The Last Nukyi
by
Paul J. Bagnell
Smashwords Edition
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Paul J. Bagnell on Smashwords
The Last Nukyi
This ebook-in-publication data/copy is on file with the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 978-0-9866159-0-0
Copyright 2011 by Paul J. Bagnell
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*****
The Last Nukyi
TABLE OF CONTENT
SEGMENT ONE: THE MIND-CRASH AFFLICTION
C6: BAD CORPORATE FUNDAMENTALS
C14: DON’T MOVE - YOUR HEAD’S NEXT
SEGMENT TWO: THE BEYOND MIND-CRASH
C22: DROPPED INTO A GIANT’S NEST
SEGMENT ONE: THE MIND-CRASH AFFLICTION
Chapter 1: CONNECT TO EARTH
A punishing blast of energy smashed through the roof of Tom Bronze’s house as he lay in a dead sleep. The ghastly explosion showered incinerated debris throughout his bedroom as an aggressive light wave pulsated with coded bursts of radiation, which, seemingly, emitted a murky haze that crawled from the ceiling and settled on the floor like a thick, grey, woolen blanket.
This beyond-world beam, apparently, paralyzed Tom’s human physiology while this unknown cosmic invader probed the fragmented depths of the earthling’s mind, a proficient technology which triggered a genetic transformation that instantly hyper-altered every cell in Tom’s mortal matrix. His feeble body grew strong as strands of sinuous, steel-like muscles swelled beneath the skin.
Imprisoned by his reconfigured neural network, he was mentally bombarded with unexplainable images of himself transported beyond his mortal existence as he stood by a hellish fire of peat encased in a pit of crumbling mortar and burnt stone. Heat and smoke rose into the stagnant atmosphere. He wiped the clammy sweat from his brow and whispered, “How can this be? These flames are burning hot.”
Suddenly, Tom was startled by a shrill voice that made his skin shiver. He shifted his eyes from the fire to the darkness. He tried to grasp reality; however he realized this was just another unspeakable nightmare. Was it a dream or was it real? Did an angel or a demon or an unknown force from beyond induce this hideous voice? He felt desperately insecure.
In the near distance, Tom saw an immense figure that idled in a wall of fog. He tried to back away, but his muscles seemed frozen. Then, out of the murky hold, the massive body drew closer. In a big, crunchy voice it said, “I come searching for a great champion.”
A warm breeze crossed Tom’s face like a cloud of sour-tasting vapour that left a weakness in the pit of his stomach, partially restricting his vocal cords. “What do you want with me?” he replied cowardly.
“I am The Be-Ing. I am an interdimensional life form sent to search for you, the powerful space soldier you were in your previous existence.”
Tom was speechless. The only movement came from the whites of his eyes as he gazed into the fire and searched for an answer. He saw nothing but glowing cinders and spiking flames. Its warmth radiated from the burn, the true link between the forces of good and evil--forces which constantly battle in equalizing clashes, in constant conflict in the universe, yet restrained by the world of Line-Cross, a dimensional void which separates the pure from the impure.
A soupy knee-high mist settled on the ground and created an eeriness that further shrouded the landscape. Tom retched to inhale but almost choked on his dry, swollen tongue while the thick fog hung in the air and clung to his skin like a rotten carcass.
The sky grumbled as smoke spewed from the pit and discharged a fine dusting of ash that filtered down like grey snowflakes. The Be-Ing’s voice rumbled with the powers of the unholy, yet it gracefully extended its hands upward, and a beautiful spectrum beamed out from the tips of its fingers.
Tom was awed as he watched the energy flow into the darkness momentarily illuminating the dead sky, which revealed the dead landscape and its lanky trees with wiry limbs, which knotted into a demonic bulk but seemed to embrace him like his mother’s cradling arms. Immediately, the deprived atmosphere reminded him of when he was lost in the dark, northern forest of Washington State during his early childhood but remembered he wasn’t frightened.
Tom blinked hard, an attempt to force the imagery from his eyes. The darkness receded like a clap of thunder and brought forth the clarity of this strange world. He collapsed to one knee and instinctively cupped a handful of soil and felt the damp texture of the loam between his fingers. This convinced him that this was no psychotic illusion. He stood and sifted the dirt from his palm to the ground. His eyes were fixed on The Be-Ing’s seven-foot-plus, two-ton mass as it hunched in front of him. Its body was sheathed with a jagged, rock-like exterior, which obviously served as protective armour.
Tom observed the creature’s mountainous head and torso, shouldered with thick tube-like arms capped with solid hands. Its fingers measured as big around as a man’s wrist, which, apparently, could mangle steel or gingerly crack an egg and were stretched out like sticks of potent TNT. Its powerful pipe-like legs with oval cupped feet impressively secured its immovable footing. The Be-Ing’s overall demeanour appeared evil, yet it seemed to possess a virtuous elegance.
“Fem-Be-Kyi,” The Be-Ing called in the form of a mystic spell; then it revealed its ultimate purpose for contacting the new arrival. “You must concentrate. I come from a place where mortals do not exist. Immortality is beyond the comprehension of humans. What I seek is your soul’s capacity for life and the inter-powers of your mind. It is this which must be rediscovered and nurtured within you.”
“Yes,” Tom mouthed willingly, as if chemically entranced.
“There is a world inhabited with life forms in a distant galaxy, billions of light years from planet earth. They are the ones who need the mighty space soldier hailed a Nukyi Salient. The Galaxy of Voge and God of Hege is the place of your Armageddon.
“Your preparation will be rigorous and will require every ounce of strength your mind, body and soul can sustain. You must endure pain and fight the destructive forces of evil if you are to save yourself from annihilation.”
Tom gulped hard. “Why do you call me a Nukyi?”
“The honour has been bestowed, it cannot be withdrawn.”
“Why?”
The Be-Ing shifted its mass to one side. “You are who you are: a Nukyi Salient; and that cannot be changed.”
“Then, if so, how do you propose to send me on this infinite journey?” Tom asked inquisitively.
