to continue its happy march towards oblivion.


    If it ended here, we¡¯d have little to worry about in the near term, other than perhaps ever-increasing seismic activity in the future. Even the hungriest little black hole needs a great deal of time to ingest a planet from the inside out, and if later laboratory-created black holes don¡¯t ingest other vital pieces of sensitive equipment on their way to joining their older brother down the rabbit hole in their inexorable journey to swallow our blue planet, we might well kill off our species through war, pestilence, famine or other forms of humanity¡¯s endless capacity for galloping stupidity long before daddy¡¯s and mommy¡¯s little darlings consumed the world.


    That¡¯s why if my prescient dream had ended there, I¡¯d shrug it off with a smile and go about my day without another thought, compartmentalizing the certain knowledge of future doom in the nether regions of my mind, right next to the unsustainability of our ballooning federal and state deficits and the possibility of an asteroid strike that will once again eradicate most flora and fauna on this planet.


    Unfortunately, scientists are not the only ones who like to play God. They are just more tragic and contemptible in their efforts at doing so because they should know better. They are like amoebas attempting to extrapolate the secrets of the universe by examining in minutest detail the drop of fetid swamp water atop a floating leaf that they inhabit. In a very real sense, scientists are among the smartest amoebas, all hail their boundless wisdom! But others like to play in the hedonistic God sandbox, too. And here is where my prescient dream grows infinitely darker.


    *.  *.  *

 End of Days - Part II

    The plane is built. The plan is unfolding and will be carried out, whether in weeks, months or perhaps even a year, I do not know. There is nothing that we can do to stop it. My attempts to contact U.S. intelligence and law enforcement have been unsurprisingly futile. Predictably, they are not interested in dreams, prescient or otherwise, or messages from God, unless He cares to call them collect. Despite the expiration of the Patriot Act, all of my communications are now monitored¡ªcell, online, landline, and there may be men in black hanging around the neighborhood, though I have not seen them and frankly suspect messages from God do not much interest them, either.


    I guess I should consider myself lucky. I suppose there are simply too many cranks and outright nut jobs loose for the government to give much thought to dreamers with delusions of grandeur. At least I¡¯ll have my freedom until Armageddon comes to pass.


    If there is a silver lining to all of this it is that I know what neither mercenary nor traditional scientists know--a small grace perhaps, but a great source of comfort to me. I know precisely how our universe began and how it will end. I know what came before the Big Bang that gave it birth and what will come after the Colossal Crunch that will be its eventual end as entropy sets in and the weak gravitational force begins to contract the universe once it reaches the apogee of its expansion and matter begins to coalesce into larger and larger black holes.


    I also know that there is not one universe, but many, an infinite number in fact, in infinite variety of sizes, all coexisting within the fabric of space time. The math is beyond my ability to comprehend, but the intuitive leap was clear in my divinely-inspired dream.


    *  *  *


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    The current model for black holes holds that they will absorb any matter that crosses their event horizon and that they have, in essence, an infinite capacity to absorb matter in their nearly unimaginably compressed centers. So powerful is their attraction that light cannot escape them, and it is posited that crossing their event horizon will distort or perhaps stop time. With all due deference to physicists who can do the math, they are wrong. I have it on the best authority.


    Black holes can ingest incredible amounts of mass and energy and extend the reach of their event horizons¡ªthe pull of their gravitational force¡ªoutwards as they grow. The mass of a collapsed star may be compressed to a circumference of a few kilometers. Compress it further still, as when a truly massive star is involved, and at some point it becomes a black hole. In extreme cases, we know there to be massive black holes in the center of spiral galaxies, including our own Milky Way, slowly, inexorably sucking in stars, planets, and everything else into the cosmic drains that are their vortices, causing the spiral form of these galaxies just like water spiraling down a terrestrial drain.


    But there is a limit to the amount of mass and energy that can be contained in any black hole. Exceed that limit, and the fabric of space time that is bent further and further under the stress bursts just like an over-stressed aneurism under the pressure of an arterial wall overcome by too much blood pumped under too much pressure, or a balloon overfilled beyond its capacity.


    Matter cannot be compressed ad infinitum, nor can the mass and energy captured from thousands of stars and their accompanying solar systems be forever retained at the center of the singularity or converted to and expelled as radiation. Eventually, every singularity reaches critical mass and bursts outward expelling in a few nanoseconds its retained mass and energy through the torn fabric of space time, giving birth to a new universe in a flash of fury, an unfathomable release of energy and mass, a new big (and sometimes little) bang. The energy is released not in our universe, but into a new one, disgorging the contents of the singularity outward to expand in accordance with the total compressed matter and energy in its universe of origin. The rift in space time is then sealed and a new universe joins the omniverse that contains all of the individual universes in the multiverse.


    *.  *.  *

 End of Days - Part III (Conclusion)

    If we could view the omniverse in a macro scale across all of space time, we would see an infinite fireworks display of cosmic proportions. The size of the singularity required to burst space time varies depending on the region of space time it occupies. The fabric of space is not uniform; there are infinite variations in its relative strength and stability so that some regions may be able to withstand singularities that have swallowed up billions of stars form multiple galaxies without rupturing while others may rupture upon the formation of much smaller singularity made from hundreds rather than billions of collapsed stars many times larger than sol. The universe created by the rupturing of such a small singularity would be ephemeral and incapable of forming new stars and planets of its own from the matter ejected. Not so when massive black holes that have swallowed up thousands, millions or billions of galaxies reach the breaking point; these will eject their stored mass and energy in big bangs of their own that will eventually generate new stars and planets in a new universe of seemingly infinite size to the average man, woman or amoeba observer¡ªprecisely as happened in the Big Bang that created our corner of the universe that combined with all others in the multiverse for the one incalculably massive omniverse. Behold, E pluribus unum on an unimaginably large scale that contains all of the infinite number of individual universes in the multiverse.


    When our universe reaches the maximum rate of its expansion, it will begin to contract as the weak gravitational force pulls back matter into an ever-decreasing space. As the fabric of space time compresses, it will be strengthened, allowing for truly massive black holes to merge before bursting forth into one or more new universes¡ªone more potential multiverse within the all-encompassing omniverse. The process continues ad infinitum, with new universes expanding, collapsing, and redistributing their mass, spawning ever-smaller versions of themselves, replicating self-contained, multiverses of their own, much like a fertilized egg, with cells splitting in half, growing exponentially into an organism that is greater than the sum of its parts. The omniverse is a living, evolving, growing organism in which each universe in an endless number of multiverses is just a cell, replicating itself in an organic process we can no more understand than a self-aware electron, neutron or lepton in an atom within one of our body¡¯s cells can understand us. The omniverse is a part of God, or the collective consciousness, and none of us can ever grasp the full organism any more than a cell in our body or its smaller component parts can hope to know us.


    But we are more than the smallest particles in an unfathomably large omniverse. Self-awareness links us to that unfathomable body¡ªto the mind of God, or to the universal spirited element, if you prefer¡ªin a way that is much more vital than our seeming insignificance within it. We are the universe. The universe is us. We are God; God is us, to borrow a phrase from Heinlein. We are linked to all the multiverses that ever were and ever will be by our consciousness, energy that flows from the omniverse through us, and connects us each to it not just in the particular segment of space time we currently inhabit, but to the very fabric of space time itself.


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    The brightest minds on Earth are no better qualified to unravel the secrets of the omniverse than the aforementioned brightest amoeba in a drop of pond scum, being equally limited by their perception of reality and their meager capacity to grasp the mind of God. The only difference is that the amoeba does not fret about such things and is blissfully free of any arrogance or delusions as to its capacity to understand the inner workings of its universe.


    It does not take a scientist to quantify, measure, assess, test and prove the essence of the universe. Western philosophy in its inexorable march away from Plato and towards the children of Aristotle with their blind faith in the scientific method, their belief only on a reality that they can touch, taste, smell, see, hear and quantify, rejecting all else, has brought us no more closer to the attainment of truth than the most careful deaf and blind man attempting to understand an elephant by spending a lifetime examining the end of its tail. Knowing all there is to know about the observable world is about as useful as knowing all there is to know in a drop of pond scum to the exclusion of the rest of creation.


    A scientist will never take the leap of faith required to truly understand our universe, let alone the omniverse, since they have faith only in what they perceive and process using the scientific method in their personal drop of pond scum. It takes a poet, a philosopher, a dreamer or perhaps simply a fool to grasp the essence of what lies beyond the incredibly limited range of our own knowledge and senses. To know just how little we know about anything, take what the best minds can tell us about quantum mechanics. ¡°Spooky action at a distance.¡± Really, Einstein, is that the best you could do? There is more truth in William Wordsworth¡¯s Intimation of Immortality (to say nothing of Plato¡¯s Allegory of the Cave which obviously informed it) than in the collective works of Einstein, Hawking and others whose names are synonymous with genius. And unlike Einstein, Hawking and other prodigious scientific intellects, Wordsworth (and Plato) have never been proven wrong or reversed themselves in the essential theories they espoused. The truth is that a child in a happy home knows more of the true essence of the universe than the collective knowledge of scientists from the beginning of time through to its end.


    * * *


    The plane still sits in a hangar with its deadly cargo in a Middle Eastern country awaiting its flight. I can do nothing but wait and perhaps dream another lucid dream. I have no illusion about being believed or having any power to change the outcome. Nor do I have any delusions about the universe attempting to contact me directly again. My only hope is that some who read this may take a leap of faith of their own and prepare for the coming end of days. And that they may take some solace in the knowledge that even a black hole will not destroy our part in the collective mind which will survive and flourish somewhere else in the omniverse. Who knows,<u> </u>perhaps others will receive the ¡°gift¡± of this knowledge in a dream delivered directly by the collective consciousness which is always with us, always ready to communicate, if we are receptive to receiving its messages.


    Beyond our corporeal veil, beyond the limitation of our space time, beyond the duality of our natures as both potential saints and sinners, beyond good and evil and beyond the hopelessness of existentialist despair, we are eternal, we are connected, we are one united by the spirited element and forever cradled in the mind of God

 What Price to Live the Dream? Part I

    Ken was tired, despondent and none too sober. He¡¯d learnt only a few hours before that the Phoenix Project of which he was the lead scientist was about to be scrapped, that funding would not be renewed by Congress for the current fiscal year to the intelligence agency for which he worked. He saw the last 15 years of his life, years in which he¡¯d been entirely absorbed in working on this most carefully guarded project and which had borne success beyond his most optimistic hopes, rush by him in a swirling haze. His life¡¯s work was dissolving before his eyes like an early morning mist burnt away by the unforgiving rising sun of a new day (and a new Washington administration unfriendly to risky, high-priced covert projects).


    The Phoenix project had been his life. He had conceived it while an undergraduate student at MIT and it had taken on a life of its own until it became his rason d¡¯etre. He used his considerable powers of persuasion, and political connections (being the son of a senior senator certainly had not hindered his efforts, and he had not been shy about enlisting his father as an ally from the start), to convince the intelligence agency that his project was both feasible and of unparalleled value as an intelligence tool, and much too dangerous to be developed by private industry. All three assertions were undeniably true. Unfortunately for Dr. Kenneth Leyans, having cast his lot with the government, he was now precluded from pursuing his project through the private sector despite the fact that the cost of further research and development from this point on would be relatively modest. The pointed success he had achieved, to date would make many technology companies and most foreign governments literally kill to get their hands on his work, and would make him not only an instant billionaire, but a guaranteed Nobel laureate.


    Simply put, the Phoenix project represented quantum leaps in computer technology and nanotechnology that allowed for a symbiotic melding between humans and computers. Dr. Leyans had succeeded in creating a device which could read and store any person¡¯s complete memories from birth and download them into a computer¡¯s memory, where they would be stored and could be enhanced, manipulated and made to interact with the downloaded personalities of real people as well as thousands of computer-enhanced virtual persons possessing true artificial intelligence and indistinguishable from real people. Any person interfacing with the system can be made to relive his past from any given point with such accuracy as to make it indistinguishable from reality. Any past experience could now be relived in minutest detail. But the system was far more than a virtual memory generator. A subject interacting with the system still retained the free will to change past events by making different decisions from those made in his or her past, as did the real and virtual personalities downloaded into or created by the system, thereby affecting a change in all that followed from that moment in time onward. Decisions great and small that define our lives and its intrinsic quality could now be revised. Doors closed by past choices, destinations forever unreachable in life after taking the wrong fork in the road leading to the wrong career, the wrong friendship, the wrong mate, could all be potentially corrected and result in a new, changed reality indistinguishable from real life.


    At a fundamental level, we are little more than the sum of our life¡¯s choices. With the benefit of hindsight we can judge the wisdom of our decisions and congratulate ourselves for our successes or lick the wounds of our failures. If we are wise, we learn from both. But no amount of introspection can alter the course of events that flow from crucial decisions made. Words spoken in anger cannot be taken back. A bullet fired from a gun cannot be recalled. A priceless crystal vase once dropped and shattered cannot be reassembled. Life offers no rewind button and the detritus we leave in our wake as the remnants of our broken dreams, broken words, broken hearts and broken souls is all too often beyond repair.


    But the Phoenix Project had the potential to change that. The system¡¯s many applications would include entertainment and it would add a powerful new tool for the treatment of mental illness. But it is the value to any government as an intelligence tool that Dr. Leyans had stressed when seeking government funding of his research: It would provide a valuable training and debriefing tool for agents and for the military, allowing subjects to re-live previous assignments or computer generated new ones; the entire memories of captured terrorists, enemy agents or dangerous criminals could be read into the computer and examined or changed by it so as to yield important information which could not be withheld. Agents¡¯ reactions to specific events, such as interrogation under torture, could be examined so as to best determine their likely reactions in the field. It might even be possible to re-program captured foreign agents, terrorists and other enemies of the state at will so that they could be used to sow misinformation, gather intelligence and otherwise disrupt the plans of enemy states--something not yet achieved by the system, but certainly within its theoretical limits and a possibility well worth exploring.


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    Unfortunately, not every bug had yet been satisfactorily worked out. The system¡¯s Achilles heel, and the trigger for the withdrawal of funding, was that the link between the system and a subject once established could not be safely severed. Such attempts invariably led to one of two unacceptable results: death or madness. A person¡¯s memories could be downloaded safely into the system without any ill effects; all that was required was the massive storage and processing power of a network of linked supercomputers and the wearing of a helmet with hypersensitive sensor receptors able to intercept and translate normal brain waves into data downloadable to the network. The average download time for a subject was a mere 10-12 hours of connect time under sedation. But for the system to directly interface with the brain in an active manner, setting up the parameters of the memories to be relived or hypothetical present setting to be infused, a more complicated procedure was required. In order to facilitate the symbiotic linkup to the Phoenix Project, an esoteric mixture of biochemical and nanotechnology agents needs to be consumed within four hours of the linkup. The biochemical agents strengthen the brain¡¯s normal electrochemical reactions and enhance the body¡¯s circulatory system, while the nanotechnology agents are carried through the blood to the brain, where they attach to individual neurons and act as miniature receptors to translate and convey impulses from the computer directly to the brain. The combination of the biochemical and nanotechnology agents makes it possible for a subject to receive data directly from the system safely. Unfortunately, once the link is disturbed, dire consequences result for reasons that Dr. Leyans and his team did not yet understand.


