Aurona, page 15
The phantom sun was dipping lower in the sky, as real as “now” could possibly be. The slice of time was fleeting, too, and Kron spun around as he suddenly remembered the important sequence of events to follow. He looked apprehensive. “Sorry, guys, I-I got carried away, ya know?” he paused, listening. “Yeah, there it is! That sound’s the cops chasing us!”
The crew strained to hear. Sure enough, there was the faint wail of a siren in the distance … the police! Kron wasn’t kidding! As they focused in the direction of his pointing finger, they heard the faint sound of frantic, running feet and labored breathing echoing in one of the narrow alleys. It grew louder.
Suddenly, five young punks streaked out in single file! In a quick reflexive reaction, the crew opened up a path for them, scuttling back on their cushions as the group careened out into the center of the circle. Gasping for breath, the punks bent over with their hands on their knees, their sides heaving. The crew stared in astonishment at their crazy getup. Their leader was the worst of the lot, absolutely bristling with menacing, spiked collars on his neck, wrists, and ankles. His spiked hair matched the metal, pulled into sharp peaks and sticking out in all directions like a pincushion. To complete the intentionally discordant ensemble, a skimpy vest showed off his truly massive chest and biceps, and a pair of wild geometric pants were printed in bold black-and-white zigzags and explosions.
Kron looked calmly back and forth, first at the punk and then at the crew. With a shrug of his shoulders, he explained everything in a single word.
“Me.”
Their mouths flew open when they saw the resemblance. Yes, it was him! A few sprang to their feet to look a little closer, but Adam quickly waved them down. “Hold on, guys! I believe this is the point where everything starts to happen pretty fast. Right, Kron? Let’s pull away from the action!” He scooted backward, sliding on his cushion. Picking up on his cue, others quickly followed suit. Just as he’d predicted, one of the punks let out a loud expletive and yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Hey! A boozer!” he pointed. He’d spotted the cowering drunk and started to swagger toward him. A brightly painted Day-Glo design covered his taut ebony skin, so bright it seemed to be yelling in contrast. War paint? With a bounce in his step, he started to stalk his prey. Approaching by a circuitous route, he feinted back and forth, taunting, intimidating and frightening the old man.
The drunk began to blubber. “Hey! I-I ain’ got no money!”
“I’m gonna clip you up, scum,” the Day-Glo punk snarled.
“Leav’ me ‘lone! I was jisht pashin’ thru!” he wailed.
The mood grew ugly. The other punks strolled out arrogantly and formed a tight circle, surrounding him. Suddenly, the old man panicked. Lurching toward an opening, his arms flailed wildly. Debris flew. Muffled grunts and pitiful, drunken wails set everyone’s nerves on edge. One of the gang quickly had him pinned, a set of strong young hands mercilessly throttling him.
“Hey, wino! Time you learn sompin,” one of the punks hissed, out of breath.
“Yeah! We ax you a question, big man!” a greasy-haired punk with a bad case of acne sneered, lifting a pipe over his head. “Where yo’ money?”
Gasping for breath, the drunk suddenly wrestled an arm free and smashed him in the pimply jaw. The youth’s head snapped back, sweat and hair flying. He started to scream, bleeding from his mouth.
“Waste him! Scum!”
The pipe came crashing down hard. The drunk groaned, thrashing weakly. All reason seemed to fly as the group closed in like jackals, intent on their quarry and anticipating the kill.
The spiked Kron slowly pulled away, shaking his head.
A knife flashed! The crew had become totally involved now: incensed and horrified, they forgot themselves completely and started yelling.
“Watch out! Stop him!” a woman screamed.
The situation spiraled completely out of control. The long blade rose in the air and paused, seconds ticking away. A voice rasped out viciously.
“Say goodbye, boozer!” It plunged downward in a blur.
Suddenly, unbelievably, a hand shot out. The sharp blade sliced cleanly through a muscular palm and out the other side, stopping just as it touched the old man’s skin. Everyone stared in shock, wide-eyed.
