; ; © 2002 by Sara H. Do not post elsewhere ; without express written permission from the author.
; ; This is part three. I'd suggest starting with part one and two, but ; you're free to do as you like. I hope you enjoy!
; ; Nods to my regular noddees trilby else (sadness), EyeofSerpent ; (horror) and Tabico (loss of self), but especially to Mark Anthony, ; whose "Daughter Knows Best" is reflected in spirit among the words of ; this section. Just happened that way... and I'm grateful for the ; inspiration. ; ;
; ; Phil bit down on the inside corner of his lips as he poured a cup of ; coffee. He wasn't upset, but he wasn't happy, either. The changes ; around the station had been subtle, and he couldn't point to any one ; moment when he went from having a voice in how things were run to ; being a one more cog in the machine. But there was no question that ; things had shifted in his career.
; ; It wasn't just him, either. It was as if the place had been ; reorganized, but no one had said anything about it. It had just ; happened.
; ; He walked down the hall, distracted by his thoughts. He was still a ; producer, but he had little to do with what was produced. And even on ; the rare occasions when he still worked his craft, it didn't have the ; jolt for him that it once had. He felt more like an overgrown ; technician than a creative force in the nightly news. For the first ; time in many years, he was beginning to think he should look for ; something new to do with his life.
; ; He sat down in a chair outside Marge Hausman's office. Their meeting ; was scheduled for ten o'clock, and he was early. He sipped his coffee ; and continued his quiet self-examination.
; ; He'd started off on the wrong foot with Marge, and it had taken ; several months to come around. Melissa Perkins may have had something ; to do with it -- even though in her six months as co-anchor of the ; news, she had become much less close.
; ; Even cold.
; ; It wasn't arrogance he felt from her, but a gradual pulling away until ; it was as if he didn't really exist in her world. Even his directions ; during the news seemed to fall beneath her radar. Not that it ; mattered. Ratings were up. The station owners were happy.
; ; Marge had gotten the credit, and she deserved it. Despite her job in ; advertising sales, her suggestions for stories had paid off. Her ; instincts seemed to go against conventional programming wisdom, but ; the results verged on miraculous. More and more people, and women in ; particular, were tuning in to watch the news.
; ; That's how this business was. Even though she had come in with no ; broadcasting experience, she was now his boss. Good results in ratings ; always brought good fortune. Great results changed lives. Phil could ; remember when his life was changing for the better, and he missed it.
; ; But there was something about Marge that made him not mind her success ; at his expense. Sure, he'd go home and fume about decisions that ; undercut his authority, but by the time he got to his daily meeting ; with her, he'd find himself in awe of her abilities. His objections ; and annoyances would vanish as she spoke of what she had planned for ; tonight's show.
; ; She was the one who first recognized that he seemed to be getting ; bored with producing. Before that, he'd never really noticed. But with ; each passing day, he realized more and more how true it was.
; ; The door to her office opened, and he stood, waiting for permission to ; enter.
; ; Melissa walked out, her eyes looking into the distance, a small smile ; on her face. She walked by him without even acknowledging his ; presence. "Hi, Melissa," he said, looking for a sign that she heard.
; ; As usual, he might as well have been talking into an empty room. It ; occurred to him for the first time that he really didn't mind. Not at ; all. She was the anchor, after all. It only made sense.
; ; "Phil. Great. Come on in," said Marge, still sitting behind her ; desk. It was uncanny how she always knew he was there, as if there ; could never be a question.
; ; Then again, he'd never missed a meeting. He'd never even been late.
; ; He entered, closed the door and turned to face the Director of Sales ; and Programming. She was busy typing something into her PC. He took a ; moment to look around the office again.
; ; It was retro, but elegant. Spacious, with nice appointments, walnut ; furniture and cabinetry... it was almost like something reserved for ; heads of state. The spherical lamps that adorned her desk and tables, ; as well as globe-topped floor lamps in the corners, added a kind of ; focused sense of theme -- what that theme was, he couldn't tell.
; ; He wondered how she'd gotten the owners to pay for it all. The answer ; came to him in one word. Ratings.
; ; He approached her desk, just like every other day, and awaited her ; acknowledgement.
; ; She turned to him and smiled. "Thank you for coming, Phil. Punctual as ; usual."
; ; In response, Phil knelt on one knee and lowered his head. "The ; Producer awaits the commandments of the Programmer," he said. He was ; glad to be allowed to be so casual.
; ; "Phil, I've noticed you've gone beyond fatigue. You don't seem happy ; with your work at all now. Nothing wrong with that. We all need a ; change from time to time. Don't you think so?"