    Convinced that the failure of the tests on the chimpanzee and gorilla subjects was related to the creatures¡¯ inability to cope with the stress of the procedure due to their limited mental capacity and their inability to comprehend what was happening to them, three volunteers from the Phoenix Projects took it upon themselves to perform unauthorized tests on humans. Without the knowledge or consent of Dr. Leyans, three volunteers agreed to simultaneously interface with the system. They knew they would only get one shot at it and, aware of the high risk to themselves but confident in the success they would achieve, they wanted to have multiple positive results to strengthen the argument for further human trials well aware that the covert agency providing the funding was growing increasingly impatient and demanded more positive results, threatening to cut funding if these were not forthcoming. Of the three test volunteers, two men died upon the severance of the symbiotic link between the subject and the system, and the third, a woman, suffered severe psychosis requiring her to be institutionalized; the well-meaning volunteers in a single act confirmed the failed results on the simian test subjects and simultaneously dealt a death blow to the project.


    Ken had been torn between the grief and guilt he felt for his colleagues and the frustration and anger at the untimely demise of the project so close to achieving complete success. The link?up had been successful in all three cases; he had the complete record of their brain responses to their trips back in time into their own past, and all seemed normal until the link was severed and the attempt was made to bring them out of their virtual reality. The new generation mainframes which he had developed contained voluminous amounts of data on each of the psychic ¡°voyages¡± undertaken by the project volunteers. While it would take years of close scrutiny to fully analyze such data and to yield conclusive results, there was little doubt from the preliminary findings that the experiments had been successful, other than for the recurring fatal flaw.


    Yet, despite these unquestionable triumphs, the Senate Oversight Committee had decided to scrap the project. The computer equipment would certainly be put to some use, and he was assured of getting credit for that part of the project; but the Phoenix Project was effectively dead. All research relating to it would be branded top secret and filed away beyond the reach of espionage or the Freedom of Information Act.


    But all was not lost. His father¡¯s warning had purchased him a grace period of perhaps a day, or at least the better part of it. No guards were likely to storm his lab at 2:00 A.M., at any rate. Ken smiled; there was something to be said for red tape, after all.


    There was nothing for him to do at the moment but wait. He¡¯d called his best friend over an hour ago, and knew that he would soon be arriving. He had not given him any specifics over the phone, but had told him that he needed to see him immediately on an urgent matter. He smiled again faintly, conjuring a vision of poor Dan rushing out of the house in his pajamas, making the four-hour trip down from Albany to the Suffolk County facilities in what he knew would be record time. He felt some guilt about putting his friend through that; but it was necessary, and he knew the other would understand.


    Ken sipped slowly from his large snifter--brandy, real Napoleon; he kept two bottles in the lab for important occasions, such as the celebration of new breakthroughs with his team (champagne, he felt, was better suited for World Series winners and New Year¡¯s Eve parties); he certainly was not in a celebratory mood, but what the hell, crossroads counted, too.


    * * *

 What Price to Live the Dream - Part II

    A loud buzzer erupted in the lab, destroying the hypnotic humming of the computers. He arose slowly, self-consciously attempting not to stagger perceptibly, and walked towards the intercom to be greeted by an emotionless voice.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to disturb you, Dr. Leyans, but there is a man here by the name of Daniel Lantz who claims you¡¯ve sent for him.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right, Sergeant, I have. Please escort him in.¡±


    ¡°Sir, he lacks appropriate clearance. I cannot allow him into the compound.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m clearing him now, Sergeant,¡± Ken retorted, not attempting to hide his annoyance. ¡°Let him in at once.¡±


    ¡°But sir,¡± the Sergeant began, ¡°I have strict orders that no one is to be admitted without proper clearance without the express authorization of General Worthing.¡± The man was insistent, but a tone of nervous annoyance was also detectable in his voice. Waking the general at 0215 hours was not something he cared to do; neither did he wish to incur the ire of the head of a project as important as this must be, judging by all the extensive security surrounding it--security and secrecy unlike anything he¡¯d seen in his twenty-five years of service.


    ¡°Sergeant,¡± Ken interrupted impatiently, ¡°I am the head of this project, not General Worthing. His sole responsibility is the same as yours, to ensure my safety and to secure my project. Mr. Lantz has information I need immediately that is crucial to that which is your duty to guard. If you delay me for one more minute, I promise you that both you and General Worthing can kiss your careers good-bye. Am I making myself perfectly clear?¡±


    ¡°Yes sir,¡± came the somewhat muffled response.


    ¡°Please escort Mr. Lantz to the lab immediately.¡± With that, Ken turned towards the locked vault-like steel doors and punched in the access code to open them. He felt a little ashamed of his heavy-handed treatment of Sergeant Ellis, a man he had grown to know and like; but he simply did not have time to be diplomatic or overly concerned over a man¡¯s hurt feelings, not when his life depended on what would transpire within the next few hours.


    A minute later, the heavy steel door slowly opened outwards. Two military men guarding the door snapped to attention on the outside as Dr. Leyans walked out to meet his friend. Shortly thereafter, he saw Dan being escorted by a somber Sergeant.


    ¡°Thank you, Sergeant,¡± Ken said with a thin smile, ¡°And don¡¯t worry, the surveillance tape of our conversation is on the record, and I take full responsibility for Mr. Lantz¡¯s presence here.¡±


    ¡°That you do, sir¡± the Sergeant retorted, stiffly doing an about-face, and heading away at a brisk pace.


    ¡°Thanks for coming, Dan,¡± Ken began, turning to his friend and giving him a quick embrace. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to put you through this; you¡¯ll get a full explanation in a minute.¡± With that, Ken signaled his friend to precede him inside. After both men had entered, Ken again punched in a code and the door slid shut, closing with a final clanging sound which sent a slight shiver down Dan¡¯s spine.


    ¡°What the hell is this all about?¡± Dan demanded no sooner than the door was sealed, nervous anticipation and concern clearly detectable in his tone.


    ¡°That is a long and complicated story. But I¡¯ll try to keep it brief. Please, come in and make yourself comfortable; this will take a while.¡± Both men moved towards a table in the corner of the expansive laboratory. As they walked, the immensity of the place with its myriad electronic equipment began to sink in for Dan. He let out an unconscious, low whistle. ¡°God, what is this place?¡± he asked with a tone that clearly evidenced a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and awe. He recognized some of the equipment immediately, namely mainframes and the ubiquitous video display terminals. Yet, most of the electronic paraphernalia was completely foreign to him. For the most part it consisted of monolithic metal structures with LED read?outs and flashing lights; the enormous lab was well lit, almost painfully so, with white halogen light bouncing off the myriad chrome counter tops and milk-white high gloss laminated cabinet surfaces. The facility was spotless, anesthetized to the point of completely eradicating all odors; only the faint scent of ozone could be sensed, barely perceptible. Even the sounds seemed clean--merely white noise, a  soothing hum at an almost subliminal level. The general effect, after the initial disorientation caused mostly by an almost oppressive sense of immenseness, made Dan uneasy in a way he could not have explained were he even fully aware of it.


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    ¡°This, dear friend, is the end result of my life¡¯s work. You know what I have been working on for the past 15 years, but only in a superficial way. Until a few hours ago, this place stood for hope, a self-made vehicle for redemption. Now ...¡± Ken¡¯s voice trailed off to a nearly inaudible whimper.¡± Now, it is a tomb.¡±


    ¡°What the blazes do you mean? What is this place, and what the bloody hell are you talking about?¡±


    Ken sighed, inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, mechanically reaching for another snifter for his friend and pouring out a generous serving of the precious brandy after first opening a second bottle, even though there was still brandy I n the bottle he had been pouring for himself, groping for words and a place to begin what he knew would be an explanation difficult to accept.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t told you exactly what it is that I have been working on because it is classified information, and because, even if it were not, it would be dangerous for you to know it.¡±


    ¡°I can see it¡¯s heavy-duty stuff. This damned place is a fortress.¡± I had no idea this lab was still operational.


    ¡°To put it simply, I am working on a project which has made it possible to relive one¡¯s past. I can synthesize memories from brain impulses, translate them into code which the computer can manipulate and inject it back into the brain so that the subject actually relives them.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s . . . fantastic,¡± Dan interrupted excitedly. ¡°Does it really work?¡±


    ¡°Yes and no. I have incontrovertible evidence that the process works, but the biochemical changes necessary to effectuate the process in conjunction with the physical symbiotic link?up to the computers is not reversible at this time.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by ¡®not reversible¡¯¡°?


    Ken shuddered almost imperceptibly and answered in a low tone: ¡°I mean you can¡¯t cut the link without some . . . unacceptable consequences.¡±


    ¡°You mean that anyone who gets hooked up to your machine can¡¯t come out of the . . . dream?¡±


    ¡°Basically, yes. Although your characterization of the experience as a dream is inaccurate. The programming is so complex that the person linked with the system literally relives past experiences, or whatever scenario, real or imagined, we inject. You can think of it as a dream, but a dream so very real that it is literally indistinguishable from reality. The effect is not some blurry, black and white fleeting representation, as with most dreams, but a true-life experience. Every nuance of taste, smell, touch, sound and sight are re-experienced; every feeling and thought relived without the awareness that it is other than reality.¡±


    ¡°God,¡± Dan interrupted. Can you imagine what people would pay to relive a particularly pleasant experience at will? To be with a loved one long dead? To recapture lost youth? This has to be among the greatest inventions of our time. Programmable dreams and truly attainable fantasies!¡±


    ¡°Yes, the potential uses of my invention are many, including the obvious commercial ones. But it¡¯s all a moot point now.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°My father has just informed me that funding for this program has been cut. I expect the prototype will be dismantled by tomorrow¡ªperhaps the whole lab.¡±


    ¡°But why?¡± Dan asked in disbelief. ¡°Just because you haven¡¯t perfected it yet? I know you said that once a person gets hooked up to the system he can¡¯t be disconnected, but that must be something you could eventually fix . . .¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not just that, Dan. I¡¯ve lost three colleagues who voluntarily underwent the link-up. The Senate simply felt it is too dangerous to be allowed to continue. Also, the climate has changed in Washington. Pricey research is out--especially when requested by an intelligence agency known to insiders for its black ops. The deaths of my staff members was simply the last straw that those opposed to the project needed to finally destroy it. I can¡¯t really fully blame them. In the wrong hands, the Phoenix Project could be potentially more dangerous than nuclear weapons.¡±


    ¡°You should never have gone to the government with this. You could have developed it in any major university, or even through private industry.¡±


    ¡°No, I needed my dad¡¯s clout to even get the government to listen to my crackpot notions. And no corporation on earth could have provided the enormous capital needed for the research and development with no guarantee it would work. At any rate, that¡¯s all immaterial now. The real reason I asked you to come is that I have made a decision that I need to speak with you about before I can carry it out.¡±


    ¡°I know you well enough to know that I¡¯m not going to like this,¡± Dan said, picking up his snifter, swirling the amber liquid slowly, absent?mindedly, and downing half of its content in a single gulp. It could have been brandy, vodka, or kerosene; Dan would not have noticed the difference. He was preparing himself for whatever it was that Ken had brought him here for. He cleared his mind of everything and concentrated on his friend, waiting to do whatever was asked of him. Ken refreshed their drinks saying ¡°This is your final one. I need you clear headed. Clarity for me is of secondary importance at this time.¡± He smiled at Ken, then sat back in his chair, warming his brandy in his hand, and exhaling a soft sigh as he resumed speaking.


    ¡°Let me tell you straight out why I asked you to come, and we¡¯ll take it from there. I must link up with the system tonight, while it is still possible, and I need you to assist me with the process.¡±

 What Price to Live the Dream? Part III

    ¡°Tell me what to do.¡± Dan said, after a long pause, his shoulders slumped and his face betraying his defeat. He would help to bring oblivion to a man whose life was more precious to him than his own, and in the process deprive the world of a brilliant scientific mind, all for a dream, all in the name of a friendship too strong for personal or legal ethics to resist or the voice of reason to deny.¡±


    Having played his trump card, Ken relaxed visibly, and his eyes brightened immediately. He had rigged the game and had won, as he knew he would. The heaviness which he¡¯d borne for so many years was lifted, replaced by a rising sense of hope which warmed him to his core.


    ¡°Thank you, my dear, dear friend. I know that what I ask is unfair. I wish there were another way. But my need is great, and you¡¯re the only person I trust implicitly to do what must be done.¡± As Ken spoke, tears began to well in Dan¡¯s eyes. He was about to lose the one person who had been his touching-stone for the better part of his life. ¡°Come,¡± he continued, rising from his chair, and downing the remnants of his last measured dose of brandy in a generous gulp. ¡°The procedure will be simple. Follow me to the input terminal; I¡¯ll need your assistance for the linkup. It will only take a few minutes. But first, I have a final request to make of Sergeant Ellis.¡± He stopped by an intercom and flicked on the switch.


    ¡°Yes, Dr. Leyans?¡± came the immediate reply.


    ¡°Sergeant, I am about to engage in an experiment which will render me incapacitated for some hours. I need you to follow the following instructions to the letter. Please write them down.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡± The man replied in a sharp tone. Ken smiled; the man¡¯s bruised ego was apparently slow to mend from their last encounter. He wished that too could have been avoided.


    ¡°In exactly twenty minutes, I¡¯ll need you to come into the lab with two of your men. Mr. Lantz is assisting me in the crucial experiment and will need to be escorted to an address he will provide immediately once the experiment begins. You may return to the base after Mr. Lantz is dropped off at his destination, but your men must stay with him for an indeterminate period of time. Mr. Lantz has information which is critical to this project and to national security; he is to be protected at all costs until such time as he informs you that his mission has successfully been completed. His instructions are to be followed directly and without question; He will be acting on my behalf until such time as I instruct you otherwise. Mr. Lantz will provide you with the requisite written authorization when you come to escort him to his destination. Are my instructions clear?¡±


    ¡°Chrystal, sir.¡± came the immediate curt response.


    ¡°And, Sergeant,¡± Ken began in a softer tone.


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    ¡°I want to thank you for your impeccably able assistance. I am entrusting you with my personal safety, that of Mr. Lantz, and of the project. I know that we could not be in better hands.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± The man¡¯s voice was somewhat gentler now. The compliment had been well received, and any remaining resentment expiated. ¡°We won¡¯t let you down, sir.¡±


    ¡°I know. Thank you, my friend. Sincerely.¡±


    Ken switched off the intercom and walked slowly towards the input station. It looked much like a dentist¡¯s chair, well padded, pale blue leather with wrist, leg and head restraints and a thick cable leading into a transparent helmet. Several thin plastic tubes emanated from each armrest next to the wrist restraints, with more ominous lines to be found at the foot of the chair.


