In the Beginning
30 Jun 2019Sally Forth
The Children of Tothos arrived on Archambault Terminal a week ago. After the initial fighting, the whole place is living in terror. Rumour has it they have brought some kind of nuclear weapon on board, and are going to blow the whole station apart. In the meantime, robed cultists patrol the halls and corridors, randomly seizing innocent citizens to be sacrificed to this unholy thing they worship....The apartment door crashes inwards. Davis, my husband of twenty years, has just shoved the children and me into the space behind the wall panel he yanked off a few minutes ago, when word came that a bunch of the fanatics were heading into our area.
"Submit to the will of Tothos!" a stranger's voice shouts.
"Go to hell!" That's Davis.
The sound of blows, curses and pain. Then a thud and a moment of silence. Kiera, who can see out of the gap, screams, "Daddy!"
I weep as footsteps approach and the panel tossed aside. Grey-clad arms wrench Kiera out. "More supplicants!" cries the same voice. Natasha is next, kicking and crying.
I am wedged back as far into the wallspace as possible, frozen in fear. And they do not find me.
Footsteps again, growing fainter, the sound of something being dragged and the shrieking of two eight-year old girls. It takes a few seconds before I can crawl from the grubby hole, scramble to my feet and head out after them, pausing only to get the biggest knife from the block in the kitchen.
I have to keep my distance, lest the kidnappers spot me. Twice, I have to hide again as other cultists pass by. Something in my head tells me this is futile beyond belief. But what else can I do?
I'm too far behind them now. But they're heading for the West Plaza. Normally, a convivial place with trees and benches and shops. Not any more. I'm maybe twenty metres from the plaza now, at the top of the sloping ramp. I can hear screaming. This would be bad enough under any circumstances, but when you recognise the voices as those of your children...
Shaking in rage and horror, I peer round the corner into the plaza.
The trees have been chopped down, their wood fuelling two smokey bonfires. Benches have been dragged together to form a crude makeshift altar on the raised area in the centre. A dozen or so cultists stand around, chanting a discordant plainsong. Aside from this, there is now no other noise. There are bodies laid side by side in a semi-circle in front of the altar. A robed figure stands either side of the altar, and a third, behind it, holds a bloody dagger in the air, chanting along with its fellows. There are three motionless shapes on the altar itself. One larger, two smaller.
My
family
are
dead.
I utter no sound. The cultists all seem focused on their vile ritual. Crouching low, I move as quietly as possible. Thirty metres to the nearest cowled figure. As I approach, I see their robes are made from cheap cloth, not even dyed particularly well.
I stab the closest cultist in the lower back, several times. As he howls in agony, his fellows turn towards me. Before the initial shock has worn off, another gets it in the abdomen, a long, curving deep cut. His guts spill onto the floor. They are closing in on me now. One more. I just want one more, to pay them back for my husband and daughters. I'll only get one more chance, so I go high, flat of my spare hand against the hilt of the knife, putting as much force behind it as possible as it lands squarely in the left eye of the pasty-white, unshaven fanatic. The blade scrapes against bone as it goes in and the man collapses. The knife is stuck in his skull now, and I have to let it go. They're onto me, punching and kicking me. Let them. Let them kill me so I can join my beloved ones in death.
A crackling voice calls out.
"Despicable whore! You have soiled the sacred rite of Tothos! You have slain his faithful!" It's the man behind the altar. His robe has cheap gilt edging on it. His minions drag me towards him, dump my battered body on the mosaic floor.
"Such desecration must be punished! You shall not go to join the chosen many that have gone to fuel His coming." He stops not quite in front of me. Pale, like the others, raggedy beard. His face otherwise hidden by his hood.
"No, you shall not be permitted to gaze upon His glorious arrival!"
He gestures to the ones holding me. They grab my hair and force my head up. Now I can see the altar itself. Davis. Kiera. Natasha. On their backs, limbs splayed. Their throats have been cut. There is blood everywhere.
The priest begins to chant again, and the last thing I see is the point of his knife as it approaches my face.
There is pain, redness, darkness. I black out.
The floor is cold against my cheek. My body hurts in more places than I can count from the beating they gave me. But that is all subservient to the burning torment of where my eyes used to be.
The only noise now is my breathing, and the hum of the station's atmospheric processing system.
But then there is the smell.
The metallic odour of blood. Woodsmoke. Piss and shit, from myself and the bodies of the slain. My stomach heaves and I throw up, adding the acid reek of vomit into the mix. Then memory catches up with me. I try to scream, but only a choked gargling sound comes out. Mercifully, thankfully, I slip back into unconsciousness.
I must be dreaming, because I can see again. I recognise where I am, outside my childhood home on another starport, I cannot remember its name, only that it was an agricultural station. My parents had to move. My father was a stevedore, a dockworker. It was some trouble with the labour union. The day we had to leave, I was sat outside in the corridor. Any agricultural facility, planet side or orbital, will always attract vermin. And the best way to deal with vermin is its natural predator. So the authorities had sanctioned the introduction of cats. And, of course, it had gotten out of hand. Feral cats had become almost as big a nuisance as the vermin. But as I sat there, three kittens emerged from a pile of debris down the corridor. They surely weren't from the same litter; one was black, one tabby, one tortoiseshell. They edged cautiously towards me; obviously equating humans with food. They looked scrawny, and their pathetic mewls tore at my heart.