Kron’s face was a frozen mask. “Enough!” he spoke quietly, powerfully. He’d taken on a strange new look, his body tense and consumed by a seething, inner rage. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew the knife from his hand and wiped it on his pants, letting it drop with a clatter to his feet. As the punk rose unsteadily, Kron glared into his pale, cowering face. Wordlessly, he grabbed the punk’s dirty, torn shirtsleeve and yanked down hard, ripping it off. Eye to eye, turn after turn, he wrapped it slowly around his bloodied hand. As the old one stirred near his feet and began to retch in dry heaves, he glanced down for a fleeting moment.
At the same moment, eight furtive eyes motioned to each other. Once more, the pipe rose slowly in the air, this time behind their leader’s back. They took a half step toward him, preparing to pin him down.
Kron’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. On the attack now, he spun around, his foot striking out with tremendous force to bury itself deeply in the greasy youth’s soft belly. The pipe clattered to the ground and the punk doubled over, out of commission. Enraged, the rest converged on Kron, three on one. Whirling, lashing out powerfully, he became a blurred fighting machine, his supple body flying through the air in a dazzling display of acrobatic skill. Badly outclassed, the punks retreated into a tight knot, whimpering to each other. This time, it was Kron’s turn to be enraged.
“That’s it! This is the end!” he roared. “I’m leaving this crud!”
Suddenly, a new voice rumbled in a deep, rolling bass. “He’s so right!”
Everyone’s eyes widened. They looked around, searching. Who could that be? The punks looked equally puzzled. Shortly, the strange voice boomed again.
“I was waiting for SOME sign of intelligence here!”
As the old man slowly unbuttoned his coat and studied his four assailants, the crew stared at each other in astonishment. It was the drunk!
One of the gang spoke up, his fragile ego challenged. “Hey, wise man, stop blabbin’ yo mouth!” he sputtered, bleeding profusely from his nose.
Silence fell. Every eye was riveted on the old man. He stopped mid-button, then slowly raised his fist and pointed an ominous, gnarled finger at the punk. Partially concealed in his palm was a small, smooth object.
Kron was beside himself now: literally. As he stood next to his spiked phantom version, he let out a loud, excited stage whisper. “Watch this!”
The punk was babbling weakly. “You don’ scare me, you….”
A tiny, glowing ball streaked through the air and smacked him on the chest. His eyes rolled back in his head and his voice trailed off, ending in a wheeze!
“What the…?” As the Day-Glo punk tensed to run, the other two caught his panic and began to claw over each other in terror, scrambling toward an alley.
Once more the gnarled hand waved the smooth object in an arc. Three more balls of fire hissed through the air! Their bodies stopped mid-stride, their mouths open in a yell, but no sound coming out. As their eyes rolled back inside their paralyzed bodies, their feet dangled loosely off the ground, suspended in midair.
Darkness had crept into the park and a few lights flickered on in nearby windows. Silhouettes of curious heads appeared behind dirty, torn curtains, and small groups gawked from the narrow, rat-infested alleys. The crew had begun to cluster into small, tightly knotted groups for security.
Warily, everyone studied the old man as he stepped out of his dirty clothes. He began to grimace, his face taking on a strange, rubbery look. Smoothing out, his features transformed. What they saw in the twilight transfixed them all.
A tall, sleek-skinned alien with luminous eyes was now standing next to the ring of floating punks! His rotten clothes, wet with booze, were piled at his feet and a form-fitting, electric blue uniform was now stretched over his lanky figure.
A disguise! Some kind of plasmorphic alien had evidently been lying in wait! But for what? As a buzz of speculation rose, Kron raised his voice to explain.
“Believe me, guys, I had no idea my encounter was being recorded. Honestly, I didn’t even know a holocamera existed!” Excitedly, he pointed at the alien. That’s Jeban! He turned out to be my best friend ever, one of the Bitrons I ended up living with for nearly a year. They’re a technologically advanced race and he’s one of their special agents.”
Everyone began to study Kron in a new light. Why, he’d never given a hint of his past and had blended seamlessly into their midst, just ‘one of the guys’! Their eyes questioning, they glanced back at Adam. He acknowledged them with a shrug and a wink, and then quickly redirected their focus back to the action.