    ¡°This is it, Dan.¡± Ken said, while stripping his clothing and preparing himself for the interface process. ¡°All you have to do is fasten the head harness to my forehead and place the helmet over my skull in a few minutes. Don¡¯t worry,¡± he quickly added, noting his friend¡¯s growing nervousness and look of revulsion. ¡°This is as easy as your iPhone to your MacBook. I will take care of the necessary chemical, nutrient, and waste lines myself while you go pour yourself a final drink. Relax, it¡¯s a piece of cake, and completely painless.¡±


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    For a moment, both men stood staring at the other, a lifetime of shared experiences flashing before them with a numbing effect, leaving behind a growing feeling of emptiness. They embraced tightly and held each other for a long moment. Presently, they separated, each shaking away their flood of emotions and wiping at their eyes with the backs of their hands.


    ¡°Here, Dan,¡± Ken began, resuming his matter-of-fact tone, handing Dan several envelopes from his lab coat¡¯s pocket. ¡°That¡¯s all you¡¯ll need. Each letter is clearly marked, including the one you must give Sergeant Ellis in ten minutes, when he comes to get you. The judge¡¯s address is on the second envelope; call him when you¡¯re under way then go there directly; his phone number is on the envelope under his name. We haven¡¯t much time. The others are self-explanatory. Now, let¡¯s go. Leave me for a few minutes while I undress and hook up the I.V. line and the catheter; I¡¯d rather do that without an audience, if you don¡¯t mind.¡± Ken said, flashing his friend a crooked smile. With that, as Dan turned away, reviewing the documents, Ken sat on the couch and began to stoically hook up the intravenous line that would provide essential nutrients and the catheter to collect his urine. He¡¯d wear an adult diaper to handle his solid wastes, just in case, until the medical staff could make more permanent arrangements in due course. The important thing now was to achieve the linkup before his time ran out. When he was done, he covered his body with a white sheet more to save his friend the pain of seeing his body in its present condition than to stave off the climate controlled 65-degree optimal temperature for the sensitive equipment.  Finally, he attached a Valium drip to ameliorate the discomfort of the various needles, hoses and sensors attached to his body, in particular the catheter he¡¯d had to insert into his own urethra. Smiling through the discomfort and feeling more alive than he had in two decades, he called to his friend once again. ¡°It¡¯s show time, Dan.¡±


    Dan immediately returned, putting down the papers he had known would be in perfect order, and placed the helmet on his friend¡¯s head, exactly as instructed, then secured the head to the chair through a Velcro restraint.  Dan tried not to concentrate on what he was doing, trying with much difficulty to ignore the body of his friend, lying on his side, with only his head emerging from beneath the white sheets, his dark brown skin glistening slightly with perspiration despite the chill (whether a result of the pain from the intrusive hoses or a reaction to the biochemical and nanotechnology agents coursing through his body, Dan could not tell).


    In less than five minutes, Ken was set. He looked like a vision from a 50¡¯s B movie thriller, but he was incongruously smiling.


    ¡°OK., Dan, now bind my hands with the restraints; they will keep me from removing the hoses should I involuntarily twitch, and they, along with the entire chair, have probes which will monitor my vital signs and compensate the chemical infusion accordingly.¡± Dan obeyed mechanically, then looked into his friend¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look so sad, damn it! Just shake my hand, wish me luck and press the oversized green button on the upper left hand corned of the console.¡± Dan took a step forward and held both of Ken¡¯s restrained hands in his. The latter smiled through tears and tightly grasped his hands. ¡°I can never thank you for this, or for what your life-long friendship has meant to me, especially for the last twenty years. But this isn¡¯t necessarily good?bye; with your help, the project will continue. But in any case, this is the greatest gift you could bestow on me, and no matter what the outcome, you will always have my gratitude, and friendship.¡± Ken smiled his usual disarming smile, the same Dan had seen at some of the happiest moments in his life, for there were few such moments when Ken was not present.


    ¡°Good bye, dearest friend,¡± Dan uttered in a trembling voice, taking the few steps towards the master console and looking back once more to Ken¡¯s smiling face, noting his eyes drooping slightly, the Valium drip clearly kicking in.¡±


    ¡°¡®It¡¯s a far, far better place I go to, Dan,¡± he said with a wink. ¡°Remember me.¡±


    Dan uttered a silent prayer and pushed the button. There was no immediate sound, but a barely perceptible humming could presently be heard, doubtless the gargantuan drives of the system accessing the needed files, and the tiny pumps slowly injecting the additional precisely measured chemicals into Ken¡¯s bloodstream. Ken lay completely still, a blank stare in his open eyes, and no expression on his usually quite expressive face. ¡°God forgive us both.¡± Dan muttered in a quivering voice, and thought ¡°May you find peace, Ken; with all my heart, I wish you peace.¡±

 What Price to Live the Dream - Part IV (Conclusion)

    Ken awoke, as from a vivid daydream which, no sooner done, was quickly fading. He shook his head, feeling somewhat displaced, and looked to his left. There was Linda, sweetest Linda, softly crying. He felt the urge to rise and leave; it was for the best. He wasn¡¯t ready for serious commitment, and he was sure neither was she. They had their careers to think about, their whole futures to plan. It was just the wrong time, simply the wrong time.


    As he struggled to rise, to run away from the woman he loved, whose quiet, soft sobbing tore at his heart with unstoppable waves of guilt and regret, he looked at her again, one last time, noting the gentle features of her face, half hidden by her hands, and the softness of her fresh, long hair tossed about her. He was frozen for an instant, unable to move, to decide what to do next, to follow his instinct and run away, or . . . . He reached out to her, gently pulling back her hair from her face, staring into her large, caramel-brown eyes, and gently pulling her towards him.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, love. I don¡¯t know what the hell is wrong with me. I¡¯m just so damned confused, so tired of waiting for things to fall into place. I love you so very much that it just scares the hell out of me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m scared too,¡± she said softly, tremulously through her tears. ¡°But please don¡¯t throw our love away out of fear. It is the only real thing we¡¯ll ever have.¡±


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    He held her close and felt his past resolve melting away. He smiled, then laughed, holding her closer, feeling more foolish than confused.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he whispered, kissing her lightly. Tomorrow would be another day. He didn¡¯t know what it might bring, but he knew she¡¯d be a part of it. How could he have ever thought otherwise?


    They held each other like two small children, huddled against the fear of a quickly passing storm, basking in the warmth of a deep, strong, young, growing love.


    *  *  *


    Dan heard the metallic sound of the door opening behind him opening and knew that his escort would soon arrive. He studied his friend¡¯s face intently, looking for some sign, some tangible evidence to lift his sagging heart. As he heard footsteps behind him, he found it. Dan smiled, at first merely a twitch, but then quite broadly, his mouth moving slowly but making no perceptible sound. He moved closer and put his ear next to his friend¡¯s mouth, straining to hear, hoping for further confirmation, praying for a sign.


    ¡°I Love you, Linda. I will always love you. Always,¡± came the nearly imperceptible whispered words of unmistakable import. He gently touched Dan¡¯s shoulders and held them for a moment, tears of joy and hope glistening in his eyes.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go, Sergeant,¡± he said, handing the man the envelope Dan had left for him. ¡°We have much work to do and very little time.¡±


    ¡°Yes Sir,¡± the man retorted, then, looking at Ken queried with concern: ¡°Is Dr. Leyans all right?¡±


    ¡°He will be, Sergeant. He will be, now.¡±

 Redemption: Part I

    Redemption: Part I


    ¡°Slow down, Howard. We¡¯re already late and it won¡¯t help if you get pulled over for speeding,¡± Chuck pleaded.


    ¡°What are you worried about? They¡¯re not going to ticket you,¡± Howard spat back, annoyed at being told what to do. ¡°Plus, they have speed cameras now¡ªso I¡¯ll get a ticket and a $75 fine. Big deal. I pay more to detail the car every week.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to get us killed, man.¡±


    ¡°When did you turn into such a whiney little girl? You want me to drop you at the next corner and call you an Uber--or your mommy? I¡¯m sure they both obey the speed limit,¡± Howard chuckled.


    ¡°Look out!¡± Chuck yelled as Howard stomped on the brakes just shy of rear-ending a Lincoln Town Car that stopped short at a yellow light.


    ¡°Goddamned idiot!¡± Howard yelled. ¡°Who the hell stops at yellow lights? Now we¡¯re stuck here!¡±


    As he said that, a man emerged from the grass divider that formed the median between the North- and South-bound Park Avenue lanes and began wiping at the spotless windshield with a filthy rag. Enraged, Howard opened his window and yelled obscenities at the man, telling him to get the hell away from his car. The man continued wiping the spotless windshield, smearing it with oily residue from the filthy, once-white cloth after looking at Howard in seeming incomprehension. Howard then reached into his pocket and pulled out some loose change and bills he had received for a liquor purchase earlier and threw it at the man, hitting him on the chest with coins and folded bills.  The latter stopped his  attempts at wiping the windshield and staggered, barely able to keep his balance while bending down to pick up his wages for the cleaning service. Chuck noticed that the man was not wearing any shoes or a winter coat despite the 20-degree temperature. He hoped the man would find shelter for the night or he might well freeze to death. But he said nothing to his friend, knowing the response he was likely to receive if he did.


    ¡°Filthy bastard,¡± Howard fumed as the light finally changed and he peeled out, burning rubber for at least fifty yards while passing the slow-moving Town Car and giving its driver the finger. ¡°You can¡¯t drive or walk even in Midtown anymore without tripping over the lower end of the gene pool these days.¡±


    ¡°The guy¡¯s just trying to get by. You didn¡¯t have to throw the money at him.¡±


    ¡°Like I was going to let him touch me!¡± Howard scoffed. The city¡¯s lousy with these parasites. You can¡¯t walk on the sidewalk without being harassed by aggressive panhandlers. And a car like mine is a magnet for the bastards.¡±


    ¡°Why do you even own a car living in Manhattan? You must pay more for garage space than I do for my apartment in Astoria.¡± Chuck said.


    ¡°I paid more for my outfit than you pay for your apartment in Astoria for the year. Buying my garage spaces by work and by my condo cost me more than you¡¯ll pay in rent in the next five years. You can¡¯t leave a Ferrari on the streets, even if there were any place to park it!¡±


    ¡°But why do you even own any car? Don¡¯t you have a driver assigned to you?¡±


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°Yeah, work provides me with a driver on call. That¡¯s fine for transportation to and from the office and routine trips around town, but this is a status symbol to impress clients, just like the TOPDOG vanity plates. This Ferrari 812 set me back more than $370,000. And it¡¯s worth every penny to see my competitors turn green, to say nothing of its effect on women,¡± Howard said looking at Chuck with a lecherous grin.


    Chuck said nothing, just shook his head, wondering what had happened to his old college roommate in the several years since he had last seen him. Had he known about his transformation, he would gladly have taken a cab or the subway to their friend¡¯s party.


    ¡°Well, we¡¯re almost there. I¡¯ll park in the garage in the middle of the block and you can help me carry the liquor in¡ªit¡¯s a short walk to her building.


    Howard parked, took his ticket from the attendant, and winced as he heard his car screeching on its way to a spot in the nether regions of the garage. ¡°I hate having to let these idiots touch my car, but what can you do?¡± He said, frowning, then gave Chuck a plastic bag with three bottles of Dom Perignon P2 and took a second identical bag himself which he had pulled from the car¡¯s diminutive trunk.


    ¡°What did these set you back?¡± Chuck asked, curious.


    ¡°$370 each,¡± Howard responded, grinning.


    Chuck whistled.


    ¡°I¡¯m fortunate to be able to buy what I like, and I like my Dom.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re only going to be maybe twenty people celebrating her birthday. Did you really need to buy a half case?¡±


    ¡°You can never have too much bubbly. Plus, I like Monica. She¡¯s a good kid and I have not seen her for years. I was surprised when she sent the invitation to her party. She, you, and I  used to be close in college but then grew apart, which is why I called you up, hoping she had also invited you. She brought back some pleasant memories,¡± Howard said. Then, turning to Chuck as they walked side by side towards Monica¡¯s building, he added. ¡°Look, I know I can be a bit of a dick. I don¡¯t mean anything by it. I¡¯m in a highly competitive business surrounded by pretentious idiots and I guess it rubs off. I catch myself sometimes, like just now. I¡¯m sorry. I really don¡¯t mean anything by it, and I¡¯m not as big an ass as I must seem to you right now. Please don¡¯t mention anything about my stupid car or the cost of this ridiculously over-priced champagne. She won¡¯t notice or care. I bought it precisely for that reason as I know she¡¯d refuse to accept an expensive birthday gift, but she won¡¯t have a clue as to what the champagne cost so I can do something nice for her and just give her what she will think is a simple silk scarf as her gift. Despite all appearances to the contrary, I am really not trying to impress her or you and know that even if I were you¡¯d just see me for the ass I¡¯ve made of myself.¡±


    Chuck was taken aback by this and said nothing, but he smiled. Perhaps there was hope for his friend yet, he thought.


    They soon arrived at Monica¡¯s address. It was a modest-looking four-story brownstone building, albeit in a pricey neighborhood. A row of doorbells in a polished brass plate in which the names of tenants were engraved showed Monica¡¯s apartment was on the fourth floor. They pressed the doorbell button and a woman¡¯s voice came over the intercom.


    ¡°Who is it?¡± She asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s Chuck and Howard,¡± Howard answered.


    ¡°Come un up guys!¡± came the cheerful reply accompanied by a buzzing sound inviting them to enter.


    There was no elevator. They walked up the four flights of stairs and found their friend waiting for them on the top landing. ¡°By golly, you¡¯re both still alive,¡± she quipped. ¡°Never would have known it from the complete lack of communication!¡± She then hugged them in turn.


    ¡°We know, we know,¡± Chuck and Howard both answered at the same time, sheepishly. ¡°But look, we come bearing olive branches in the form of libations. These are from both of us, and we had to carry them for miles through the bitter cold fending off other winos just for you.¡± Howard said, extending his bag of champagne bottles to her, as Chuck did the same, then squeezed Chuck¡¯s arm hard as the latter opened his mouth to object that he had nothing to do with the gift.


    ¡°It is good to see you both,¡± she said smiling, hugging, and kissing each man again. ¡°Your being here is the best present you could have given me today.¡± She then waved both men into her apartment where more than a dozen guests were already gathered, some of whom were known to both men, and others they met for the first time.


    *.    *.    *

 Redemption: Part II (Conclusion)

    A short time later, while mingling and chatting with the gathered guests, Howard noticed a woman sitting off in a corner of the large living room watching him intently with a half-smile. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, dressed in a simple black dress and black shawl, her long, lustrous vantablack hair flowing in generous undulating curls all about her. He gravitated towards her and asked her ¡°Can I get you a drink?¡± taking a sip from his champagne flute.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, thanks,¡± she responded with a smile.