At that moment, my mother appeared.
"Sally, it's time to go."
"Mum, look at those kittens! Can't we spare some food for them?"
She did indeed look, placed her hands on my shoulders.
"Oh bless them," she murmured, "poor little things. I'm afraid we have to go, petal. We have to go, now!"
I reluctantly allowed myself to be led away. The meows of the hungry kittens fading into the distance.
We moved to Archambault Terminal. My father found work quickly enough; indeed, it was through him that I met Davis....
Consciousness comes creeping back. There is still only darkness, but the pain is gone, and the only smell is of clean linen and disinfectant. There's something else too, familiar but I can't place quite place it. Things still feel a bit dreamlike. The only other sensation is a gentle pressure across my eye sockets.
"Sally, can you hear me?"
I know that voice straight away. And I recognise the scent.
Angelo Rossini. Our regular doctor. He helped deliver the twins in what might otherwise have been a difficult birth.
My girls are dead.
Never met a kinder, more thoughtful man. Indeed, if Davis and I had not already been married, he could have been the one. As it was, we still became good friends.
My husband is dead.
"Sally?" I feel a gentle hand take mine.
"Angelo..." I can just manage a whisper.
"How do you feel, Sally?"
"Calm. Peaceful. Kind of floaty."
"That's the synthomorphine, then. What...do you remember?"
"They took Davis and the girls. And they murdered them."
I should be grieving. But the opiate makes me dispassionate. But the doctor's voice is strained.
"Sally, I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry!"
"Not your fault, Angelo. What's happening out there?"
"It's over. We're all safe. An undercover FIA team took out the cult leader and disarmed the device. I know that's cold comfort to you now."
"Best news under the circumstances. So tell me how bad it is. With me."
He sighed. "The damage to your body is healing. The issue is your sight. That's a protective covering on there at the moment. We can give you prosthetic eyes, Sally, but as your assigned medical practitioner, I need your consent. The procedure is well-established and very low-risk, but takes quite a few hours."
I absorb this. But not for long.
"Consent given."
He gave my hand a squeeze. "That's my girl," he said, "for the time being, are we okay to keep you asleep?"
"Sure. Not like I've got anything else to do."
I'm dreaming again. I'm in the hospital bed. At least I'm in a hospital bed; one created from memory. It's very quiet.
There's the faintest noise to my left. I turn my head slowly and look.
Next to the bed, are the three kittens I had to leave that day, so long ago. They gaze at me with their plaintive eyes, and meow softly. Next thing, they have leapt onto the bed and are snuggling up to me, soft fur brushing against my skin. I drift into a reverie with a smile on my face.
Angelo's voice is distant but clear.
"Sally, it's me. Everything has gone perfectly, and we are ready to switch your new eyes on."
A pause.
"It'll seem a bit odd at first - you'll see words and things but then vision should come."
A click, a slight tingle. There are indeed words, glowing green on black.
OCULUS CORP.
CYBEREYE O/S V5.3
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
INITIATING ACTIVATION SEQUENCE.
Fade to nothing, then very slowly, vision returns. There is a weird sensation as micro-jacks are removed from the eyes. The gloved hands move away, and Angelo's face, surgical mask and all, appears.
"Hey, Sally..."
"Am I glad to see you!" We both start giggling at my awful pun.
"Best if you rest, Sally. Give yourself time to get used to them, and get some real sleep now we've finished pumping you full of dope. Jug of water to your right."
"Roger that, Doc." He pats my arm and leaves the room.
I doze for a while, every so often having a look around. I am aware of the prosthesis in a way that I wasn't with organic eyes, but it's not uncomfortable. In the quiet of the room, on the edge of hearing, the whine of tiny motors moving them around. I have a glass of water, then roll over and drift off.
I'm awakened by a tiny noise: a gentle thump and a patter.
I open my eyelids and to my astonishment, the tabby cat is there, standing on my chest. It lets out a soft purr.
Thump, patter. Thump, patter. The other two join it.
"Hey, you guys...." I murmur, slowly reaching out. Their fur is as soft as it was before and their delicate whiskers tickle my hand.
"How did you get here? Am I still dreaming?" They nuzzle my hand. I carefully sit up in bed, and they curl up in my lap.
Several hours later, Dr Rossini enters the room. His patient and old friend Sally is sat up in bed with a contented smile on her face. Her right hand moves back and forth in the air about six inches above her lap.
"Sally? You okay?"
"I'm not bad at all, Angelo,"
"How are the eyes?"
"Pretty good. I can't thank you enough."
"You're welcome."
"Angelo...who brought the cats?"
He pauses and realises that she is making a stroking motion with her hand. His heart skips a beat and he thinks fast.
"Uh...they didn't say...."
"I didn't think they would be allowed in here! But I'm so grateful they are."
"That's good, Sally. I'll leave you in peace. Dinner is eighteen thirty hours, okay?
"Sure. Thank you again, Angelo."
He nods and quietly leaves the room. In the corridor outside, he slumps against the wall and feels the tears welling up. "Oh Sally," he moans, "poor dear Sally. I knew you had been too calm, even after the morphine..." He shakes himself, straightens and heads to his office. There are colleagues he must contact straight away.