“The journey of a soul begins where infinity ends.”
“I don’t understand your mystic logic.”
“You must open your mind to the impossible.”
“How is that done in this world?”
“I shall teach you what is required.”
“This is just a mental hoax; none of this is real, just a dream--not to worry.”
“I am real and you are real, and there is no escaping your destiny. It is the way it is.”
“If you’re real, like you say you are, then convince me and tell me more.”
“Soon your quest shall be defined. For now, close your eyes and return. Soon we will meet again, in another dream.”
“I must know! When will that be?” Tom shouted into the dead sky.
“Soon!” The Be-Ing roared, as a cloud of vapour sealed it in a whirling vortex and carried its massive body through an energy portal and into the abnormal beyond.
*****
Frantically, Tom sprang upright in bed, soaked in sweat and breathing like an asthmatic madman. “Man, that was one bad-tasting fantasy!” he sputtered out of breath, before he focused and saw the nasty aperture in the roof. There were wood fragments and plaster bits from the ceiling distributed about the floor. The dresser doors were flopped opened, and his clothes were heaped and scattered in an alien-looking formation. The bedside table was tipped over, a gifted porcelain lamp was smashed to pieces; and his cellular phone was crumpled into a mangled mess. He rubbed his eyes to help clear his vision. “I must be sicker than diagnosed,” he whimpered as he dozed off on the pillow.
Chapter 2: CARRAVECKY & SONS
The alarm clock struck 5:50 a.m. and rang with the sound of another dreadful Monday. Tom’s hands were clasped tight around the pillow; and without realizing his undiscovered strength, he separated the cloth, and a sack of feathers floated in the unsettled air.
He finally reactivated from a dull state of consciousness and lifted a weary eye, which strained looking at the clock, resting dial up, and calling on the floor. He sat up, brushed the chalky ceiling dust off the chard sheets, and balanced his infected body weight on the edge of the bed. He mumbled lethargically, “It’s going to be another brutal week digesting my unflavoured employment obligations.”
Cool breezes bleed in through the wound in the roof. He surveyed the circular damage and questioned, “What the hell went through here last night?” His sense of perception was blank. He reached over and slipped his robe from beneath an unnaturally formed jumble of clothes, and proceeded from the bedroom down the stairs into the living room.
The front picture window, which seemed wider than standard builder’s dimensions, captured the light of the morning sun. He paused to feel the warm rays on his unshaved face. “Five days of cold rain--at least it’s bright, dry, and warm today,” he whined, as he seriously debated whether to go to work or call in sick, however, he continued toward the kitchen.
Fresh coffee dripped from the automatic dispenser and filled the room with an aroma of strong hazelnut. He poured a hefty cup of brew, a simple chore he found difficult each morning, thanks to his constant state of over exhaustion and negative financial position.
He returned to the living room and eased into his housebroken recliner, like an 80-year-old man. His aching finger stretched for the remote. The television flashed on, another typical morning of news, weather, and sports. He clicked through the available channels with every morning news broadcaster reporting the same globe bleakness in different, phony smiles. Bored, he switched them off.
A peaceful sensation cleansed his mind with a feeling of profound serenity. Strangely, it felt foreign to him. He sighted to his right and sipped the hot drink. His wife and two young children posed in the colourful photograph. They gleamed so happily. It was a joyful picture of better times. A year ago, she left with the girls. He knew they were healthy, living with her folks up north, but he was afraid to call. He was drowning in regret, mental pain killing him. He regretted not spending more quality time with them, but his noble accounting career got in his way. He couldn’t change his past although he wished he could. There were too many useless excuses handcuffing his stubbornness, and due time would determine if their untied marriage arrangement was best for the family.
A fond memory splashed in his teary eye. It was the day of the firm’s annual summer picnic that she told him she was leaving. That was a bad time in his life--a day he’d never forget, even if he lived a thousand years.
He levered forward in his worn-in recliner and gulped the remaining mouthful of warm fluid and retired the mug next to the family picture as he did every weekday morning.
*****
Tom stepped from the hot shower and steadied dripping wet in front of the vanity mirror. A film of steam clouded his view. He cleared the moisture with the palm of his hand with his refined torso reflected back at him. Immediately, he noticed the difference in his muscular classification. Only days ago, he estimated that he was losing a chest and gaining a gut. Now, he looked lean and inhumanly vascular with an overly developed physique that defied a logical explanation. His muscles bulged from beneath his taut skin in mounds and dips that crossed his pecs, abs and thighs. He pulled his dirty-brown hair away from his blue-stressed eyes and slanted closer to his detached duplicate, as if to study his transformed symmetry. “I need to get my vision tested and my hair trimmed,” he promised, and scuffed from the bath.
Luckily, his many suits still hung in the closet. Each appeared worn and tattered, but he, particularly, liked the dark-blue one--the one he’d purchased at a local discount clothing store and the one he’d always worn on Mondays. Today was no exception to his predictable obsession.
He hurried to get ready and left the house. He jumped into his pre-millennium import economy model, parked in the driveway. The vehicle was rusted. Oil leaks and spot-filler indicated that it should be put to rest at the nearest junkyard, but he prayed that tomorrow would bring prosperity into his life and medicate his revolving anxiety. He slapped his vinyl briefcase on the backseat, fumbled the car keys between his swollen fingers, and then clumsily started the vehicle. The smell of burnt oil and trail of blue smoke polluted the morning air. He had never gotten a fine, even though the government strictly enforced the automotive pollution control laws.
The drive to his office job usually lasted a good thirty-five minutes. “I should arrive at my monkey-cage door with a clean 60 seconds to boot,” he moaned and glanced (a force of habit) at his damaged fifty-cent watch.
The inner city was a beehive of business activities. Skyscrapers stilted high into the Seattle skyline; and with each new construction, the structures got more obnoxious and intimidating. It was a magnificent sight but a constant reminder of the unforgiving jungle where he earned his modest living. There, built high into the clouds, the Belk Tower stood structurally invincible and ruled over the ongoing construction like a king wearing reflective gold.