As the plasmorphic Bitron swiveled to face the outrageously dressed, spiked Kron, he stepped back warily, his hands raised in defense. “Yes, we know you, Kron,” he began in his deep, rolling bass, “and have seen that your life, up to now, has been a tragedy. But your great act of heroism in sparing the life of this useless drunkard has greatly impressed my people. You’ve held on to principles that most, including your friends here, have lost!” He smiled, and then turned to speak directly to the curious throngs gathering in the alleys. Fanny was there, too, shaking in the shadows.
“After visiting many places for many years, we have singled out this gash, this scar of a city to rescue the few remaining humans with a purpose. We’re seekers. We’re reclaimers of responsible, reliable humans.” He gestured in a circle with a broad, sweeping motion, his deep voice permeating. “Look around you!”
Unexpectedly, a gray blur scurried into the open followed closely by a brown streak. With a scuffle and squeal, a rat breathed its last.
Shaking his head with a sigh, the Bitron continued. “We have been monitoring this incredible, blue-green planet for centuries. They say there are marble columns lying unseen beneath your Atlantic waters. Great cities are cloaked under the last of your once-vast rainforests. Your primitive satellites have picked out the remains of great civilizations, forever lost under the dunes of your Sahara Desert. Look around you! Look, and see today’s neglect and discord face to face!”
No one had to look. Ruin was everywhere.
“These were once proud homes, built by dreamers. This was a delightful park, an oasis of green with fountains and magnolia trees. Can you believe it? They’re gone now. This ruin started from the inside. Like fruit rotting from the core, it spread outward as the dreamers died or left, one by one. Their only hope, their children, once played where you now stand. When the time was right and decay had reached its peak, the wolves came, lurking in the alleys. The wolves? You all know of the wolves! They’re the beasts who destroy the mind for profit. Yes, and once the mind is lost, the soul is lost. Once the soul is lost, the life is lost.”
His strong voice faltered, falling to almost a whisper. “This-this we cannot understand. How can your lives, your future, go on with no one to build? How can you prosper with no one to dream? We see your civilization to be now in reversal, turning backward as if it were a black hole consuming itself in the great scheme of creation! For decades, we’ve followed this irreversible, growing trend with great dismay and have finally decided to step in and take action. So today, in front of your eyes, we’ve thrown ourselves into the midst of this pack of wolves, seeking survivors.”
His hand rested on Kron’s shoulder. “Survivors. You, Kron, are a true survivor! From our starship cloaked in orbit, we’ve watched you for many years. You never knew your father, and for that matter, neither did your mother. As a child, she was enticed by those wolves. The mind-killer was introduced into her body, coursing through her veins, destroying all the delicate and wonderful machinery. We saw it all happening, Kron. She died when you were four, correct?”
A faint gasp swept through both assemblies, human and phantom.
He continued resolutely. “You lived off and on with different families for a while, didn’t you? But at fourteen, you were back out on the streets fighting for your life, a mere child fighting off the wolves against overwhelming odds.”
Kron was trembling now, along with many of the crew. The truth stabbed deeply. They’d all been living the pain of his hard life for a mere twenty minutes, but it seemed like an eternity.
The wise man continued, lifting his voice with a new hope. “But you’ve overcome! Yes, you’ve won!”
The spiked Kron muttered, wavering. “I-I’ve won? What…?” A steady rivulet of blood had been oozing from the dirty cloth and gathering in a pool at his feet.
“Yes, you’ve got it! You’ve got what we seek! We’re here now to claim this elusive prize, then to refine and polish it!”
“Prize?” Kron whispered weakly, grasping for comprehension.
The Bitron sighed. “It’s simple, Kron. This prize is your integrity. It’s a rare commodity anymore, a jewel, and you’ve got it. The privilege of claiming it has become our group’s obsession and destiny. We seek the last of the dreamers.”
Kron was visibly slumping. “I used to dream…,” he whispered.