; ; Phil turned red. He'd never realized it was so obvious. "Yes, ; Programmer," he answered.
; ; "Tell me what's been going on in that head of yours," said Marge.
; ; "I've just been thinking how trying to be creative is such a farce," ; he said.
; ; "What do you mean?"
; ; "Well, Programmer, it's like this. I've never really buckled down to ; find the true satisfaction and wonder of simple tasks... tasks that ; are better suited to my lesser male mind. Never having experienced ; them, I denied the incredible satisfaction they offered and tried to ; find my joy elsewhere, but to no avail. In the end, it has only made ; me unhappy to try to live differently than the way I was born."
; ; "And how is that?"
; ; "Like all men, Programmer. Born to be workers... the builders, the ; cleaners, fixers, the keepers of orderly life."
; ; "That sounds like a worker bee to me, Phil. A drone."
; ; The word showered over him like sweet cologne. Drone.
; ; Marge smiled as she watched his reaction. "Well, then what are women ; created for, Phil?"
; ; Breathless, Phil answered, "They are the beauty, the creative force, ; the dreamers, the providers of Purpose and Existence, Programmer. They ; are the Teachers, the Givers, the Ones Above who have the capacity to ; know Love and Pleasure."
; ; By the time he finished his breath was coming in gasps as awe and ; wonder and awe filled his head, digging further into his malleable ; synapses.
; ; "Phil, I do believe you've finally learned. I think you should be ; promoted. You've done so well. You deserve this. That's the purpose of ; this meeting -- of all our meetings.
; ; "So as of this moment, you are no longer Producer. You are hereby ; given the title of Drone. Welcome to your new position."
; ; Again, Phil lowered his head. "The Drone awaits the Commandments of ; the Programmer," he said. His head was swimming with bottomless ; gratitude.
; ; "Very good, Drone. The Programmer wishes to have a footstool for the ; rest of the day."
; ; "The Drone obeys the Programmer," said Phil, dropping his hands down ; so that he rested on all four limbs.
; ; He moved carefully around the desk, his legs and arms moving in odd ; horizontal motions so that his back stayed completely level with the ; floor. It was as if he hovered rather than crawled.
; ; "Very nice, Drone," said Marge. "When I again say 'Drone off,' and ; until I say, 'Drone on,' you will have no cognizance of anything in ; the room. Your eyes and ears will not function. No odors will waft ; into your nose, no touch will disturb your skin. Your mind will think ; only of how happy and wonderful it is to exist in your new position.
; ; "Drone off."
; ; Phil floated in emptiness, with no thought of where he was or what he ; was doing. He thought only of how good it was, and how happy it made ; him to be a drone for the Cause.
; ; He didn't hear Marge as she welcomed Huey Brooks into her office.
; ; The words, "The Senior Engineer awaits the commandments of the ; Programmer," weren't even a whisper in the drone's mind. ;
; ; Some neighborhoods were just too odd for words. There was nothing that ; Sandy could point to on the surface... the birds were singing, and ; spring was slowly moving towards summer. The houses were well kept, ; and the streets were lined with large maples. It looked like the ; dictionary picture for the word "picturesque."
; ; But for all its homey comfort, there was something missing. People, ; maybe. In the most quiet neighborhoods, people would be going out to a ; mailbox, cutting the grass... Sandy stopped on the sidewalk for a ; moment. That was it.
; ; Every lawn looked as if it had been freshly cut the night ; before. There wasn't a single case of someone waiting an extra ; day. The bushes were all trimmed to perfection. There wasn't a blade ; of grass out of place.
; ; Not one.
; ; It looked too inviting to be real.
; ; She laughed out loud, and her voice sounded strange after so much ; quiet. With the lack of people, she was beginning to spook ; herself. "The perfect mouse trap for the pesky real estate agent," she ; thought. She tried laughing again, but the sound wasn't a comfort. It ; only made her more uncomfortable.
; ; She walked up to the next house, expecting the same thing that had ; happened with every house before - nothing. She looked at the mailbox, ; the name "Taylor" neatly lettered in white, and rang the bell.
; ; The door opened, and she felt a mix of surprise and relief, followed ; by disappointment as she realized it was only a girl of perhaps ; nineteen or twenty.
; ; "May I help you?" asked the girl.
; ; "Well, yes," said Sandy, letting her sales instincts take over. "Are ; you the owner of this beautiful home?"
; ; "Home..." murmured the girl. She looked up at Sandy. "No, I don't own ; it."
; ; "Your father? Mother? Are either of them home?"
; ; "Mom. Yes, she's here, but she's working in the basement."
; ; "Could I impose on her time for a bit... Miss...?"