Tom rolled up to the tower’s underground entrance. Today, Joey, the gate attendant, spied into his vehicle for some unknown reason before he lifted the entry barrier, then waved him past. Tom claimed his paid monthly billet and hurried from his vehicle with briefcase in hand in pursuit of the elevator before the doors sealed.
An English gentleman, who worked on floor fifty-four, saw Tom approaching and held open the doors.
“Thanks,” Tom said apologetically.
“You’re welcome, young Bronze,” the older executive said and pushed the button for floor fifty-one, Tom’s floor.
Tom could only guess what numerically scrambled reports Selly required reworked this week while he stared up at the floor level indicator lights to avoid small talk conversation with other office acquaintances.
The elevator doors unsealed at L51 and exposed the hallway. Its oak grain walls lined the entire length of the corridor, which led to his current place of employment.
He made his way toward the etched glass doors that read: LANKENBURY, MACKENZIE & MCBRIDLE--ACCOUNTING, AUDITING & TAXATION which spanned the entire width of the office frontage with an abundance of posh and prestige.
Stella, the office receptionist, a well-spoken African American woman with over three decades of business administration expertise, was seated at the frontline workstation, organizing paperwork and weekend voice messages. She noticed Tom and smiled as he entered the office.
The clock that hung on the wall behind her indicated it was exactly eight o’clock.
He was cutting it really close today, he thought, while he greeted her with a cheerful “good morning;” but he had to force a natural smile.
She returned his good-will cheer and continued sorting the messages.
He strode to the right of her control post and headed toward the centre offices; a drone of voices and computer equipment originated from beyond the temporary partitions. His fellow employees, a new breed of young accounting grads, who were attempting to make their mark in the corporate world, anxiously rushed to finish a year-end consolidation deadline for a high-profile multinational organization.
Tom squeezed into his tiny area, a six-by-six cubicle of compressed workspace. His station was adjacent to the computer lab; and from his standard plot, the digital buzz always seemed sharper than anywhere else in the office. He stretched back and gazed up at the ceiling tiles. He counted the number of squares hundreds of times, bringing back a lost memory or an idea, but not today.
Minutes passed as Tom scrutinized the seconds. He hadn’t yet seen Selly this morning. He usually arrived at 8:01 carrying an armload of auditing reports and business outlines for revisions. Maybe he got tied up in the morning traffic or something, Tom thought.
He rested his sober eyes, and complained, “I never slept a wink last night.” The words seemed to roll off his cankered tongue. “Last night had to be the worst sleep I experienced in months,” he mumbled, desperate for sympathy. His self-bitterness was elevated by an indescribable itch that he felt from head to toe.
Selly arrived a few minutes late.
“How’s it going?” Tom asked in a tone to appease his departmental supervisor.
“I’ll need these by the end of the day. If there’s a problem, call me,” Selly said bluntly, as he unloaded the bundle of work on Tom’s desk.
“Sure. I’ll get cracking on them right away,” he replied, and daydreamed in the direction of the papers.
As quickly as Selly had appeared, he vanished - no thank you, no goodbye.
Every day it was the same thankless objective--crank out pounds of client reports, which meant squat. He smelled displeasure all around him--a big, rich firm with little appreciation for his number-crunching talents. He controlled his growing temper by inhaling and exhaling. This technique usually worked; but, today, it was ineffective. A rage was burning within. With clenched jaw, he seethed boyishly. “I destroyed my wonderful marriage for this bland daily grind. Maybe if I slave harder, I’ll be someone important within these walls of hierarchy,” he said, as he chewed the words in his mouth. It was always the same. He was chasing that golden carrot but was always just a hair short of a success.
Again, he stretched back, his head tilted, his eyes locked on the ceiling tiles. This strange ailment, he suspected, was brought on by the dream. What does it mean? The answer was there. He was sure of it. To find it was another matter, but there was something mysterious about this mental imagery--that amplified voice. Who did that voice belong to, and what does it or he or whatever want?
A flood of emotions created a memory flashback from last night’s dream and revealed some sketchy mental details. He remembered the contained fire. The tall trees that meshed together to architect a barricade against the damp wind, the cool soil; and, of course, that blurry figure. It all seemed so strange and out of place with bits of pieces that didn’t fit into any equation. He could feel it. It was calling him, seeking his help. He was mentally baffled.
The untidy stack of financial reports on his desk brought him back to a dismal reality. He hopelessly eyed the two inches of rough textured paper bound in coloured file folders. He retrieved the first on the schedule and stared uncomfortably at it. The force of last night’s alien wave still mentally distressed him.
The telephone rang. He snapped up the receiver. “Bronze speaking.”
“Tom, how are you? It’s Jack Mackenzie,” said the voice with an Americanized Scottish accent.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but I haven’t completed your client’s file,” Tom said, as he searched through the mountain of work in progress.
“That’s perfectly all right,” he said politely. “This morning call concerns another matter.”
“Then, what can I do for you, sir?” Tom replied verbally crippled and defenseless.
“Tom, can you please come to my office? There’s an important matter that I would like to discuss with you,” Mackenzie instructed.
“Yes, sir,” Tom replied slowly. In all the years he’d been there, he was never exclusively called to the founding partner’s office. “I'll be right there, sir.” He broke his uninterested daze from an unaudited statement and hung up the phone. Then, he forced himself from the chair, afraid of the grim news to follow.
He heard Stella laughing as he rounded the corner of her comfortable perch. She appeared to know how to enjoy her stressful environment. Even when things heated up around her, she remained cool and calm.
Mackenzie was the second-most powerful man in the firm. He was one of the three names etched on the glass doors; and he could make or break any employee with just one word, yet he seldom used his gold pen to slay the common dragon. Tom forged onward, barely able to stomach the early-morning stress and annoying butterflies in the pit of his stomach, en route to Mackenzie’s quarters.
The partners’ offices were lavishly installed along the west-side and restricted the spectacular view of the city’s architecture and the hierarchy who dwelled there.