The Bitron bent low to reassure him, speaking in soothing tones. “Yes, we know, my boy. But you’re to come with us now. We’ll help you rekindle that spark! Your struggle on this hard world is over and you’ve got nobody left to hold you here!” Turning to look upward, he raised his arms.
A low pulse became quite evident in the still air, growing into a powerful beat. As great banks of clouds roiled over their heads, the pulse pushed physically against everyone’s body, a deep rumble shaking the floor beneath their feet. The holosphere was duplicating this unforgettable slice of time with breathtaking realism!
Trembling, soaked in blood, the spiked Kron slumped to his knees the dirt, his pale face signaling approaching shock. The Bitron quickly knelt next to him to peel the dripping, dirty sleeve from his clenched fist. Drawing a flexible rod from a slit in his utility belt and deftly bending it into a ring, he passed it over the wound. After he’d daubed a clear fluid on both sides, he pricked the back of Kron’s neck with a double-pronged instrument. Immediately, color rushed back to his face. He became intense, excited, sputtering out questions. “W-what? How did they … how did you…?”
“These are the products of dreams, Kron!” the Bitron interrupted, chuckling. “Your people have none of these wonderful things because they’ve killed off most of their dreamers!” He paused to glance distastefully at Kron’s wild appearance. “It’s almost time to go,” he sighed, “but first….” He pulled a sleek, multiforked instrument from his utility belt and ran it through his spiked hair. In a flash and puff of smoke, the layers of goo dissolved, evaporating in a sizzle. Kron’s real hair, a thick, golden mane, bounced into place! Pulling out a small, tightly folded package, he opened it by simply turning it inside out. An incredibly thin, electric-blue, one-piece uniform unfolded. Smiling, he shook out the origami masterpiece and held it up to Kron for size. “Perfect! If you’re going to be one of us, you’ve got to look like one of us, right?”
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a blast of neon light blew Kron’s clothes away in shreds! The cuffed spikes, the vest, the chains, the pants, everything!
He stood there in shock, covering his naked form with the skimpy blue uniform, the only thing available. The Bitron roared with laughter, pointing upward. “Hey, I’m so sorry, Kron! My friends did this, not me! That’s their way of saying, ‘Hurry up!’” He held up a finger. “Wait a minute….”
He quickly shook out a folded origami blanket, shielding him from the gawking eyes in the alleys. In a colorful spectacle, a red-faced Kron scrambled into the electric blue uniform, his tousled blonde hair bouncing up and down. Chuckling, the Bitron dropped the blanket and held out an arm. “Here! Don’t forget your utility belt!” He burst into laughter again, the rippling, musical sound bouncing off phantom buildings in fantastically real echoes.
In moments, a transformed Kron stood there, casual, handsome, and hopeful. The spark in his eyes had begun to glimmer once more. Standing arm in arm and laughing, they slowly dematerialized in a purple light as the four totally confused punks dropped to the dirt with muffled thuds.
The scene began to shift. Fading, wavering, the park, buildings, lights, and people lifted, transforming back into glittering, nebulous ribbons. Flowing toward the center, they streamed into the top of the flagpole. The sphere changed from tarnished gold to black, the lights came on and the illusion was gone. They were back.
A tumultuous cheer broke out. The unforgettable holo-recording had visually delivered a difficult, gut-level message, extremely personal and very hard to put into words: a message of renewed hope, a spark that had rekindled and burst into flame. They were all dreamers now! Adam bounded into the center, ecstatic. An arm draped over Kron’s shoulder, he motioned for silence. The crew beamed, confident in his choice of leadership and accepting him wholeheartedly.
“I, for one, am sure that this man would lay down his life for me! Remember, guys, just like me, he was in an impossible situation! Just like me, he saw the only way out and did something about it! He acted! As the saying goes, ‘It’s a wise man who keeps himself under control.’”
Adam’s carefully planned presentation had worked: his powerful, double-barreled message hit its target dead center. First, they’d learned about their narrow escape from the Obelisk Planet, and then they’d seen Kron’s courageous escape from personal ruin. Neither man had panicked under stress. They’d both kept their cool and displayed a level of maturity and responsibility far beyond their years.