    ¡°Do I know you,¡± he asked, genuinely curious.


    ¡°No, but I know you,¡± she replied, in a vaguely feral voice dipped in honey, her large, black eyes looking at him intently, reading him.


    ¡°Don¡¯t believe everything you hear,¡± he chuckled, taking a seat beside her.


    ¡°I only believe what I see, and read,¡± she responded, her voice wrapping itself around him, drawing him to her like a moth to a flame.


    ¡°So, you¡¯ve read about me, have you? The Time Magazine piece? Forbes?¡±


    She laughed, in response, a slightly disquieting sound, like pan pipes blown off-key. ¡°Not that kind of reading,¡± she said, crossing her legs and broadening her smile.


    ¡°What other kind is there?¡± He asked, puzzled.


    ¡°Oh, lots of other kinds,¡± she sighed in response.¡± Auras. Eyes. Body language. Souls.¡±


    ¡°So, you read souls, do you?¡± He said, amused.


    ¡°I read a great many things, souls among them, yes.¡±


    ¡°So, oh most alluringly mysterious one, what do you read in mine?¡±


    ¡°Darkness. Light. Ambivalence. Complexity. You are an enigma.¡±


    ¡°Well thank you. I do try,¡± he said grinning. He had no idea what game she was playing but was enthralled by her approach and drawn to her for reasons he would not have been able to articulate. She was lovely, true, but not as lovely as some of the other women he had been speaking to when he noticed her. There was just something about her. Maybe Chuck would need to take an Uber home after all if this played out right.


    ¡°So, am I an enigma you would care to further explore?¡±


    She laughed, her smile widening. ¡°Perhaps, but not in a way you¡¯d like¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m nothing if not open to new experiences,¡± he said, a thin smile on his lips as his eyes slowly roamed over her body.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± she asked coyly.


    ¡°Absolutely!¡±


    Wordlessly, she reached out her right hand slowly, as though to caress his cheek, and placed her palm on his forehead. His world went black. He floated as though in an isolation tank devoid of sound, sight, and any other sensory input. It might have been minutes, hours, or days¡ªhe could not tell before he began to discern a glimmer of light at the edge of perception, growing steadily stronger, larger, closer like a silent approaching freight train in a dark tunnel. Then it struck him like lightning hitting roiling waters in an ocean storm. Images burned into his retinas in a glorious blaze¡ªhis life flashed before him much too fast to follow, yet vivid, real, intelligible like a strobe light illuminating snapshots of his life¡ªall of it, all at once. The images overwhelmed him yet left behind a clear record of the debits and credits he carried in his soul. Every kind act and deed done. Every instance of selfishness, hubris, and betrayal. His egotism and narcissism left exposed, wrapped around the core of his better nature like the thick insulation on a high-tension power line extending before him growing ever thicker in time from the cradle towards the grave. Then, just as suddenly, he awoke to see Monica, Chuck and about a dozen other people hovering over him.


    ¡°Someone call 911¡± he heard Chuck say.


    ¡°No,¡± he replied. I¡¯m all right. I must have just fallen asleep.


    ¡°You were thrashing about and screaming,¡± Monica said. You gave us a hell of a scare, and we could not wake you. Are you sure you¡¯re alright?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m fine now. Your friend must have hypnotized me.¡±


    ¡°What friend?¡± Monica asked.


    ¡°The raven-haired beauty that touched me on the forehead and made my lights go out.¡±


    ¡°Man, how much champagne have you had?¡± Chuck chuckled. ¡°You walked away in the middle of a conversation, sat down on that loveseat not more than ten minutes ago by yourself and zoned out. We laughed and wondered if it was something we¡¯d said.¡±


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°I was talking with a beautiful woman dressed all in black on that loveseat for at least fifteen minutes. Then she touched me on the forehead and the world went black. After that my life flashed before my eyes.¡±


    Monica said nothing, but her expression changed, and she stared at him open mouthed. Eventually she asked, ¡°What did this woman look like?¡±


    ¡°She was beautiful, maybe in her late twenties, no make-up and none needed. She wore a simple black dress and had huge black eyes and the blackest, most lustrous wavy hair I¡¯ve ever seen. Although she was sitting down, I could tell it would have hung below her shapely ass had she been standing. Come on folks, she was right there,¡± Howard said, emphatically pointing at the empty seat next to him on the couch.


    ¡°I told you, ¡°Chimed Monica¡¯s roommate, a freckled redhead with a look of concern on her face. ¡°I saw her the night they delivered the couch, and twice after, just sitting there, exactly as Howard described her. You would not believe me. We should never have bought the damned thing.¡±


    ¡°Stop it, Cindy,¡± Monica snapped.  ¡°That¡¯s just the power of suggestion. No sooner did the antique dealer mention that the couch was from pre-colonial Salem, Massachusetts you got it in your head that it belonged to a witch. No witches were killed in Salem¡ªjust innocent women. And I doubt any of them could have afforded a piece like this.


    ¡°I know what I saw. And now it¡¯s not just me,¡± Cindy insisted.


    ¡°Yeah, champagne and the power of suggestion¡ªperfect together,¡± Monica scoffed.


    ¡°Hey, nobody told me this chair was an antique. I came to it because of the beautiful woman sitting on it by herself despite the lively conversation to offer her a drink she declined.¡±


    ¡°All I know,¡± Cindy said, ¡°Is you¡¯d better get rid of the damned thing or find yourself another roommate.¡± With that, she walked off.


    Walking back to their car later that evening, Chuck questioned Howard again about his experience. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re alright? I¡¯m not a doctor, but maybe you should see one tomorrow, Howard. That kind of a vivid experience and our not being able to wake you through what seemed to be a nightmare is not normal. You may have suffered from some type of seizure.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in perfect health. No doctor can help me with what I saw. I know the experience was real. Witch. Angel. Figment of a guilty conscience, it makes no difference. I don¡¯t need to go into therapy to deal with this, whether it¡¯s the universe sending me a message or my subconscious mind. I¡¯ll deal with it in my way and in my own time.¡±


    They reached the parking garage, and, after paying the obscenely large fee for three hours of parking, were once again on their way back, driving South on Park Avenue. As Howard approached 61<sup>st</sup>. Street, where he had previously been accosted by the homeless man, he slowed down, pulled over to the right lane, and parked by a hydrant telling Chuck he would just be a moment. He got out of the car and crossed over to the neatly trimmed grass divider where the homeless man lay shivering on a plastic sheet covered by cardboard. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Howard asked the man, squatting next to him.


    ¡°S-Steve¡± the man answered with a shiver-induced stutter.


    ¡°How did you end up on the streets, Steve?¡±


    ¡°My wife left, took my two kids when I got fired for the last time for drinking on the job.¡±


    ¡°Would you like a second chance, Steve?¡±


    The man just looked up at him, sitting up with some difficulty to look Howard, squatting beside him, in the eye. ¡°I¡¯d do anything for a chance to get them back.¡±


    ¡°If you mean that, I will help you.¡± He took off his new tan cashmere coat, bought at Sachs Fifth Avenue the week before at an absurd price, and fished in his pocket for his wallet. From it, he removed all the cash, about $1,200, and a business card, putting both in the coat¡¯s right pocket. ¡°Stand up,¡± he told Steve. When he shakily did so, Howard helped him to put on his coat, then took off his shoes¡ªthe man seemed to also be a size 12, or close enough that it would make little difference--and asked the man to put them on. He then took out his cell phone and called his driver, telling him to come to Park Avenue at 61<sup>St</sup>. Street and pick up a man called Steve and take him to the nearest hotel to Howard¡¯s Wall Street office and help him to check in, charging the room to Howard¡¯s account. Then, turning back to Steve, he told him ¡°I¡¯m going to give you a second chance. On your right pocket, you¡¯ll find my business card and enough money to go on a bender for the rest of the month. Or you can wait here for about twenty minutes and a man will come to pick you up and take you to a hotel near where I work. Tomorrow I will meet you there by 9:00 a.m. Get cleaned up and get a good night¡¯s sleep. If you are there and sober tomorrow morning, I will take you to buy some clothes and check you into rehab myself. If you can stay clean, I will then offer you a job at my company¡ªnothing fancy, probably the mailroom or maintenance, but honest work that will pay you a living wage and get you on the road to maybe getting your family back. The rest is up to you. Will I see you tomorrow, or will you just keep walking your current path?¡±


    The man began to weep openly, ¡°I¡¯ll be there. I swear I will.¡±


    Howard patted him on the shoulder, saying ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow, then.¡± He then walked back to his car, his toes already aching from the cold in his silk socks.


    ¡°What was that about?¡± Chuck asked, adding, ¡°Do you think giving that man your expensive coat and some money will change anything?¡±


    ¡°I guess that¡¯s up to him,¡± Howard answered, carefully pulling out of his spot, the gas and clutch pedals feeling awkward and strange under his shoeless feet. ¡°All I can do is try to return a kindness.¡±


    ¡°What kindness?¡± Chuck asked.


    ¡°The one done me tonight by a beautiful woman I fear long dead. A simple chance to turn my life around by showing me what hangs in the balance. A reminder that, there but for the grace . . .¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re looking for a simple way to buy redemption, Howard. It doesn¡¯t work that way.¡±


    ¡°Maybe not. And maybe it¡¯s too late for me for redemption ion any case. All I know is I mean to try, not just by giving Steve a second chance, but in what I do from this point on. I may fail¡ªjust as Steve may fail. But I will at least try to recalibrate the balance for the next time my life flashes before my eyes. I did not much like the movie. I intend to change its ending, at least, since I can¡¯t do much about the first and second acts that are already in the can.¡±


    Chuck had no response to make as Howard drove his blazingly fast red Ferrari at the speed limit on a road no longer for him paved with gold or cluttered with the detritus of humanity¡ªjust a simple road, little different from that traveled by all others, looking forward to the ride and no longer afraid of its final destination.

 Modern Art and the Critics (a link to my podcast reading of this story is also included at the end)

    A half dozen art critics stood around a naked white canvas perched at an angle below the empty wall space where one would have expected it to hang. They closely examined the piece, some squatting and some taking a knee to get a closer look. It was the opening day of a hot new artist¡¯s exhibit featuring a variety of works in multiple mediums from oil paintings, to papier mach¨¦ sculptures, to collages rendered from a multitude of objects and some smaller pieces that appeared to have been made by particularly sadistic children dipping salamanders, frogs and worms in paint until nearly drowned and then setting them loose on a blank canvas to regale the world with the colorful renderings of their final death throes. This particular painting, however, had attracted the crowd of experts not only for its starkness, but also by its placement, as they hotly debated its meaning.


    ¡°It is obviously social commentary on the desperate isolation each human being faces in life,¡± claimed critic number one in a voice dripping with self-assured gravity intermixed with an obviously fake English accent.


    ¡°Yes,¡± said the second critic. ¡°But it is much more than just that. Take a close look at the placement of the paint¡ªoff center, near the lower-right corner or the canvas, a single irregular dot .And take a closer look at it under even the low magnification of my loupe. It is not a dot of black paint. Despite its diminutive size, the artist has managed to imbue it with at least four different colors that I can detect¡ªa remarkable achievement in itself. Can¡¯t you feel the metaphorical oppressive weight of the cosmos on that dot representing our collective humanity? The skewed display of the canvas at an angle, weighing down on the subject makes that patently clear.¡± This voice from a woman in an incredibly tight red dress that seemed painted on her, spoken through blood-red lips enhanced via collagen injections to a perpetual pout.


    ¡°No, no, NO. You are missing the point. Look carefully at the subject¡ªthe irregular dot in its asymmetric, three-dimensional rendering is nothing but a cancer cell. This is not a comment on isolation or oppression, but rather a statement about humanity¡¯s cancerous existence on the face of the earth. Notice how the canvas rests unhung from its prepared place of honor on the wall¡ªit represents the decline and inevitable fall of our world because of humanity¡¯s destructive impact¡ªclimate change, over-population, strip mining, deforestation of our rain forests, unchallenged industrialization, automobiles, all contributing to the ultimate destruction of our world. Can¡¯t you all see that? It is as plain as can be,¡± opined critic number three, a diminutive man dressed in a manner reminiscent of Woodstock with long, greasy, uncombed hair and the smell of too-long unwashed jeans emanating from his squatting form in a voice like nails on a chalkboard rising to a nearly inaudible crescendo in keeping with his righteous agitation.


    ¡°Oh, for the sake of unholy Beelzebub,¡± cut in the fourth critic in a booming voice. ¡°It is none of those things. You¡¯re all completely missing the point. The painting represents nothing more than the creative process at work. The canvas has not yet been placed on an easel, let alone on the gallery wall. The dot simply represents the inspiration of the artist before she even begins to touch brush or pallet to canvas. It is merely the germinating seed of creativity, the pregnant kernel of truth that will give birth to an as yet unrealized masterpiece. It is the idea of the painting, the very metaphorical soul and quintessence of the creative process,¡± opined critic number four.


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    ¡°I think you¡¯re all over-thinking it, though some of you are not far from the mark. It is just a metaphor for existentialist despair. There is no meaning beyond the irregular dot that is our existence in an endless universe that could not give a fig about us. Yes, there is isolation, and the oppressive weight of our short, painful and utterly pointless existence in a blank, sterile, uncaring corner of the multiverse,¡± said critic number five, a beautiful woman in a husky voice and body that could convince a rock it had wings and was born to fly as she took another sip of the cheap champagne from her plastic fluted glass.


    ¡°We could stand here and argue about this all night,¡± chimed in the last of the six critics, a portly man in a rumpled shirt and faded jeans wearing a corduroy jacket with leather patches on each elbow that screamed college professor. ¡°The important thing is not the message itself, elusive though it may be. It is the power of true art to move us and to motivate us to draw our own conclusions, equivocal though they may be. The message is whatever we decide it is; It is we who imbue the work with meaning, expand its horizons, and enrich it beyond the artist¡¯s own vision, making it metaphorically fill the blank canvas with the power of our own imaginations. Such is the unrivaled power of true art¡ªthat it sparks the creative spirit in each of us, inflaming our imagination and filling our otherwise empty existence with meaning.¡± Having added what he thought to be the conclusive and only rational analysis of the piece in his expert opinion, he drained his own bubbly and left the group to marvel at his own unique critical mind and unassailable analysis as he went to fetch a refill, wondering if anyone had any decent pot.


    Each critic having shared her/his opinion on this rather enticing work of art, they moved on, mentally replaying their analysis so that they may share it through the pages of their respective magazines, newspapers and art appreciation classes the next day. As a group, they followed their noses until they stood at a unique sculpture in a corner of the room some 50 feet away. It was made from a collection of 12 human tongues pilfered from medical schools in four states and stitched together around a diminutive stainless steel ladder with the label atop simply reading ¡°Babel.¡±


    As soon as the critics moved on, two maintenance workers ambled towards the non-painting that had engendered such passionate discussion and analysis, with one reluctantly handing over a $50 bill to the other.