; ; "Kathy. Taylor. I'll have to ask. Come on in. What was this about?"
; ; "I'm Sandy Manning. I've been canvassing your neighborhood for ; FutureHomes Real Estate, and I couldn't help but notice your lovely ; home. Are you sure there isn't a better time?" She looked more closely ; at the young woman. She was quite attractive, and Sandy almost felt as ; if she were being teased with aloof expertise. She couldn't explain ; it, really. Something about the girl's twinkling eyes.
; ; "No, now is perfect. Now is always perfect. I'll be right ; back. Please, come in," she repeated.
; ; Sandy stepped into the foyer of the charming home.
; ; As she looked around, she realized that this place could quite ; possibly make up for the rest of her recent dead ends. It looked like ; Kathy and her mom might be getting ready to move. There were boxes ; lining the walls, and only a few chairs around. Faded squares on the ; wall showed where pictures had been hanging.
; ; Most of what was left betrayed a quirky, one-track mind. There were ; several lamps in every room... table lamps, floor lamps, ceiling ; lights... and all of them were exactly the same style. True, their ; mulled, spherical shape gave them a kind of "streetlight" elegance, ; but it was a bit much, well into the area of personal eccentricity.
; ; Sandy shrugged. It was better than a house full of ceramic chickens.
; ; She turned back around as she heard footsteps climbing stairs.
; ; "Her Highness would like to talk to you, but she's kinda busy right ; now. Lots of planning to do."
; ; Sandy smiled a bit at the smartass comment. She might have been put ; off by it had it not reminded her so much of herself at twenty. She ; was a little let down, but at least it would be a lead.
; ; "She'd like to know if you'd mind coming downstairs. She really can't ; afford to take a break."
; ; "No! I mean, that would be great!" said Sandy. Then with more control, ; she added, "Whatever is convenient for her." She was glad the ; enthusiastic outburst had come in front of Kathy -- it never paid ; appear over-anxious to a prospective client, but it wasn't Kathy's ; house to sell, so she was much more likely to ignore it.
; ; She followed Kathy back through the den and kitchen to the stairs that ; led down into the basement. As she expected, Kathy stayed at the top ; of the stairs while she went down. ;
; ; So sweet.
; ; "I AM HOME," said the first voice.
; ; "I am Home," answered the second, sounding familiar in a vague sort of ; way. It sounded sensual. Seductive.
; ; "I BELIEVE IN THE CAUSE." Again the first voice. So beautiful.
; ; "I believe in the Cause."
; ; "MY PAST IS DEARY AND GRAY." Sandy thrilled to the sound of it as it ; slid into her ear canal.
; ; "My past is dreary and gray." Yes. So dreary. So gray.
; ; "THE FUTURE DOES NOT EXIST."
; ; "The future does not exist." She shivered as her nipples hardened, ; aching with need as the words moved through her, guiding every feeling ; and thought.
; ; "THE PRESENT EXISTS. THE QUEEN IS IN THE PRESENT. THE QUEEN EXISTS."
; ; "The present exists. The Queen is in the present. The Queen exists." ; Sandy realized that her mouth was moving exactly with the answering ; voice. Her skin was alive with color and light, moving in concentric ; circles and colliding in her thrumming clit, burning away her ; inhibitions, echoing back outward and teasing her with a hundred ; thousand tongues of tickling bliss.
; ; "THE QUEEN IS ALWAYS PRESENT. THE QUEEN IS EXISTENCE. THE QUEEN IS ; HOME. THE QUEEN EMBODIES THE CAUSE."
; ; How perfectly logical it all was, now. She remembered with cloudy ; thoughts the idea of running. Pleasure swept up and through her again, ; her moan catching behind her throat, coming out as a loud, powerful ; grunt as her belly muscles clutched, trying to grasp more of the ; delicious heat. She had no idea why she had wanted to fight this. It ; was part of the dreary, gray past. She let it go.
; ; "The Queen is always present. The Queen is existence. The Queen is ; Home. The Queen embodies the Cause." Sandy didn't know how long she'd ; been listening. It didn't matter. She burned with desire and obscene, ; decadent pleasure as the most perverted thoughts took root and grew in ; her mind. Her breath was fast and ragged. Lust crept into every ; crevice of her essence. Heat licked her loins, hotter now, and then ; hotter. The past was dreary and gray. The future did not exist. There ; was only the Queen. She was present. She was existence.
; ; Sandy and the second voice were one.