Maybe one day he could have his name assigned to one of those privileged office domains, but Tom wasn’t convinced. He stalled in front of Mackenzie’s place, gulped a mouthful of air, and tapped.
“Come in,” the voice said cheerfully.
“Sir, you wanted to see me?” Tom said in a mousy voice.
“Yes, Tom,” Mackenzie ordered as he moved around to the front of his desk. His motion was strong, like that of a man in his early thirties. In fact, Tom knew that Mackenzie was about fifty-eight years of age and healthy as a horse. The boss stood straight and commanding, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. His face was smoothly shaved, and he measured more than six-feet-three from head to toe. He brushed his hand across his thick brown hair, an attempt to flatten the mane to one side. “Please, come in. Close the door. Tom, help yourself to a coffee,” he offered in a fatherly tone, and pointed to the credenza.
Tom poured a medium, and sat down. He secretly surveyed the handsome settings, especially Mackenzie’s imperialistic desk. It was genuine Asian mahogany, graced with a hand-carved sculpture, a figurehead mounted on the bow of a seventeen-century warship. The designer walls were dressed with contemporary paintings. Each canvas looked pricey and probably cost more than the average annual income of a typical blue-collar worker.
“Tom, do you like working for our firm?,” Mackenzie asked, in a tone demanding the truth.
“Yes, sir, I’m very happy here,” he replied cocksure, but swallowed his true feelings.
Mackenzie was seated like an emperor behind his desk. He bent forward (his eyes seemed to cut through Tom). “You’re presently working under Selly’s supervision, correct?”
Tom nodded a weak ‘yes’ response.
Mackenzie paused. He seemed to be waiting for a detailed explanation and then continued. “I respect your professional abilities and that’s why I’d appreciate your efforts if you’d accept an assignment working under Celia McBridle’s authority.” He donned his eyeglasses and, seemingly, paged through Tom’s employment history. “One of our largest clients has a major complication.” He removed his wire-rimmed glasses. “They need a keen forensic auditor, like you; but I’m sorry this placement would only be a temporary position.”
“That’s fine with me,” Tom replied convincingly.
“I was considering Steve or Doug, but I figured you and Ms. McBridle would make a better combination.”
“Yes sir.” Tom forced down the chief executive’s bull with a mouthful of hot coffee.
The telephone interrupted their developing conversation.
“Excuse me,” Mackenzie apologized, and fielded the call.
Tom relaxed his puffy eyes and viewed the impressive collection of fine artifacts shelved around the office, including a small but detailed-looking stone sculpture. The configuration consisted of what looked to be men and women huddled together and kneeling at the feet of their male leader. Each appeared to be entranced by the powers of hypnosis, fully under their master’s command. Tom reckoned skilled hands crafted the piece, as it appeared intricately flawless and a one-of-a-kind design.
“Our firm will be contacting you in the near future,” Mackenzie concluded, then hung up the phone. He noticed Tom’s curious interest in the artwork and commented. “I imported it from Central America.”
“Then, I guess it’s a long way from home.”
“Yes, very. Between us, it was illegally excavated from a burial ground near Orange Walk.”
“Belize, Maya civilization once populated those lands.”
“That’s right,” Mackenzie’s eyes brightened, “you know your history and geography.”
Tom sat straighter, an attempt to relax. “It’s a tortured-looking chunk of art.”
“Yes, it is, dark and mysterious. An old, retired fieldworker who sold it to me swore the art piece was dated eight-hundred-plus years, yet it doesn’t look a day over fifty.”
Tom shifted his tense weight in the hard leather chair and got mentally comfortable.
“The old fella babbled on about its cryptic origins and its tribal significance.”
“So, what did the old guy tell you?” Tom asked before putting the coffee mug to his lips and gulping a mouthful.
Mackenzie bent back with disbelieving eyes. “It was said: every thousand years an entity emerges from the outer ridges of existence and possesses a worldly soul. The people of the Svenungo tribe, who roamed Brazil’s rain forests, believed their great leader was the recipient of this special power. Although this man, whose name is undocumented, saved his people from the wrath of death and disease brought on by conflict, was said to be everlasting. Then he disappeared without a trace into the unknown once his work was fully accomplished. Mind you, it’s just an old man’s mental illusion of a cheap wine-induced fairy tale and cast iron sales pitch.”
“It’s a very interesting story, but still, disturbingly haunting for such a tribal hero to remain undiscovered for such a long time–-such a waste.”
“I kind of thought so. But I never purchased the rock based on what the old guy conjured up.”
“Then what influenced such, I can only assume, a risky purchase?”
Mackenzie explained calmly: “We were on our honeymoon cruise, and we came ashore; and I wanted to buy my third wife a nice gift to remember our magic moment together. I saw it, negotiated a cash price; and brought it back to America,” he admitted proudly, “and gave it a home, right there on the shelf,” and pointed to it with a cross finger.
“Your wife must have despised it,” Tom assumed bravely.
“It gave her the sleeping creeps. Now, getting back to the task - the reason I want you for this assignment.” Mackenzie ran his hand across his chin. “Truthfully, Tom, your performance evaluations indicate you perform extremely well under pressure.”
Tom sensed Mackenzie was beating the rug with the cat’s meow or leading to something very distasteful.
“How long have you been employed with our firm - three, four years?” Mackenzie assumed impatiently.
“Five years,” Tom replied unassertively.
Mackenzie rolled full steam ahead. “Well, Tom, do you think you can work with Celia McBridle?”
Tom sat nervously still; then he replied, “Yes sir, I believe that this working relationship can be very productive.”
Mackenzie smiled concerned. “Good, Tom, let’s cut to the chase. Carravecky and Sons Aviation and Space Technologies is our firm’s biggest and most lucrative client.” He was interrupted by another telephone call. “Excuse me, Tom. Hello.” He paused for a moment, just long enough to place his hand over the phone and direct his attention back to Tom. “We’ll talk Tuesday about getting our auditing investigation underway. In the meantime, I’ll inform Selly that you’ll be working with Ms. McBridle until our objectives are accomplished.”