    ¡°I thought they¡¯d never stop yammering,¡± said the man retrieving his winning bet. ¡°I knew they¡¯d buy it, but never expected the endless stream of horseshit they spouted.¡± He said laughing. ¡°I never thought a spec of fly shit would cause such a stir.¡±


    ¡°So, what was actually hanging on the now missing place on the wall before you put that there?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. The artist was supposed to deliver a dozen new pieces of art but apparently could not crank the last one out in time. So I was told to hang a blank canvas to represent the artist¡¯s creative process at work.¡±


    ¡°How did the fly get in here? Don¡¯t we have some protection against that kind of stuff in the gallery?¡±


    ¡°Oh sure, sure. But it was attracted by the rotting tongues on the sculpture the critical geniuses are now examining and took a dump on the blank canvas. I took it down to replace it with a clean, blank canvas when I thought, why not screw around with their minds a little. And the rest is history. The fly eventually bought it in one of the hidden bug zappers, but not before giving birth to my own creative idea. Maybe the last blowhard was right after all.¡± He said, chuckling softly as his friend, now $50 poorer, glared at him, unamused.

 Earth Mother - Part I

    She awoke in the throes of a mind numbing panic.  Her eardrums sympathetically vibrated with the subliminal hum of an unseen, unheard yet very palpable force just below the threshold of audible frequencies.  Her heartbeat sloshed in her ears as though she were under water, desperately trying to escape a powerful predator.


    The adrenaline in her veins and the irrational fear that paralyzed her made every joint in her body ache and yielded spasmodic pains as though her muscles were tightly coiling around themselves. Her mouth dry and vocal cords frozen from fear, Lisa lacked the power to give voice to a scream that was born, grew and died in her throat without expression.  Unable to move and still unaware of the cause of her discomfort, Lisa could detect a barely perceptible blue-green aura through the partially closed Venetian blinds and drawn drapes in her bedroom.  The air was charged;  she could sense it though the prickly itch of her hair standing on end. It smelled like a summer thunderstorm had just passed though, despite a cloudless sky.


    After long, silent moments of languishing transfixed in irrational terror, satin sheets clinging coldly to her naked body as she lay in a  perspiration-soaked bed, a painful flash of white light inundated her bedroom, leaving Lisa temporarily blind, with multiple circular black afterimages receding slowly through her repetitive blinking, eventually fading to gray and melding into a humanoid form standing some six feet from the foot of her bed. The form, a hairless, androgynous ashen skinned humanoid with large, seal-like, black almond-shaped eyes, button nose, with thin, small lips,  approximately five feet tall and weighing perhaps ninety-five pounds, finally spoke to her.  More accurately, it transmitted words and fragmentary, vivid images into her mind accompanied by a soft, musical sound that might be speech and was as beautiful as it was unintelligible.


    ¡°Please, please don¡¯t hurt me,¡± she thought, still unable to utter a sound.


    ¡°No need to fear; we will do you no harm. Be calm,¡± the creature replied in visual words and images that were fragmented but quite clear.


    ¡°Please go away.  Oh. God, help me, please.¡±  Lisa mentally pleaded. She would have cried and screamed and run had she the power to do any of those things.  Since she did not, she lay still, mentally pleading with the seemingly innocuous creature whose presence, despite its attempts at reassurance, had done little to ameliorate her dread.


    ¡°Do not fear.  We bring you a gift with which to bargain for your help.¡±  The creature¡¯s facial expression and body language did not change, but the visual messages it transmitted clearly tried to show its good will. Warmth, happiness, contentment emanated from the being as does the sweet scent of a blooming rose carried by a slight summer¡¯s breeze.


    ¡°You won¡¯t hurt me?¡± Lisa half asked, half pleaded, somewhat reassured by the creature¡¯s communication, yet certainly not yet disposed to accept its alleged good will at face value.


    ¡°We come to offer a gift, in exchange for your assistance.¡±


    ¡°What kind of gift?  And what type of help do you want?¡± Lisa¡¯s fear seemed to dissolve rather quickly with each reference by the creature to a gift.


    ¡°We offer a great gift, the ability to communicate without words as we now do, in exchange for your service¡± The creature retorted, seemingly encouraged into more negotiation by Lisa¡¯s growing receptiveness.


    ¡°Are you offering me the gift of telepathy?¡±  Lisa¡¯s heart, no longer beating fast in response to fear, was beginning to speed up in response to a new growing emotion.¡±


    ¡°You may call it that, yes.¡±


    ¡°What do you want in exchange?¡± Lisa asked, furrowing her brow slightly, and beginning to ask herself what in her power she would not be willing to do for that ability.


    ¡°You must incubate one of us and nurture it until it is strong enough to part from you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand. Do you want me to care for you or one of your kind? To be a baby sitter?¡±


    ¡°More,¡± the creature replied, sending Lisa a clear image of a human body, her body, in the last stages of pregnancy.


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    ¡°No!¡± replied Lisa, as she tried instinctively to close her legs and gather her sheets about her, aware for the first time with revulsion of her nakedness and vulnerable position under the thin sheets. She also remembered the unpleasant reports of alien encounters with horrific medical exams and intrusive probes wielded by intergalactic perverts apparently intent on molesting humans for their own gratification. But her body would not obey her commands; whether she was paralyzed by some sort of stasis field of by the creature¡¯s mental powers, she did not know.


    ¡°It is not copulation we seek,¡± the creature immediately offered, seemingly amused and sending a clear visual image of its honorable intentions.  ¡°Our anatomy is unlike yours and would not permit it, but your womb is compatible for our purposes.  We would plant an embryo in your uterus that would grow, protected and nourished through your normal biological means¡± With this, the creature sent an image of a sesame seed-sized embryo being implanted into a human host, and later emerging in the usual means less than a fifth the size of a human baby.


    ¡°No pain?¡± Lisa asked, relived but cautious.


    ¡°Both the implantation and the subsequent birth are completely free of discomfort.¡±


    ¡°How long for the procedure and how long is the period of gestation?¡±


    ¡°Two of your minutes for the implantation and six of your weeks for the gestation to be completed.¡±


    ¡°A two minute implant and painless delivery six weeks later buys me the gift of telepathy, huh.  Is that your deal?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Wait a minute.  My mother raised no fools.  How long does my telepathy last?¡±


    ¡°Throughout the entire period of your life.¡±


    ¡°Not bad.  A lifetime of telepathy for six weeks of work.¡± Lisa replied, more to herself than to the creature, who perhaps sensing that fact made no reply.


    Then, her brow furrowing again, she continued, ¡°If this is such an easy deal, why do you need me?  Why can¡¯t your own kind do it themselves?¡±


    ¡°All of those capable of breeding on our world are dead.¡± The creature¡¯s thoughts and mental images conveyed great sadness. ¡°We will cease to exist as a species unless we have outworlders such as yourself to help us.¡±


    ¡°Sorry to hear that.¡± She thought back at the creature, which again made no reply.  ¡°Is there any risk to me from the pregnancy or birth? Will you return for the birth?  And how long do I need to care for the thing afterwards?¡±


    ¡°There is no risk to you during gestation.  We will give you medication to strengthen your immune system and eradicate any illness you may currently have. The medication will also prevent your antibodies from attacking the embryo.  We can guarantee your health and vitality for as long as you live as a byproduct of the procedure.  As to our return, it is unnecessary.  Our infants are self-sufficient and require only the most basic type of sustenance for a period that never exceeds two of your weeks after their birth. The infant would then move on without need of any additional assistance from you.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a deal to me.  The little bugger will pop out like a slice of toast when its time comes, care for itself immediately, leaving me with telepathy and good health for the rest of my life, and I don¡¯t even have to undergo morning sickness or stretch marks.  What more could a girl want?¡± She smiled, thinking about the possibilities that telepathy would provide for her.  To know what others thought, and to be able to plant messages in their minds.  The possibilities were intoxicatingly endless.


    ¡°Can I still work until it is time to give birth?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What do I feed the baby when it is born?¡±


    ¡°Your body will provide all the nourishment it needs¡±


    ¡°You mean it will breast-feed?¡±


    ¡°Just as you say, at least for a while.¡± The alien answered without expression or accompanying images.


    ¡°What if I refuse your offer?¡±


    ¡°Then I would leave and not trouble you again.¡±


    ¡°What If I want to think about it? Would you return tomorrow for an answer?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. Unless another host is found before then.¡±


    ¡°It all sounds good. I¡¯ll do it¡± She concluded thoughtfully.  ¡°Now, will you release me from this paralysis so that I can get out of this clammy bed and get ready for the procedure?¡± She added with a measure of annoyance that she hoped the creature would be able to perceive.


    ¡°I am very happy at your choice.  But I am afraid I cannot comply with your request; a suspended state is a natural part of contact with us. Our method of communication engenders it.  But we will be finished soon, and there is no need for you to go elsewhere.¡±


    ¡°Strange,¡± Lisa retorted, only half paying attention to the creature¡¯s response, still swimming in the haze of the power that her new ability would bring her.  The presidency of her company would be an easy first step.  Then would come, who knows what, perhaps the presidency of the United States.  Lord knows, others had achieved that office with skills and abilities that were far beneath her own. She then continued her communication with the creature, a new thought having entered her mind.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you just do the procedure without asking me, then if it¡¯s so quick and simple.  After all, I am in no position to resist you.¡±


    ¡°Our law prevents our using other sentient beings as surrogates without their full consent.  It is our highest crime.  A record is being made of our mental discourse and will be kept as proof that your services were procured freely, should you consent to our terms, and that all of your questions and concerns were appropriately addressed prior to obtaining your consent.¡±


    Satisfied with the creature¡¯s answer, and heartened by the creature¡¯s apparent ethical centeredness, she immediately reaffirmed her consented to the procedure.


    *.    *.    *

 Earth Mother – Part II (Conclusion)

    ¡°Is there anything else you would like to know? I will answer any question you have with absolute truth. It is my duty.¡± The creature said.


    ¡°No questions. Let¡¯s get this show on the road.¡± No sooner had her consent been given, the procedure was begun.  The creature approached her slowly, sending out a calming message.  It then pulled the sheets off her, gently spread her legs further apart and carefully inserted a thin, long pen-like probe into her vagina.  The procedure took no more time and provided no greater discomfort than the insertion of a tampon, or of spermicidal cream prior to intercourse.  Then the creature vanished, and the paralysis was lifted; the subliminal humming and eerie light were gone, though the faint smell of ozone still lingered in the room as a last tangible reminder of her ordeal.


    The first thought that occurred to Lisa was, ¡°What a vivid dream.¡±  But she could not so easily dismiss the experience, first because it had been too real, and second, because she could still feel the recent intrusion into her cervix, however gently accomplished.


    She rose from her soaked bed, feeling a numbing chill in a body that still ached from atrophied, tight muscles only now beginning to slowly release. Her heart still beating loudly in her ears, she moved as swiftly as the prickly feeling in her unsure extremities would allow, feeling as though tiny needles coursed through her veins as the circulation was restored to her numbed extremities.  Reaching the bathroom, she turned on the water in her shower and let it run hot until it steamed the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door, the reflection of her trim, perfect body slowly fading into the mist, though not before eliciting an appreciative smile from Lisa.


    As she turned to get into the shower, she heard what appeared to be conversation from the apartment next door.  To be more accurate, she sensed the conversation, or rather the disjointed monologue, inside her head.  Words and images about work, power, fear, and a breakfast cereal incongruously raced through her mind like some deranged medley of a half dozen Fellini movie trailers streaming simultaneously on fast-forward. Then the mental cacophony began to clear she recognized Harry, her next-door neighbor, his lathered face reflecting off an unfamiliar medicine cabinet mirror, startling her in its unexpected clarity.  ¡°He must be shaving,¡± she thought with an exhilarating smile parting her lips. ¡°Must have been thinking of the new advertising campaign he¡¯s pitching this week.  It really works;  I¡¯ve got to learn to use it, but it definitely works,¡± she added.  She then quickly showered and got out of the shower stall radiating confidence, aching to take her new powers out for a spin.


    As she toweled herself dry in front of the full-length mirror,  she smiled again appreciatively at the lithe, firm body reflected there.  She was thirty-five years old, just past the peak of what she knew had been unusual beauty.  Her shoulder length auburn hair would have shown a few streaks of gray, had she not meticulously hidden these for the past few years.  A firm tummy and buttocks reflected back at her, as she assayed her body in the mirror, not a hint of cellulite visible on her dancer¡¯s legs.  ¡°Not bad, earth mother,¡± she thought, finally getting into her clothes with unusual speed.  She then added as an afterthought, ¡°Gotta start thinking about a breast job soon.¡±  Her appearance had been of great importance to her most of her life, not merely out of vanity, although she was not exempt from that particular character flaw, but because she knew her looks and had helped her career. She was one of the lucky beautiful people whom others  always strive to please.  Though competent and self-assured, she was not above using any means available to her to ensure her success.  Madison Avenue ground up fresh talent into hamburger meat daily, and she had no intention of ever being on anyone¡¯s menu.  Looks were important in advertising agencies, especially for upwardly mobile female executives on the fast track to a meeting with the glass ceiling.  She always figured that if she were traveling fast enough, that ceiling would not bear the force of her inertia.  Now, she was certain it would not.  Who could compete with a bright, energetic advertising executive who could read clients¡¯ and competitors¡¯ minds?  She could barely contain her excitement.  This would be almost too easy, like taking the proverbial candy from unsuspecting babies. ¡°And health for life to boot,¡± she thought. ¡°What a deal!¡±


    Over the next six weeks, Lisa found herself in the president¡¯s office of her advertising agency, seated in a thickly cushioned leather chair that would be hers just long enough to get her to the next stepping stone. A number of unexpected resignations in the chain of command, coupled with her bringing on board three new multi-million-dollar accounts in a two-week period had precipitated her unprecedented rise from a junior executive to C.E.O. in the batting of an eye.  Over the next year, she would position herself as the nominee for senator of New York, opposing a lackluster, vulnerable junior senator with an unspectacular record who proved to be no Hillary Clinton.  She might not even have to see to it that the senator resign; an outright victory would be much more satisfying and politically useful.  The white house would come easily after that; she just needed to bide her time as her star rose above the horizon in all its blazing glory.


    As the end of the sixth week dawned, and she had learned to master her new power, she became aware of a new voice attempting to establish communication with her, first through flashes of incomprehensible images and feelings, and then, after a link was established,  through more understandable means.  At first, Lisa was confused and apprehensive;  but she soon realized the source of these attempts at communication must be the new consciousness of the gestating being she was carrying.  Over the next several days, she tried to communicate with the diminutive growth in her womb, so small as to still be unnoticeable to anyone but her and reassure it that all would be well.  During this time, she understood the need for her willful acceptance of the being.  Despite the alien¡¯s proclaimed need to obtain her consent before using her as a surrogate mother for the ¡°child,¡± it would have been impossible for them to force her to carry it to term without her consent.  She could have aborted it at any time or could now refuse it the mental reassurance it required.  She only wished that she¡¯d been less hasty in her acceptance, that she had elicited more information about these beings.  Why were they here? Where did they come from? What would become of the nascent life she carried upon its birth?  Why had all of their females died?