; ; Rapture moved through her like torturing molasses, molding her gently ; as it melted into her pores. The sweetness was like nothing she'd ever ; known... she could taste it on her tongue, smell its irresistible ; aroma. She realized deep in the recesses of her consciousness that it ; was the ambrosia from the Queen's Portal, and then the thought was ; gone, stripped from her as she surrendered everything... what and who ; she was, what and who she would be... to the present. To the Queen. To ; her Existence. Home.
; ; Her climax hit her full blast, sweeping through her like holy fire, ; burning away the last tiny splinters of her psyche. It was more potent ; than the most powerful of narcotics... more euphoric than the most ; overwhelming dream. She felt it shaping and reshaping her, addicting ; her, stretching her body out into nothingness and back into a tiny ; ball and then out again. She opened further and let the change ; come. The pleasure was all -- it was life, existence, reason, ; perfection. She screamed in lunatic ecstasy.
; ; The climax was Completion.
; ; As the new Caretaker's eyes opened to the dancing light in the ; chamber, she began her appointed task, her body covered in the sheen ; of the transforming juices of her beloved Queen. She did not recognize ; the walls, floor or ceiling. Her eyes shone pure white as the light ; within her claimed her will and knowledge. She was only ; she... Caretaker... no name, only purpose.
; ; Protect the children. The ova in her care. The ova of the Queen.
; ; The Caretaker admired the Queen, the royal translucent body quivering ; as another ovum emerged, perfectly formed, from her inhumanly dilated ; vagina. She watched as the Queen shuddered in pleasure and more of the ; viscous liquid poured from her. It would be the Caretaker's sustenance ; for the rest of her days.
; ; She looked at the hundreds of eggs lain around her, their slightly ; wrinkled, spheroid surfaces so beautiful, like mulled glass. They held ; the light that was Home. The light that was the Cause.
; ; The light that would change everything, forever.
; ; Soon. ;
; ; Junior Officer Flron walked in and, seeing the face that Splith was ; wearing, turned to leave.
; ; "No, stay."
; ; The woman stopped, waiting for her captain to speak further.
; ; "I'm just tired. Seedplanet A6354HT is seventy percent transmuted. The ; Q'ullions are still killing us, even though we have officially won the ; war," said the distressed captain.
; ; "More Lightmines?" said Flron.
; ; "Yes. Standard dispersion. Initially through a standard communication ; medium, and then through several hundred thousand transmuted human ; females producing more mines. The males here are already mostly ; sterile, and the female convergence to the hive mind has long since ; reached critical mass. There's no way to clean up without putting ; ourselves at risk," said Splith.
; ; She fell to silence. There was nothing more to be said. The Yicktor ; Beam would leave a dead husk where a planet had thrived. It was the ; only way to end the continuing threat of the Q'ullion breeding ; weaponry. They would have to sacrifice another planet that had been ; destined to help repopulate the Treth System.
; ; But that was before. Now, left unchecked, it and a thousand planets ; like it would instead repopulate the Q'ull Homeworld, and the war ; would be un-won. The creatures of light and darkness would rule the ; galaxy. They had almost won against humanity the first time. There ; were not enough untouched humans left for a second chance at victory.
; ; An enemy that turned you into itself from the inside out. Made you ; like it. Want it. Live for the transformation. Splith shivered in ; revulsion. Sorrow for the lost filled her heart. She almost wished ; she'd been taken by the Q'ullions, spared this horrible duty.
; ; Almost.
; ; "What was the planet called?" asked Flron, ending the silence.
; ; "The locals called it 'Earth'. Also 'Terra' and 'Gaia', among others," ; answered Splith. She hated that they were already referring to it in ; past tense. "We'll begin Yicktor Saturation in seven orbits."
; ; "Yes, Captain," said Flron. "Permission to prepare?"
; ; "Yes. Of course. Dismissed," said the captain. Her voice was heavy ; with sadness.
; ; Flron walked down the empty corridor listening to the hum of the ; engines. She stopped by her quarters to grab her radiation ; protection. As she placed it on her bed, she thought about the sadness ; of her Captain, and then about the melancholy of the rest of the crew.
; ; She smiled and opened her personal storage compartment. She looked ; inside and then reached in, pulling the slightly off-center sphere ; from its resting place in its shielded box.
; ; Seven orbits.
; ; "Gaia" would not be dying today. There would be plenty of time.
; ; She reached up to her communications console and punched in a ; code. "Flron to Yicktor Crew. Stand down. Captain's orders. Assemble ; in the aft galley. I have great news.
; ; "We're all going Home."
; ; Lights like swirling fireflies danced in her eyes.
; ; Fin.
;
;
This concludes "Illumination". I hope you enjoyed it, and would be
;
glad to hear your impressions. Please feel free to write me