“Yes sir,” Tom replied, and motioned to shake Mackenzie’s hand; but there was no reciprocated response. He vacated the office and eased the door closed behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief and expelled, “My big break.” At that point it dawned on him as if a light flashed on in his brain that the one thing he was chasing that eluded him for so many years was a successful job, which was now at his fingertips; and he wasn’t about to let it go.
A short walk back and Tom settled behind his wood-grain laminated desk. He fumbled for a pen with one hand and flipped open a file folder with the other.
The fragmented images of last night’s dream raced uncontrollably through his mind. A force ripped at him internally screaming for his undivided attention while it nudged him from his state of depression and toward a state of relief. He wasn’t sure if the feeling was due to Mackenzie’s confidence in his work abilities or the dream. But he knew that he must discover the reason for himself.
The working day was nearing an end, and the reports Selly had requested were completed.
Selly was like a perfectly timed clock. He arrived at five o’clock and picked up the jobs.
“Tommy Bronzers,” Jant said with an exaggerated tone, and ducked into the cubicle.
Tom straighten up when he heard Jant’s voice; the guy’s tone was so annoying.
“The company’s bowling night changed to Wednesday. Are ‘ya’ going or what?” Jant demanded.
“I don’t know,” Tom replied, shrugging his shoulders and pausing in thought, “maybe, but don’t count me in.”
“Be there. Bronzers, you’re the best damn bowler in the office,” Jant praised, then reacted jumpy. “I ‘gotta’ go. I ‘gotta’ beauty queen waiting downstairs. I‘ll see ‘ya’ later, buddy.”
“Yeah sure,” Tom sat back and chilled out, a failed attempt to clear his mind.
The distorted dream imagery still confused him even after twelve hours, a soggy bag lunch, two rolls of antacid tablets, and six cups of black coffee. Something deep in his subconscious was calling him. He felt it. The voice that he had heard was like an extraordinary, thunderous rumble that carried a storm cloud that called: “We will meet again.” The voice was mentally refreshing, but it caused him sadness that emerged from the deepest shadows of his darkest thoughts. He was somehow blessed to be alive, knowing that there was something out there protecting him.
At 5:30 p.m., the dutiful associates leaving the office sounded like that of a drill-march exercise. The brisk flow of loyal foot soles confirmed another day had expired, and it was time to go. Tom straightened up his desk, handled his briefcase, and left for home.
Chapter 3: ROPED INTO A MIND-CRASH
The full moon hung brightly in the celestial night sky like a giant ball of yellow wax as if moonlighting for the sun. Tom stretched in bed, visually charting the heavenly constellations through the charred ring in the building code and wondered about this assigned investigation. The Carravecky auditing task impressed him more so than Selly’s redundant list of trivial daily chores; and, in a good way, McBridle frightened him. He heard she was very moody and professionally demanding. This was probably the reason why Steve and Doug graciously declined the invitation to rub elbows with her.
After he mentally prioritized the day’s activities, his body and mind fell into a bottomless sleep. A day in the life of a biologically augmented human, his lash-tight, striated Nukyi muscles seemed like they were ready to burst with an involuntary, unnatural response.
The earthly galactic hero was transfixed by the powers of the mind-crash, an energy that desegregated Tom’s body from mind and hurled his soul across the boundaries of infinity through a vortex of energy to another dimensional place and time to a world beyond where he heard his name called repeatedly in a timbre voice. He roamed there alone--his eyes impaired by drift smoke, his vision blurred by exhaustion. He realized this was the exact same mystic world where he first encountered The Be-Ing.
From the dark shadows, a controlled surge of light escaped into the darkness some twenty arm lengths away. Surely, this halo of energy would reveal its bleak altar of obscured secrets. He forged onward. His shoeless feet pounded the ground and riddled eyes pried into the depths of the holy, as the sacred drew him into an awakened void. There was no retreat as he surrendered to The Be-Ing’s world, a pure world where clear blue sky seemed to extend forever and healthy green scenery fanned in a blissful breeze.
“My friend, you have arrived under your own wilful desire.”
Tom twisted around with great speed. “Couldn’t you just email me a friendly invite? ‘Cause that was one sick belly up in the mouth stomach ride you carried me here on.”
The Be-Ing offered no apologies. “You are the key selection, and it is imperative that you are unconditionally successful.”
“Selected and successful... for what?” he replied inquisitively.
“I am obligated to restoring you to your former identity; then you will understand all that I teach.” The Be-Ing humped closer. The lofty soil quivered beneath its massive oval-shaped feet.
Tom felt uneasy and curious as he watched it plough and hunch a few steps away from him.
“Nukyi, your destiny must be fulfilled. Only then can the truth of your existence mesh with your special matrix.” It was close enough to touch, and its deep tone had mellowed as it circled Tom, like a powerful lion circling a weaker prey until it once again crouched eye to eye with the rediscovered Nukyi.
Their eyes locked. Tom had a profound craving to learn everything about the unworldly creature.
The Be-Ing’s active motion froze like ice. It crunched back from its apprentice intending to exhibit a montage of its powers. “I can transfigure my aggregate into any creation known to your world and beyond,” it said, as it commenced to demonstrate its uncanny abilities.
First, it morphed from its rock-like-battle mass into a ferocious lion. Then, it grew into an upright reptilian-like, spike-tailed creature with a broad snout and razor-sharp teeth. Finally, it took the form of an ancient prophet that measured at least six foot and wore a neatly trimmed beard and long, dry ruffled hair. His swarthy skin matched the lustrous tan-coloured robe that was pulled tightly with a braided gold belt around the waist. Tom noticed the entity’s physical characteristics resembled that of the holy man carved in that anonymous stone piece displayed in Mackenzie’s office.
“This can’t be happening,” Tom mumbled in disbelief. He was unable to pry his eyes away because he wished to witness again.
“Wearing this mould, my epithet is Exsorbo,” The Be-Ing admitted once the transformation was complete.