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    Lisa¡¯s train of thought was derailed by a phone call from the local party official, returning her call.  Yes, the Senator was vulnerable. The opposition was eager to have a strong candidate to oppose her, but none had yet been found.  A lunch meeting was arranged, and Lisa knew before hanging up the phone that the Senate was hers.  Not long to wait now.  Not long at all.


    That evening, Lisa felt restless and uneasy. Her surrogate child had been demanding more and more of her attention, communicating incomprehensible feelings and needs that she could neither comprehend nor fill.  Around midnight, she awoke from a restless sleep and found herself once again gripped by an inexplicable terror,  as though something were reaching deep within the well of her subconscious mind and drawing out deeply repressed primal fears that she could neither comprehend nor dismiss.  Her instincts told her to run, but her body failed to respond, as she found herself once again completely paralyzed as she had been that night six weeks ago upon her first encounter with the alien.  No humming was present now, no scent of thunderstorms and no blue-green glow.  Only her blinding fear was the same, as was the sound of her blood swishing in her ears.


    Time passed;  it might have been a few minutes or several hours, Lisa could not tell.  She began to feel some discomfort similar to menstrual cramps.  These turned to mild contractions, and she felt the creature being naturally expelled from her body in a matter of minutes. A new life had come to this world unassisted and was quietly struggling to climb closer to its mother.  The process was slow, but the diminutive being was determined to succeed.  It slowly climbed over Lisa¡¯s pelvis and rested on her tummy from its Herculean effort. After some time passed, it continued pulling its six-inch form steadily towards Lisa¡¯s face.  It was still covered in blood, but Lisa could not detect an umbilical cord.  She was fascinated by this almost human-looking, tiny child with a grey complexion and huge almond-shaped eyes, and yet she continued gripped by an irrational fear and along with the irresistible paralysis.


    The diminutive being continued its slow progress over Lisa¡¯s body, coming to rest between her perfect breasts, sending out in unclear pictures an urgent message she could not comprehend.  It felt some need; it required something from her, but she could not tell exactly what.  Its large eyes stared at her, its mouth unmoving, clearly exhausted from its exertion. After a short time, its eyes closed, and it seemed to sleep. At least Lisa hoped it was asleep as her maternal instincts made her yearn to assist and the helpless creature, to draw it to her, to hold and comfort it and find out what it needed. But she could not move, still gripped by the discomfiting paralysis that left her able to move and focus her eyes only imperfectly.


    After the passage of some time, Lisa could not tell whether it was a few minutes or an hour, the diminutive being began to crawl toward her left breast.  The fully formed, small scale copy of the other androgynous alien she had met some six weeks prior looked at her, still trying to express itself in messages that were incomprehensible, and then finally sending her a single clear word:  ¡°Eat.¡± That broke her heart. She knew that the creature¡¯s fast development was not echoed by her body as her breasts had not yet developed and she certainly could not offer it her mother¡¯s milk. She tried to send the creature a mental reassurance that she would help it, not to be afraid. She would find what it needed and provide it when the paralysis lifted which she assumed would be soon. The creature stared at her awhile, seemingly attentive, holding her gaze with its large, black, pupil-less eyes in its diminutive smooth ashen face. Then it smiled at her, as if understanding her mental reassurance, and sent her some unintelligible messages she could not decode while peering at her above her left breast.  After a moment,  the creature moved up to the apex of her breast and flicked out a black tongue that lightly licked her cold-hardened nipple, as Lisa looked on, her mind enfolded by an incomprehensible terror at that gentle touch as the creature, apparently satisfied by its brief probing, allowed its lips to retract further back in what might be a growing smile, opening its mouth wide to reveal two rows of red, needle-pointed, serrated teeth, with which it enveloped Lisa¡¯s left nipple and bit down hard, tearing out Lisa¡¯s flesh and chewing contentedly.  Then, after greedily licking up the free-flowing blood, it flicked its tongue deeply into the small wound to further stimulate fresh blood flow, taking another hungry bite.  ¡°Food good,¡± it sent, in a clear message, its own telepathy growing in proportion with its strength and increasing mass, fed by the flesh of its earth mother who searched within the far recesses of her soul for a heart wrenching scream that could find no release through her frozen vocal cords.

 Mars: Genesis 2.0 - Part I

    Earth had not stood a chance. Careful tracking of the known asteroids and comets had accurately predicted some close calls from sizeable rocks over the past several decades, and yielded some spectacular natural fireworks alongside some notable devastation at least twice in recent memory over the skies of modern Russia and of the former Soviet Union from lesser meteors that, without ever striking the ground, still managed to make their presence known as they exploded in the atmosphere, releasing energy equivalent to hundreds of Hiroshima-sized atomic bombs. But none of the previous devastation wreaked on a defenseless planet by sizeable asteroids in the past, including the one that erased the dinosaurs from the Earth and paved the way for the eventual ascent of homo sapiens, could compare to the 113-mile diameter spherical asteroid that struck the Earth on Sunday, July 19, 2026, in Tierra del Fuego, at the Southern-most tip of South America. The resulting devastation was complete. Within weeks, nearly all life on the planet was extinguished by the force of the primary explosion that made Tierra del Fuego live up to its literal name of ¡°land of the fire,¡± and by the dozens of smaller impact zones from fragments of the asteroid that broke apart from the heat of entry. These secondary strikes ranged over a wide swath of the globe as far as Australia, while numerous fragments exploded in the atmosphere before ever touching the ground. Within weeks of the impact, the devastation wrought by out-of-control fires, tsunamis, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and the sudden melting of a significant portion of the South Pole¡¯s icecap foretold of the eventual extinction of all life on Earth.


    There had been notice, of course¡ª666 days of it, to be precise, a number that fueled an endless stream of debate, devotion, and gave birth to more than a few doomsday cults. Armageddon was duly delivered on time by a massive asteroid carrying the number of the beast. Pluto may have been demoted to a planetoid, but the ancient god of the underworld got the last laugh and the benefit of the bargain as he received more than seven billion new souls from a once-verdant world bludgeoned by an errant rock.


    The nearly two years of warning were insufficient to avert disaster. Earth simply did not have the technology to destroy or deflect a 113-mile-wide planetoid moving towards it at an orbital velocity of 20 kilometers per second on a previously undiscovered elliptical orbit around the sun that took it into the Kuiper belt beyond Neptune¡¯s orbit. It might have been kinder had humanity been spared the precise date and modality of its demise. But there was no way to hide the truth once it became apparent, and no way to spare the aftermath of that truth. Lawlessness resulted from the communal despair of people given a death sentence without hope of reprieve. Suffice it to say that humanity¡¯s last two years were not on balance proud ones for a species performing its swan song. If this was, as some claimed, God¡¯s wrath visited upon an unrepentant creation that had learned little from the lessons of its expulsion from paradise, Sodom and Gomorrah or the great flood, humanity certainly gave little evidence of being undeserving of the punishment in the months leading to the end.


    When it became apparent that disaster could not be avoided and that long-term survival on Earth after the impact would be untenable, both private and public efforts were undertaken in every country to prepare for the end and to ensure that humanity¡¯s seed would not be extinguished. Governments mobilized to expand underground bunkers in an effort to extend life for at least the chosen few, as well as retain a record of human kind¡¯s collective history and samples of its art, science, and literature. Hardened bunkers built to withstand nuclear strikes might survive the impact for the former players in the deadly game of mutual assured destruction, at least for a while. Existing facilities were expanded to the extent possible in the available time, and stocked with sufficient food, water, and oxygen to permit the chosen few to live underground for up to five years. Technology developed for space and for use in submarines, including air and water reclamation processes, hydroponics gardens housing genetically altered strains of fast-growing wheat and other grains, and small nuclear generators capable of providing the necessary energy to run the equipment that made a self-contained closed environment possible were utilized and implemented with all due haste.


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    In the United States, military bunkers from the cold war era were reclaimed and new ones built with a total capacity to house approximately 250,000 people. No attempt was made to make the selection process of the chosen few democratic or fair. There was not even the pretense of a lottery system that might buy the chance to cheat death for a lucky few. In the end, the survival of the species was of paramount importance and the decisions made were based on the criteria set by a civilian government backed by martial law.


    Other countries made similar preparations and, even in the poorest countries, some effort was made to provide the chance for survival to a lucky few. All of these efforts would largely prove futile on the day of the impact, but they represented a courageous attempt to avoid defeatism and despair. Although the record must show that in the final days anarchy ruled the world, perhaps there is some comfort in knowing that humanity did not surrender to its fate or walk quietly into the night like sheep to the slaughter but met its fate fighting to the end for life.


    The efforts to provide a sheltered environment that might allow post-impact survival underground for years to await the end of nuclear winter were doomed from the start. The hope was that the atmosphere would eventually cleans itself of the blanket of dust particles from burning forests and cities, and the volcanic ash from the thousands of extraordinary volcanic eruptions. The incalculable force of the impacts in different parts of the world wreaked havoc along existing fault lines and newly created ones, generating extraordinarily powerful earthquakes everywhere on earth. Earth¡¯s mantle spewed out forcefully from beneath her oceans, through active volcanoes, and through long dead ones.


    It had been hoped that plant life could once again find a foothold and begin to turn the heightened levels of carbon dioxide wrought by the uncontrolled fires and restore the depleted oxygen that fueled them, eventually allowing survivors to reclaim a vastly changed surface in a new ice age. But the impact was simply too great, and the devastation it wrought irreversible. Some human beings may possibly have survived in their underground bunkers while the closed ecosystems they developed held out, but the massive earthquakes, tidal waves and fast rising of the world¡¯s oceans destroyed nearly all of these through cave-ins, floods, and equipment failures. The earth¡¯s unrestrained shuddering devastated equipment whose makers could not have foreseen the forces that would be exerted by the convulsions of a dying world stuck a hard enough blow to crack its crust in places like an egg struck on the side of a bowl by a chef intent on making a souffl¨¦. Humanity would never again walk the Earth


    *. *. *

 Mars: Genesis 2.0 – Part II

    But Earth had not put all its eggs in a single basket. Russia, China, Japan, India, and the United States opted to implement their own fast-track space programs, and the European Space Agency chose to partner with a cadre of technologically advanced countries which lacked the capacity to develop their own space programs in order to exponentially expand the International Space Station with the capacity to house upwards of 1,200 people chosen by a complicated system from each of the partner nations. China, India, and Japan opted to implement variations on a theme of Moon colonies consisting primarily of inflatable habitats that could be created and sent aloft quickly and, once on the Moon, easily inflated and connected by a network of airlocks. The largest of these resembled the familiar domed design of indoor tennis courts.


    All three colonies were planned in close proximity to the limited water on the Polar Regions that would be mined and used to extract both water and oxygen for the colonies¡¯ use. Eventually, they would have to find new sources of water, or they would perish, but the readily available water above ground would serve the needs of a modest colony of several hundred people for many years, along with the normal water reclamation processes in place that in a closed environment could recycle better than 90 percent of the water in human waste. Three different colonies, albeit small ones, competing for a finite resource would create some conflicts that the colonists would have to resolve. But there was simply no alternative. The available resources of each country were put to use with abandon towards launching as many payloads as possible into space in the available time.


    The U.S. took a different tack, in part to avoid the inevitable conflict it could foresee with too many colonists competing for a very limited resource¡ªfrozen water. Moreover,  the only type of habitats that could and would to be used on the Moon with the available technology were not sustainable on a long-term basis. They would offer little protection from solar radiation, and none against meteorites given the Moon¡¯s practically non-existent atmosphere that makes it a veritable shooting gallery in comparison to Earth. For these reasons in part, and perhaps also in part as a final effort to showcase its technical superiority, the U.S. chose to send a crew of twelve--six men and six women--to Mars instead. While this choice offered many challenges, it also provided important practical advantages for the long-term survival of a colony. Mars has a significant atmosphere by Moon if not by Earth standards made up primarily of Carbon Dioxide that could be reclaimed with existing technology to provide all the oxygen, hydrogen, water, and methane needed to fuel the energy needs of a colony indefinitely. The reclamation systems could be housed in cylindrical containers about the same size as an ordinary home water heater that obtained all of its power from solar cells assisted by a small nuclear-powered generator. One of these could provide enough oxygen, water, and methane to meet the daily minimum needs of colonists. But they would have three of these to serve as spares along with the best water and air reclamation systems that money can buy--assuming that they survived the trip and could be brought down in one piece from Mars orbit. Cost was not an issue. Maximizing the chance of survival for the tiny colony was.


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    If necessity is indeed the mother of invention, then no other time in history has ever provided a greater impetus to inventiveness since the dawn of civilization. With less than two years to come up with a plan, a laughably small window to launch even a routine unmanned planetary mission, the options open to the best minds that NASA and private aerospace companies could muster were limited. When the decision was made to go to Mars rather than the more accessible space station or lunar colony options, a plan of action was quickly developed to press into service three of the mothballed space shuttles for one final mission. Herculean efforts were made to get all three to the Kennedy space Center in Florida and readied with the necessary modifications that would allow the three shuttles to be linked in orbit into a serviceable space vehicle and long-term makeshift space station in geostatic orbit around Mars¡¯s equator above an extensive cave system detected by ground penetrating radar surveys thought to be the remnants of old lava tubes from ancient volcanic activity, or perhaps long-dry underground rivers that had millennia ago fed a massive lake.


    These underground natural tunnels were destined to become the colonists¡¯ new home, sealed from the surface, and divided by a series of ingenious airlocks that would allow sections of any desired length to serve as a serviceable, expandable habitat offering perfect protection from solar radiation, smaller meteor strikes and the massive Martian dust storms that could make life on the surface difficult, even if they had the ability to create livable habitats from Martian materials.


    The many kilometers of natural underground tunnels would allow colonists to reclaim as much space as they would ever need by sealing tunnel segments by using an ingenious, newly developed type of self-adjusting airlocks and filling the sealed tunnel segments with an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere capable of sustaining human life. With the artificial lighting and hydroponics technology, they carried, the colonists would be able to grow genetically engineered vegetables and legumes that would grow quickly with a minimum of water to provide a sufficient if limited vegetarian diet. In time, with a great deal of luck, perhaps sources of ground water could be tapped, should these exist, and limited mining operations could begin to extract the necessary resources with which to build a better world. In the short run, building self-sustaining habitats that would allow for survival one day at a time would have to suffice.


    The limited human gene pool provided by a dozen colonists was of great concern and did not bode well for the long-term viability of this final branch of humanity¡¯s family tree. Among the precious payload their spaceship carried were eggs and sperm from 3,000 carefully selected donors to extend the colonist¡¯s genetic pool and help ensure humanity¡¯s future.  If Mars could provide sufficient resources for colonists to someday return to the Moon, or the Moon for her own colonists to travel to Mars, humanity¡¯s genetic diversity would be further strengthened. Doubtful as either of these eventualities might be, humanity had many times in its past survived the darkest chapters in its long existence with hope and faith grounded on no more fertile ground than this. And, in any case, worrying about something that could not be changed was a fool¡¯s errand, and there were no fools or congenital pessimists among the 12 people chosen to give humanity its best chance of survival on Mars.

 Mars: Genesis 2.0 – Part III

    The logistics for getting the shuttles to Mars were relatively uncomplicated, as were the relatively modest modifications needed to retrofit the shuttles for their final one-way mission. While humanity slowly unraveled, heroic men and women worked around the clock not for themselves, not for glory or acknowledgment, but simply to provide a new page through their communal sacrifice upon which humanity might write either its epilogue or, with luck, a new chapter for the human race in its heroic efforts to prevent its annihilation.


    The shuttles were modified so that once launched, they could meet in orbit and dock in a modified nose-to-nose three-way linkup in a triangular, starburst configuration. Among the modifications needed for this makeshift interplanetary vehicle was the removal of the heat-shield tiles on each shuttle to be replaced by solar energy panels as the shuttles would never again face the heat of re-entry to Earth¡¯s atmosphere. Once the shuttles were launched into space in the traditional way, they docked into the three-way docking bay that made it possible for the astronaut-colonists to move among the three shuttles at will through the three-way, airlock-protected docking bay.


    The reinforced docking bay was launched into orbit on its own just prior to the shuttles. The module had to accommodate the permanent coupling of all three shuttles and hold them securely while the main engines of a single shuttle provided the necessary thrust to get them to Mars and the deceleration to achieve a geostationary orbit around the red planet¡ªsomething that would place massive strains on the docking bay during the outbound mission. Because of its weight, it required its own Atlas V rocket to launch to low earth orbit.


    In due course the three shuttles blasted off one last time from the Kennedy Space Center with previously undreamt-of  rapidity. The precision ballet needed to have the three separately launched shuttles meet up with the docking station unit was accomplished without any significant problems, a testament to the skill of the men and women selected to provide humanity with a chance to avoid extinction. Once docked in orbit, the joined shuttles became a rather strange looking but serviceable interplanetary vehicle that would also become a space station when it reached its final destination. One shuttle¡¯s fuel would be expended in providing the initial thrust to get to Mars and the deceleration after reaching the midpoint of the voyage. All three shuttles¡¯ thrusters controlled by computer could be used to make minor course corrections in a well-coordinated dance without any room for error.


    Once the docking procedure was completed, the colonists set about the business of preparing for their 18-month trip. Every available cubic centimeter of space was utilized to store supplies, spare parts, and essential equipment. Payloads were separately launched and retrieved to supplement those maximum payloads that could be carried aloft by the three shuttles. The most dangerous procedure of all, refueling the three space shuttles with the last load of liquid oxygen fuel that they could receive from Earth, was accomplished in orbit. All three shuttles had been modified to permit partial refueling of the liquid oxygen tanks used to supply the main engines and maneuvering thrusters. A refueling coupling accessible through each shuttle¡¯s main payload bay would allow the crew to transfer pressurized O<sub>2</sub> from large cylinders launched into orbit to rendezvous with the space shuttles, where they would be retrieved using each shuttle¡¯s robotic arm and their precious cargo manually transferred through the refueling couplings by the crew. The process was both slow and very dangerous even with the payload doors open to avoid the possibility of a catastrophic fire during the transfer process. A rupture of any of the highly pressurized tanks or a malfunction in the coupling system could prove deadly. Once empty, the large O<sub>2</sub> cylinders that resembled the torpedo shaped large propane tanks often used for home heating in rural areas, would not be jettisoned. They would accompany the colonists to Mars to be used as liquid hydrogen, oxygen and methane storage units for the precious gasses culled from the Martian atmosphere by the atmosphere reclamation systems and stored under pressure in these tubes to be used as fuel and to reconstitute water and a breathable atmosphere in the habitats the colonists would build in their new home world.


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    Once fueled and fully loaded, the colonists left Earth orbit powered by the thrust of one shuttle¡¯s engines. When the main engine¡¯s fuel was spent, the thrusters of the three shuttles under a single computer-assisted control fired in the appropriate sequence to orient the shuttles¡¯ solar-panel covered bellied towards the sun, providing more than sufficient power for the colonists to run the myriad systems essential to preserving their lives aboard the vessel they had unofficially christened Earth 2.0. One hundred days into their trip, Earth had its encounter with the asteroid precisely 666 after its discovery. The colonists had front-row seats to the extinction event. Distance and the knowledge that they were spared the cataclysm that would soon destroy all life on earth brought no comfort to these extraordinary men and women who mourned as one the death of their friends, their families, and their world in a communal pain too deep for words.


    After the midpoint of their voyage was reached approximately nine months later, the unified ship¡¯s thrusters were once again triggered to point the second shuttles¡¯ fully fueled engines at Mars to begin the gradual process of deceleration by computer-controlled ignitions of the rocket engines over a period of months, with the shuttles realigned after each precisely measured burn to re-orient the solar panels towards the sun. In due course, they reached their goal.

 Mars: Genesis 2.0 – Part IV

    Once the colonists arrived on their new home, their real work began. The shuttles could not land on Mars even if an appropriately long, smooth, boulder-free natural landing strip had been available. The shuttles are gliders on re-entry, and Mars simply does not have a thick enough atmosphere at about one percent that of Earth normal to allow any glider to land safely, let alone one that can fairly be described as a flying truck. Parachutes in the thin atmosphere are also inefficient for heavy payloads, And the beach-ball airbag approach to landing employed successfully by the original extraordinarily successful twin Mars rovers, Spirit and Opportunity, would also be impractical for the precise, safe delivery of fragile payloads that would need to be deposited in a very specific location gently to provide any chance of survival for the colonists and the equipment upon which their life depended.


    A variety of ideas were considered for solving the problem during the initial brainstorming on Earth, including an intriguing proposal for the shuttles to carry two reusable, improved version of the Curiosity-styled landers that could ferry upwards of a ton of cargo to the surface thanks to Mars¡¯ reduced gravity each trip by employing large, light, disposable parachutes made of a super-tough, extremely light Mylar for the initial entry and a booster system for the final landing. The boosters would then couple with a ground-based self-contained Atmospheric Fueling Station (AFS) that would be the first payload delivered to Mars. These AFS units could turn atmospheric CO<sub>2</sub> into oxygen and carbon, using both solar panels and an integrated nuclear generator for the power needed to break down CO<sub>2 </sub>into its components, compress O<sub>2</sub> into liquid form and store it in tanks with which the robotic thruster could couple to refuel a sufficient quantity of liquid oxygen to propel it back to the shuttles with enough left over for a return trip to the ground, braking and soft landing the next payload. The problem with the system was that it would take too long for the fuel reclamation and refueling process¡ªlonger than the colonists could wait in a holding pattern using up resources and dangerously depleting needed reserves to see them through until the AFS units were functional on the ground providing the precious oxygen and water that they would need to replace their meager stores. Moreover, the risk of any failure would have depleted irreplaceable equipment and stores.


    The solution to the lander problem was borrowed from the late Arthur C. Clarke¡ªa modified, miniature space elevator in geostatic orbit at Mars¡¯ equator. Strands of invisibly thin carbon fiber cable with the hardness of diamonds woven into a cable of varying thickness at no point exceeding five centimeters in diameter were used. The relative thinness of the Martian atmosphere and the weaker gravitational pull of the planet made it possible to string impossibly thin cable that would have the ability to transport payloads of a little more than eight hundred Earth-standard kilograms safely down to the planet with only the mass of the three shuttles acting as a counterweight.


    With a geostatic orbit on Mars at approximately 17,188 kilometers, the thin, lightweight carbon fiber cable nevertheless fit on a single massive spool taking up nearly all of the cargo bay space on one of the three shuttles. Deployment was computer controlled and delivered by a modified self-guided bunker busting missile capable of penetrating several hundred meters into the Martian bedrock, deploying a nearly indestructible carbon-fiber anchor, and detonating a tiny incendiary warhead to instantaneously liquefy the surrounding rock and fuse the end of the carbon cable to the rock as it cooled. The slack was then gently reeled back by the shuttle¡¯s nearly empty spool while it automatically maintained its orbit by means of the guidance computer¡¯s meticulously timed firing of the shuttles¡¯ attitude jets¡ªa task that, given the jerry-rigged nature of the tri-partite ship could not safely be trusted to any human pilot.


    A simple harness platform was then attached to the cable driven by a perfectly synchronized friction wheel system to both accelerate and brake the platform on its journey to and from the planet. The platform itself was little more than a metal plate with a vertical tube at its midpoint that held the friction wheel mechanism through which the carbon fiber cable was threaded. For greater stability, the platform was strung in a pyramid shape with carbon fiber cables extending from the corners of the bottom platform plate to the top of the drive tube. Equipment and supplies would be attached securely to the floor of the platform and would need to be carefully leveled before each trip¡ªa task accomplished automatically by a computer after each cargo platform is loaded in a predetermined manner using pre-packaged containers numbered and loaded in a computer-determined order. The final fine tuning of the load balance would be accomplished by adding ice to the platform on special plastic bags strategically attached to the appropriate place on each platform to perfectly balance the load once it encountered Martian gravity. Four small attitude jets on the corners of the platform would fire as needed to compensate for unexpected consequences such as a Martian wind or dust storm as the platform neared the surface. The frozen water used to balance each load was then collected on the ground for later use and the cycle repeated as subsequent loads were ferried down from the shuttle.


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    This process of downloading cargo was slow, but effective and relatively safe¡ªat least in theory as long as the carbon cable held out. Five of the 12 astronaut-colonists accompanied the cargo down on the first trip with two AFS units that would begin extracting Oxygen from the atmosphere for their air tanks and synthesizing methane also from the available atmosphere to serve as fuel for their conventional auxiliary generators. The carbon would also be stored for later usage, including the weaving of multi-use carbon fiber that would provide the mainstay of their textiles and low-level manufacturing for years to come, if the colonists survived.


    The privilege of stepping off the platform first fell to the mission¡¯s commander, Col. Bob Dawson. He would be the first human to walk on Mars, but unlike Neil Armstrong when first stepping on the Moon, Bob uttered no memorable words beyond ¡°welcome to our new home, folks¡± as he stepped off the platform and turned to help Dr. Gloria Hernandez, medical officer, off the platform. He then helped the remaining three crewmembers still on the platform, Linda Chang, geologist, Upinder Singh, astrophysicist and Larry Bronson, nuclear and mechanical engineer, off-load the remaining vital equipment they would need to complete their first mission, including the two atmosphere reclamation units (ARUs) that must be set up immediately in order to begin extracting Oxygen from the carbon dioxide rich Martian atmosphere and generating the oxygen and methane from it required to complete their mission. That task accomplished, Larry was left to initialize the ARU units and send the lift back on its way to Earth 2.0, now a permanent space station, for its next load of crew and equipment while the rest of the party headed North West towards the entrance of a natural tunnel that in Mars¡¯ distant past had been part of the underground aquifer that fed the now dry lake at the bottom of which they currently stood.


    When the five colonists had completed the job of unloading their equipment and the platform was on its way up the long, arduous trip to the space station, Bob Dawson removed a small U.S. flag on a thin metal pole about a meter tall and stuck it in the ground, saying simply ¡°We claim this world on behalf of humanity in the hope that its seeds will take hold here. This flag represents the sacrifice of those who gave their lives to make our journey here possible.¡± He then saluted the flag, and, turning to the bright star he knew to be Earth, offered a second, slow salute in requiem to the more than seven billion dead or dying souls who would now live on only in memory. No words were said beyond these. None were needed. Their silent tears spoke more eloquently than anything these five remaining remnants of a dying race could ever say.


    The large natural tunnel that had once contained an underground river extending for hundreds of miles was destined to become their first Martian base and permanent home, offering protection from both solar radiation and small to medium-sized meteor strikes against which the thin Martian atmosphere offered no protection. The outlet of this former aquifer was some 200 meters from their current position over the rocky Martian terrain and, though it was once near the bottom of a fairly deep lake, it would now appear some two meters above the floor of the former lake bottom at the side of a rocky canyon towering nearly 100 meters  above it.


    Walking with spacesuits and carrying over 50 kilograms of extra equipment each over terrain not unlike that of a very rocky beach on earth was difficult even under the reduced Martian gravity. Only one small, motorized dolly with tank-like treads capable of easily negotiating the uneven, rocky terrain was available to them to carry the heavier ARU unit that looked for all the world like an 80-liter water heater with three cylindrical tanks attached for the oxygen, hydrogen, and methane gasses it would extract and compress for use by the colonists. Each colonist carried enough oxygen in their suits¡¯ internal supply that, in conjunction with the suit¡¯s CO<sub>2</sub> scrubbers would provide a little more than four hours of oxygen under moderate exertion. The single large tank of O<sub>2</sub> that had sustained them on their long trip to the surface was nearly depleted. Their only hope for replenishment of their supply now lay in the ARU they had left behind at the space elevator, and the one they carried with them fully operational and would leave, if all went well, at the location towards which they now traveled.  This ARU had been operating continuously since their trip on the space elevator, reclaiming oxygen from the CO<sub>2</sub> in the Martian atmosphere when the atmosphere became dense enough for the machine to begin its work, approximately half way to the surface.

 Mars: Genesis 2.0 – Part V

    There was no margin for error and the group did not have the luxury of exploration for its own sake in this first crucial trek. They carried enough equipment to scout out their most promising site and, if all went well, to install what would be the first two airlocks on a section of the underground cavern that would become the first ¡°room¡± of their new home. If all went as planned, they would leave the ARU to pump oxygen into the first section of the reclaimed natural tunnel while simultaneously compressing methane gas into storage tanks that would fuel the first generator already tethered to the ARU they carried and which would be left just outside of the reclaimed space in the former underground river to generate and store the power the colonists would need for light and to power most of the equipment and tools with which they hoped to improve and expand their new home into a workable life-sustaining environment.


    As the group approached what should be the outlet of the former aquifer that eons ago had carried underground water to what would have been a very large, deep lake but was now as dry as the rest of the nearby terrain, they could see what appeared to be an opening above a smooth outcrop of rocks forming a natural ramp rising to approximately two meters off the ground. At one time, the opening would have been at the floor of the lake, approximately 90 meters below the water line, one of several underground rivers that fed a large natural lake that expanded for at least 250 kilometers to the South and west held in by the natural rock outcroppings that now appeared as tall canyon walls around the rim of the long-dry lakebed.