Tom felt somewhat humbled by the infinite wisdom cast upon Exsorbo’s mature face.
Exsorbo projected a strong voice. “Do not be alarmed. You must focus your mind and open your sensory to my dominance and intricate experience,” he demanded. “You are mortal and you will die.” He held his palms outstretched. “It is for me to unlock the secrets of your life and to save you from this death.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is your opportunity,” Exsorbo exclaimed.
“For what?” Tom sounded unconvinced.
“To reclaim your supreme mortality and denounce the evildoer who demands your Nukyi purity upon expiration. He will stop at nothing and will use every trick to manipulate time and distort the truth.”
“When you’re dead, the breathing game is over,” he confessed.
“You must seek the answers beyond your intellectual belief,” Exsorbo bellowed wisdomly.
“As a human, I don’t believe that’s possible so just forget about converting me--can’t be done,” Tom resisted the truth.
“Believe or die, the truth is there, grab it and survive.”
Tom straightened away, fearful of his future quest.
Exsorbo stepped closer. “Now, there is much to do and it is imperative we start immediately.” He continued to circle the human. “The exact purpose of your life is locked deep inside your mind. It holds the power of truth and wrath. We must harvest these powers, and only then can we fully manipulate your earthly world’s dimensional fabric,” Exsorbo admitted forcefully.
Tom interrupted, “Time travel is a 19th century novel fantasy. You can’t break the hourglass and step inside without spilling the world’s present reality.”
Exsorbo’s facial expression radiated with anger. “Inside your mind there is a map sealed behind restraining barricades that house all of what you are and all of what you have been. This map is the internal drive for life. It makes us what we are and who we will become. There you will find the valid answers to my teachings.” In a rejoicing voice, Exsorbo commanded, “Nukyi, come, see and experience.”
A stone pathway followed a maze of smart hedge work. They arrived at an aromatic garden with a courtyard and an angelic fountain, which spurted bursts of water that misted into vibrant colours overhead. It was a place of peace and beauty. Tom’s sight waded into the water pool. He identified his humanly image in the semi-distorted glossy surface, but observed that Exsorbo cast no physical reflection. “How do I attain what you have spoken about?”
Exsorbo captured a handful of wetness. “I am sworn to teach you; but, first, you must believe: All you seek is mortally obtainable.” He observed Tom absorbing the scenic grandeur. “Come.” He extended his hand and guided Tom down another stone path that led from the courtyard to a point beyond an ancient wall, arriving at a place where time melded with the powers of light and darkness.
“Whose spell dumped me here?,” Tom bellowed over the sounds of escaping energy whips, sparking lively flames, and paused at the mouth of the opening, alongside Exsorbo.
“The Messengers,” Exsorbo replied softly, and motioned to enter the rift.
Tom touched the master’s robed shoulder, and asked cautiously, “Who are they?”
“A council of higher entities,” he reported truthfully, and leaped forward. His voice echoed from out of the dimensional tunnel. “They are the ones who employed me to seek Tom Bronze, Thrond, an elusive Nukyi Salient and the only space soldier capable of battling the Supreme Commander of Hell.”
“That’s quite a tongue-biting mouthful,” Tom replied into the void; nevertheless, he was beginning to believe Exsorbo’s unhinged expedition as he lunged into the opening, ignoring the presence of danger.
Within seconds they stepped from the vortex and forged onward until they warmed in front of the enclosed flames.
“Look into the Fire of Hope,” Exsorbo instructed. “There you will see your lost achievements.”
Tom stared into the glowing hearth as instructed.
“Concentrate,” Exsorbo coached. “You see a world similar to earth, a place where violence and destruction was, and is an accepted way of life. This civilization is far superior to that of man--a world greatly advanced in space technology and greater than all the surrounding planets combined. The Voge galaxy, it was the Nukyis’ battleground. The blood of many was spilled onto its soil, and death became a sport for the Merless Dynasty and its merciless king. You are the last of your breed.”
“Where are the others?”
“They are exiled... unlike you.”
“And where would this place called “in exile” be?”
“That is beyond your earthly comprehension.”
“And that is?”
“A place of hell locked in time. Your fateful battlers are waiting for you to reactivate and prevail over their captor.”
Tom ran his fingers through his untidy hair, as if deathly worried.
Exsorbo disturbed the hot cinders with the crash of his hand. “It was the Ancient Ones who first experimented with genetic science and biological manipulation of creation. They fabricated the many life forms that presently inhabit the universe.”
“Where’s that written in the big, thick, holy-shit cookbook?” Tom said sarcastically.
Exsorbo intensified his tone of voice. “The sacrosanct of scriptures recorded that the Ancient Ones discarded their undesirables into uncharted space where such species prospered on habitable planets of the many clusters of galaxies. There were two such species superior to the others--the Nukyi Salients and the Merless Knight Warriors.”
“The knights... Were they good or bad?”
“There is no good or bad. There just is.”
“Tell me the truth, no mind games,” he insisted.
Exsorbo nodded, “Truly dedicated, then desperately wasted.”
“How is that possible?”
“Both were a genetic breed of fighter designed to maintain and preserve galactic harmony. Conceived by the same life giving substance that ignited the cosmos; it is the most unpredictable element next to existence itself. For this reason, your destiny is so imperative to all life, and there can be no time to waste.”
“And you want me to believe all hell is ‘gonna’ break loose if I run from your creepy challenge?”
“Believe or not. The truth cannot be altered, and you cannot hide,” Exsorbo roared.
“I’m not trying to hide.”
“You cannot fight your true existence by pretending ignorance.”
Tom accepted Exsorbo’s infinite wisdom. “Then, what’s next?”
“The flames have grown weak. We must not extinguish them or he will come.” He placed his hand on Tom’s shoulder.
“Who will come?”
Exsorbo avoided an explanation. “It’s time; you must return.”
“No, tell me, who will come?,” Tom demanded; but without another word, Exsorbo dissipated into energy particles, and was gone.