    Nowhere would the lake have been as deep as at this spot, and the natural rock face of the steep hill towered just over 100 meters above the opening of the tunnel. Fortunately, thousands of years of windstorms had sandblasted the surrounding rocky surfaces leading up to the outlet into a smooth ramp with a rise of less than 20 degrees that would facilitate moving the necessary equipment up to the cave without much difficulty. This natural ramp was one of the reasons this particular site had been chosen. As the group climbed up to the natural cave¡¯s entrance draped in shadows under the glare of a Martian midday sun,  the dimensions of the cave¡¯s opening could be better gauged as an ovoid shape nearly three meters tall by approximately seven meters wide. It was large enough to accommodate a group twice the size of the current expedition with their spacesuits walking side by side without feeling claustrophobic. Once inside, the walls reflected the smooth surface originally carved out by torrents of water flowing for millennia when Mars more closely resembled the Earth the colonists had recently left behind while it too still retained its former splendor.


    The entrance receded as far as flashlight beams could probe, its smooth floor slanting upwards at a gentle slope of approximately five degrees. The cave walls and ceiling seemed devoid of large cracks or other imperfections that would pose an immediate problem for their terraforming efforts by allowing large quantities of oxygen to escape. Tests would need to be run once preliminary airlocks could be installed to learn the airtight quality of the rock and what efforts would be required to allow it to retain a breathable atmosphere with an acceptable amount of leakage, but upon their first visual inspection, it looked very encouraging. If the natural tunnel walls could retain an atmosphere with an acceptable amount of leakage that could be addressed through topical sealants, the hundreds of miles of its length would provide all the space the colonists would need for any foreseeable future expansion.


    The most critical part of this first expedition to what was destined to become the site of this tiny subset of humanity¡¯s new Martian home was to test the ability of the natural cave system carved by the ancient aquifer to sustain a breathable atmosphere. To that end, the group would need to close off a section of the broad natural tunnel whose length was as yet undetermined but suspected to run for hundreds of miles based on ground penetrating radar images taken from orbital satellites that had mapped significant sections of the underground terrain in a search for water and other useful resources.


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    The first order of business was to close off a section of the tunnel approximately 50 meters in length by placing two permanent airlocks to allow the section to be imbued with a breathable atmosphere after first suctioning the thin Martian atmosphere in that isolated section of tunnel in order to measure the rate at which the atmosphere would reintroduce itself through the rock of unknown porosity or through cracks and other natural imperfections. The viability of the mission and survival of the colony would depend in no small part on these test results as the resources available to the colonists both from their irreplaceable stock of precious cargo and those that might be adapted from local materials to effectuate airtight seals would be very limited.


    Working diligently and keeping a close eye on their available oxygen reserves, the team first set to work identifying a suitable tunnel section by carefully inspecting every inch of the tunnel floor, ceiling and walls for cracks and other obvious imperfections that might leak oxygen. To the delight of the team, the tunnel was found to be as smooth as glass and without any visible imperfections. It was decided that the first airlock would be installed approximately 70 meters from the entrance of the tunnel, providing close proximity to the surface and enough room to set up generators and the ARU equipment that would extract from the atmosphere oxygen, hydrogen, carbon and methane for fuel and breathable air from the inhospitable Martian atmosphere. The plentiful CO<sub>2</sub> would provide the carbon and oxygen necessary for water, air, and reconstitution of methane. Hydrogen and nitrogen could also be extracted in more than ample quantities for their needs. Later, water could be extracted directly from the soil if not found naturally in underground aquifers. But in the early stages of colonization, the necessary resources and equipment for those tasks would be unavailable.


    Thanks to the use of carbon fiber manufacturing processes mastered on earth not long before this mission and which made the modified space elevator a reality for the colonists, the installation of airlocks was a relatively simple matter as these were made from incredibly thin, light, and nearly indestructible carbon nanotubes weaved into a Mylar-like substance that was light, flexible, and as tough as diamonds. The fabric, with a thicker reinforced weave for the airlock doors, was thinner than silk and fashioned like a round raft section that could be inflated and would accommodate itself to nearly any shape up to its maximum diameter. The colonists possessed scores of these in various diameters as large as ten meters. And more could be manufactures as needed. The airlock ¡°doors¡± were simple flaps of reinforced carbon fiber that felt as pliant and slippery as the cartilage of a squid, could be zippered closed for a perfect airtight seal and provided a fairly transparent seal along with the rest of the thinner material beyond the airlock flaps. But it could be darkened if needed through the application of a small current to its photosensitive coating, making it adjustable from perfectly clear, nearly invisible state to a black that would block out all light and dangerous UV radiation. The airlock flaps gained rigidity through the same process that darkened them with the application of an electric current and could be opened by pressing a switch on either side of the door flap as well as manually in an emergency by unzipping the material in its less rigid state in much the same way as one would a zippered baggie. Installation of these required nothing more than a careful placing of the flat package in the middle of the floor where one wished the airlock flap to be located and the pulling of a tab that released a mixture of pressurized gas rigid seal as it hugged the sides of the tunnel walls along its contours. If a too large package were used, the material would flatten against the outer walls, floor and ceiling running along it until it was perfectly stretched to its intended size, leaving a slight concave airlock that would work as well as a perfectly sized one, though it may be a few centimeters or a few meters nearer or farther from the precise intended point of deployment as the airlock used up its longer than necessary size by hugging the outer walls for whatever distance was necessary until it became fully inflated. As with any airlock, two of these were needed to provide space between them for the equalizing of pressure and expulsion of atmospheric gasses from the Martian atmosphere in order to replace these with breathable air.

 Mars: Genesis 2.0 – Part VI (Conclusion)

    The first two airlocks were deployed leaving approximately four meters between them, a space large enough to accommodate ingress and egress by a team of colonists and their equipment. Another two airlocks were similarly deployed 50 meters from the first providing what was hoped would be the first living space for the colonists that might later be further subdivided as needed into smaller living and working spaces. The airlocks were then closed, and the air vacuumed out of the enclosed space by using the airlock evacuation valves powered by a Tesla Coil generator that could wirelessly provide energy to any equipment within two-kilometer radius of its location. Within ten minutes, 99.98 percent of the thin Martian atmosphere had been sucked out of the massive space and the airlocks shut down the air evacuation cycle, leaving the colonists to monitor the airlock atmospheric readings closely and nervously for the rate of change. Five minutes later, the readings remained at 0.02 percent of normal atmospheric pressure, a clear sign that the space was far more airtight than they could have dared to hope. The unusually glassy surface of the tunnel was clearly as perfect in fact as it seemed in appearance. The process that created this vitrification in the first instance is one that puzzled the colonists and would require further study and exploration as time allowed. Water alone would not have created such a perfectly smooth and imperfection-free surface on Earth on the similar rock formations, nor would lava tubes contain such uniform dimensions or leave behind such a polished-glass surface that seemed eerily reminiscent of intelligent design rather than of natural origin. For now, however, the colonists were far too grateful for the unexpected boon and far too busy to look a gift horse in the mouth.


    Their job done, they left back for the space elevator site, leaving the Tesla generator on drawing power from a small nuclear generator. In due course, solar panels would supplement the generator¡¯s capacity as would several additional methane driven generators yet to be brought down from the shuttles. When they next returned, assuming that the readings still showed a workable airtight seal, the ARE unit would have extracted a sufficient amount of oxygen and nitrogen from the Martian atmosphere to allow them to begin the process of pumping breathable air into their new home.


    As the other AREs were brought down from the shuttles, air would be supplemented with water generation, turning the separately reclaimed hydrogen and oxygen into water with the aid of electricity borrowed from the Tesla coil by one of the two spare AREs. Weaving the carbon also reclaimed into nanotubes suitable for repairing spacesuits and making new ones, as well as clothing, tools and a variety of utensils would have to wait until dedicated equipment could be offloaded from the shuttles--not a priority for day one of the mission. Likewise reconstituting the Martian atmosphere into methane gas to be compressed and used as fuel for additional generators to fuel more power-hungry tools and the heating needs of a new society in an inhospitable world. Important as these tasks might be, they could wait until day two for the expeditionary force which this first day in the new dawn of humanity still had much work to do after returning to the space elevator site and replenishing their oxygen and water supply from the ARE there.


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    Earth might be breathing its last, a dying planet with few pockets of humanity still breathing underground as the surface burned at the impact sites on land with the power of twenty-five thousand hydrogen bombs set off simultaneously on an unsuspecting world. The ash cloud and vaporized bodies of water within hundreds of miles of ground zero already blocked the sun while tsunamis and the ash from thousands of volcanoes world-wide exploding in succession as tectonic plates violently rent old fault lines and created new ones driven by the irresistible force of a massive space rock meeting a not quite immovable object. The sun would not shine again with its life-giving force for more than a dozen years, killing off all vegetation and the fauna that depend on it for its sustenance. Almost all life on earth and in the oceans would die as a new ice age of previously unknown proportions shrouded the dying planet. Whatever life eventually emerged again from the thawing planet millennia hence, it would most certainly not be human.


    The moon colonies might perdure. Mars might yet be reclaimed again into a planet capable of sustaining higher life forms by terraforming it a cubic meter at a time. Both the Mars and the several lunar expeditionary forces carried with them carefully selected eggs and sperm to provide a reasonably varied, healthy genetic pool for humanity¡¯s new genesis.


    Whatever else might happen at this time of unprecedented tragedy and loss, hope would not die. It would be kept alive as long as a human heart beat on the Moon, in any surviving habitat among the myriad underground cities built to withstand man-made catastrophes on Earth, on the expanded international space station or on Mars.


    If necessity is the mother of invention, a Phoenix might yet rise from the ashes of its destruction to herald the most radical inventiveness in the annals of humanity. Some subterranean pockets of humanity yet thrive on earth for a time, despite the odds, and Mars and the Moon might yet yield up hidden secrets and unknown bounties to the remnants of humanity fighting for survival. Come what may, there were still miles to go before humanity would sleep, and room for dreams of a better tomorrow that might still be realized in the forced reboot of the human race.

 Other Books and Scholarly Articles by the Author

    Books Published


    ? Hire Lernin¡¯: An Idealist¡¯s Quest Through the Realm of for-Profit Education</a>  Published through Create Space and Amazon Direct Publishing (February 2021).


    ? A Primer on Immigration Law and Compliance</a>, Textbook Media, 2020 (text, test bank, instructor¡¯s manual)


    ?  Echoes of the Mind''s Eye: 13 Speculative Fiction Short Stories</a> Published through Create Space and Amazon Direct Publishing (November 2020).


    ? Echoes of Dawn at Dusk: Collected Poems, Volume 2</a> Published through Create Space and Amazon Direct Publishing (December 2020).


    ? Business Law: An Introduction 3e</a>, Textbook Media, 2019 (text, test bank, instructor¡¯s manual)


    ? Business Law and the Legal Environment of Business 3e</a>, Textbook Media 2017 (text, test bank, instructor¡¯s manual)


    ? Copyright Law: A Practical Guide</a> Published through Create Space and Amazon Direct Publishing (Spring 2018).


    ? Mindscapes: 10 Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories (audiobook)</a> Audible (August 2014).


    ? Intellectual Property Law: A Practical Guide to Copyrights, Patents, Trademarks and Trade Secrets</a>, published through Create Space and Amazon Direct Publishing (Summer 2014).


    ? Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems </a> published through Create Space and Amazon Direct Publishing (July 2011).


    ? Business Law: An Introduction 2e, Textbook Media, 2011 (text, test bank, instructor¡¯s manual)


    ? Business Law and the Legal Environment of Business 2e, Textbook Media 2010 (text, test bank, instructor¡¯s manual)


    ? Free and Low-Cost Software for the PC, McFarland & Company 2000


    ? Legal Environment of Business, Prentice Hall 1997 (text, test bank and instructor¡¯s resource manual)


    ? Case and Resource Material for the Legal Environment of Business, Prentice Hall 1997


    ? Business Law: An Introduction, Richard D. Irwin / Mirror Press 1993 (text, test bank and instructor¡¯s resource manual)


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ? Free and User Supported Software for the IBM PC: A Resource Guide for Libraries and Individuals, McFarland & Company 1990 (co-authored with Kenneth J. Ansley


    <hr>


    Published Articles in Refereed Journals and Law Reviews


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Avoiding the Legal Landmines Attendant to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) Form I-9 Compliance, North East Journal of Legal Studies, Vol. 42, Article 2, 24-45 (2022).


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Mandatory Arbitration Clauses in Consumer Contracts: A Legally Permissible Means of Denying Consumers the Constitutional Right to Litigate Contract Disputes in Court and the Right to Trial by Jury. North East Journal of Legal Studies: Vol. 40, Article 1 (Spring 2020).


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Maccarrone, E. T. Non-Lawyer Judges Presiding Over Criminal Trials: Constitutionally Permissible Injustice? Wake Forest Journal of Law & Policy Vol. 10 at 1 (2019).


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Maccarrone, E. T. Should Emergency Good Deeds Go Unpunished? An Analysis of the Good Samaritan Statutes of the United States, Rutgers Law Record, Vol. 45, 105-144 (2018).


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., When Lenders Can Legally Provide Loans with Effective Interest Rates Above 1,000 Percent, is it Time for Congress to Consider a Federal Interest Cap on Consumer Loans? Notre Dame Journal of Legislation, Vol. 42, Issue 1 (2016).


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Maccarrone, E. T. Traffic Enforcement by Camera: Privacy and Due Process in the Age of Big Brother Law Journal for Social Justice (Sandra Day O¡¯Connor College of Law, Arizona State University), Vol 5 (Spring 2015).


    ? Maccarrone, E. T., L¨®pez, V. D., Medical Malpractice Limitations for New York Infants - Time for a Change of Time? 34 Buff. Pub. Int. L.J. 99 (2016).


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Maccarrone, E. T. Leading the World in the Wrong Direction: Is it Time for the U.S. to Adopt the World Standard Loser Pays Rule in Civil Litigation? North East Journal of Legal Studies, Vol. 32, 1-20 (Spring 2014).


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Dealing with Uninvited and Unwelcomed Guests: A Survey or Current State Legislative Efforts to Control Illegal Immigration within Their Borders International Journal of Public Law and Policy, Vol. 3, No. 1, (2013) (Geneva, Switzerland).


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Unauthorized Practice of Law in the U.S.: a Survey and Brief Analysis of the Law, North East Journal of Legal Studies, Vol. 26 (Fall 2011)


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Principled Leadership: Finding Common Ground among Divergent Philosophies University of Botswana Law Journal, Vol. 11 (December 2010)


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., State Homestead Exemptions and Bankruptcy Law: Is it Time for Congress to Close the Loophole? Rutgers Business Law Journal, Vol. 7 (Spring 2010).


    ? Illegal Immigration: Economic, Social and Ethical Implications, North East Journal of Legal Studies Vol. 22 (Spring 2009)


    ? L¨®pez, V. D., Legislating Relief for the High Cost of College Textbooks: A Brief Analysis of the Current Law and its Implication for Students, Faculty and the Publishing Industry Journal of Legal Studies in Business, Vol. 15 (2009)