Beyond world forces ate at Tom’s flesh, and the air grew heavy and bitterly cold. His short breath froze with each long gasp. “Exsorbo, come back,” he demanded. “I must know who will come.”
The force escalated and flushed him back into the realities of his own misery. The elements of Exsorbo’s world faded, leaving behind a feeling of emptiness. “Exsorbo, come back!” He shouted again, but his words were lost in the timeless void; and he was forced to return to his own dimension.
*****
“Another nightmare,” he moaned, and massaged the tension from his exhausted muscles. He pondered over Exsorbo’s persistent vision. He’d been thinking about warriors and salients all morning with a ferocious appetite to attain more details about his future conquest.
Chapter 4: HOT YET FROSTY
Tom clutched up to the Belk Tower’s underground parking entry. Joey, the gatekeeper appeared less nosey, which was a minor but positive way to start the day; and Tom couldn’t help notice that Celia McBridle (in his rear-view mirror) inched, assertively closer to his rear bumper.
Tuesday morning was just another typical business day as she sat unbuckled and elegant behind the exotic steering wheel, like a spoiled Egyptian goddess capable of summonsing her circus of menservants with her magnetic authority. Far from ancient, McBridle was a modern woman of the new millennium and exploited her many God-given assets to manipulate the opposite gender and to acquire monetary fulfilment.
He suspected that she detested him. Sixty-two months ago, his initial interview with her was extremely uncomfortable; her sharp tongue outmatched her earnest poise; but, much to his surprise, he won the job.
With minutes to spare, Tom claimed his billet and bailed out. He rushed toward the elevator with one objective: avoid McBridle. From the corner of his strained eye he spotted her as she high-heeled at a brisk pace toward the doors. He tried to deviate off course to avoid her, but it was too late. They stood at opposite sides of the elevator and waited for the doors to open. Tom gestured good morning, something he seldom did.
She replied with a reserved smile while her cunning eyes scanned the length of his athletic frame.
The lift system disengaged, and they entered.
The interior boxcar was an ample space with highly reflective panelling and McBridle’s elegance radiated at him from all angles.
He could sense an uncomfortable awkwardness building between them as he secretly dissected her refined reflection and tried to conceal his probing eyes.
She ignored his lowly presence and proceeded to text with her smart phone.
“It’s a treat--no rain,” he said cautiously.
“Yes, it is,” she replied, and snapped the phone shut and stored it in her stylistic leather purse.
The elevator’s polished chrome walls amplified the contour of her infectious figure, enhanced by her dark-blue business wear, which was high-cut and tailored to a perfect fit. She wore a long cream-colored coat over her arm and suspended an exquisite briefcase from her jewelled hand, like money was no object.
They waited silently for the lift to reach their floor.
A barracuda, he thought. She could definitely devour any man with one chomp. He felt extremely threatened just standing next to her, but he had nowhere to escape.
At floor fifty-one, the mechanical jaws separated. Tom was relieved. He paused for a moment and admired her lengthy legs, curvy hips and shoulder-length, soft blond hair that bounced from side to side as she strutted toward the office ahead of him.
Today, McBridle’s name seemed to leap out at him from the glass entrance. It made his slow pulse race, and it moistened the palms of his dehydrated hands. Just thinking about working after hours with her was enough to give him a stress-induced heart attack. Exactly at 7:58 a.m. he parted the heavy, glass office doors and entered.
“Good morning, Stella,” he said, smiling and alert.
“And good morning to you, Tom,” she replied in a friendly voice and warm smile. “You’re in a chipper mood this morning.”
“It must be the fall weather.”
“Or something like, a new relationship?”
“No, I can’t afford that double-barrel luxury,” he said, and laughed within as he proceeded to his cubicle. Two steps into his trek he noticed that today the office atmosphere was calmer. Strangely, he had become accustomed to hearing the document printers spitting out reams of bond-twenty and the preppy associates chattering about their late-night drinking contests. He slid his briefcase on top his simulated wood-grained desk, stretched back in his squatty chair, and studied the temporary enclosure that fortified his work world.
Last night’s crazy delusion was still fresh in his memory. The lifelike visitation preoccupied his weakened mind, and muscled out all other thoughts. Perhaps, another calling from Exsorbo would melt away more brain fat and set his spinal nerve acid levels at ease. He took a deep breath and thought--what was it going to be like working with McBridle--Tedious? Half the office feared her because her professional actions could be so painfully quick yet so desirably addictive. He could eat her with one bite but knew her regal blood was highly poisonous.
Jant hurried past Tom’s cubicle.
“Hey, Jant,” Tom blurted out and vaulted from the chair.
Jant was a likeable fellow, yet a professional ass-kisser when he wanted to be friendly toward everyone in the office. Tom was itching to tell him about his new work assignment but barely sounded a word from his lips when Jant said hurried: “Sorry, pal, I’ve gotta get going. Lankenbury’s coming back from Hong Kong on Thursday, and I gotta finish preparing an asset transfer for his client or my butt’s in a cast.”
“Don’t worry; he’s taken a liking to you.”
“Yeah, maybe so, but he needs it pronto for some Asian banking group doing business on this coast; and if I don’t get it done on time, I’m out the door with my pants down. I gotta go. I’ll catch ya later, buddy, Wednesday night bowling?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ve got no special plans,” Tom mumbled, and deflated in the wobbly-wheeled chair and continued to sort out a client’s financial jumble of paperwork.
Before Tom knew it, it was 11:20 a.m. Selly should be arriving any minute to pick up a report that he had dropped off early this morning. Tom peeked at his watch. Selly was right on time, just as he indicated.
“Do you have that case study polished up and finished?” Selly inquired.
“Yeah, it’s completed but...,” Tom was interrupted by the telephone. He let it ring a few times, but eyed it with interest while his hand inched closer. He snatched up the receiver. “Tom Bronze.”
“How’s my favourite new office-pro today?,” Mackenzie inquired.
“I’m fine sir.”
“Tom,” Mackenzie’s voice was strong. “Can you come to my office if you’re not too busy?,” he demanded politely.
“Yes sir,” Tom replied. “I’ll be there shortly, sir.”
“I’ll take the file,” Selly said; “and if there’s a problem, I’ll have a senior auditor take care of any revisions.”
He waited till Selly left the zone before he put the phone to his ear. “Sir, I’ll be there directly,” he confirmed, and hung up.
Moments later he fretted in front of Mackenzie’s office with moistened palms, debating whether to knock once, twice, or not at all. He tapped once on the door and entered.
“We’re waiting for you,” McBridle scolded. “Time is money.”
Tom nodded, as if to apologize.
“Good to see you, Thomas,” Mackenzie said. “Have a seat and relax your feet.”
How could he relax? Just sitting next to her, especially when she crossed her legs with such authority, gave him an unjust impression that she was the judge and jury; and he was the guilty monkey.
“Tom, you know Ms. McBridle,” Mackenzie said. “So there’s no need for a winded introduction. As I indicated yesterday, you’ll be working alongside Celia, whom, we all know, was the firm’s top investigative auditor before obtaining a full partnership.”
Tom glanced over at McBridle and noticed the frosty expression on her sealed mouth, which gave him cold chills that ran up and down his spine; but he would endure this working arrangement if it meant advancing up the corporate ladder, even one rung. Although he hoped their relationship would become more informal, he anticipated working with her on this project; and he prayed that a financial promotion would follow.
“Our client, Carravecky and Sons, has a problem,” Mackenzie explained. “Their information security was breached and we’re uncertain of the severity.” He tangled his hands together like he needed a cigarette. “This technology conglomerate recently installed an advance site protection system, which cost millions to design and implement. So far, their new technology has been in operation for the last eighteen months without any significant malfunctions, but it’s a mystery who or what could have penetrated their solid defences.” His eyes narrowed. “Folks, what I'm about to tell you must not be leaked to anyone outside this office. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir, perfectly,” Tom promised.
McBridle just rolled her pretty blue eyes.
“Over the last decade, influential organizations with monetary clout invested vast amounts of development capital into prototyping special pieces of military finesse. These projects are classified, for our information only, as miscategorised black budget.” He breathed worrisomely deep. “There were two breaches in the system, both occurring roughly thirty days apart. The last breach occurred about a month ago. Right now, that’s all we have to go on so we’ll have to wing it one step at a time.”
“Their chief information officer, that person didn’t report any technical anomalies?,” Tom asked.
“Carravecky’s CIO left town six weeks ago without notice and can’t be reached. It’s my gut feeling that things could get rough.”
“How do you figure that?” Tom asked.
McBridle mildly lashed out, “Every time Jack senses industrial peepers he gets heartburn. It’s all in his head.”
“Celia, maybe so, but promise me, guys, follow good common sense and work smartly together.” Mackenzie focused on the dial of his gold watch. “I got to go; I’ve got an important meeting uptown. Bill Parker, who was released last week from his employment contract, screwed up one of our important accounts. I’m lunching with Vancouver Steel’s new VP of Internal Operations and, hopefully, save us some valuable business.”
“Happy bull shitting,” she said, as if to poke fun at the situation.
“They pay us plenty in fees so I shovel their load and wheel it where they want.” He rose from his firmly planted leather-back chair with his cell phone hooked to his hand as he donned his topcoat and left the room.
McBridle assumed control and captained from behind Mackenzie’s desk and eyed her new recruit. She heaved forward and bluntly said, “We've got a month’s worth of auditing procedures crammed into several days.”
“That’s a tight squeeze,” he estimated.
“We’ll make it. Now, let’s get down to business.”
Tom followed her up the hallway. “What did Mackenzie mean by ‘things could get rough’? Heartburn is hardly a symptom for break and entry.”
She broke hard and looked him straight in the eyes. “Of course, Mackenzie was kidding,” she said in a half-serious and half-joking manner as she held her coat over her arm and flung her long, beautiful blond hair back away from her modelled face, as if flirting with him.
Tom was surprised with her softened demeanour; she seemed to be warming up toward him. Perhaps that icy cold bitch Jant had described was her protective shield she wore in the office toward her subordinates.
“Tom, hurry, get your coat, Carravecky’s waiting.”
They rode the elevator in silence; then they entered the underground lot.
“The drive to Carravecky’s will take about thirty minutes,” McBridle said, as she deactivated her vehicle’s security and unlocked the doors with the remote.
They travelled with the sun in their eyes. The strong rays beamed through the windshield and warmed the cool leather interior of the German luxury sedan.
The scenery was colourful this time of the year as the leaves had changed to yellow and red and crumpled brown ones collected at the roadside and scattered in a swirling motion with every passing transport. Tom stared blankly at the trees that grew a windbreak along the highway. Again, he reflected on Exsorbo’s infinite wisdom but was distracted by McBridle’s alluring features.
Tom noticed that she was unable to fully conceal her shapely legs beneath her belted coat. He also observed that her neutral-coloured stockings only reached midpoint up her silky thighs, which revealed her milky skin, even though she overtly tried to close her coat over her executive lap without success. It seemed apparent she was toying with him, allowing him an opportunity to voyeur; but he didn’t participate since she commanded the utmost corporate authority and could terminate him with any fabricated cause. Sexually tortured, he tilted back and surmised about the nature of Carravecky’s contaminated security.
“The complex is about a mile from here,” she noted.
Her softened tone of voice had made him more comfortable; and for some unknown reason, he sensed something suspicious about her behaviour.
“So, Celia, how did we get so lucky as to be dealing with this billion-dollar man?” he asked.
Her eyes twitched from the pavement; the sun shone on her pure skin. “It was during a government investigation about fifteen-years ago.”
“Oh yeah, I didn’t know about that,” he replied.
“At that time Carravecky was manufacturing standard military bits and bites and dabbling in highly sensitive research projects, which, I assume, were jointly funded by the U.S. government and, quite possibly, an undisclosed European organization.”