Quantum Nightmares, page 37
The old man stopped what he was doing. He turned. His demean-or changed. He looked at Michael with the regretful eyes of a five-year-old that had just spilled grape juice all over their mother’s white couch.
“Michael, my boy, I have decided,” he said, eyes shrinking into little beads, head nodding with utter conviction, “that you are to be humanity’s next ascended master.”
Michael was genuinely shocked by the revelation, if not confused. He thought about it for a second and argued the decision’s logistical probability. “But, sir,” he said, thinking aloud, “an angel has never run a planet. It’s unprecedented.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man said, “that is the natural order—ttyyppiicaallyy.”
The old man said typically slowly and with a distinct, upward inflection that hung in the air, as if it were a question. Michael knew the old man better than most, and he was confident a lecture was to follow.
As if to validate Michael’s suspicion, the old man said, “How many times have you incarnated for me and done remarkable things, Michael?”
An ascended master of Legion is, for all intents and purposes, considered their respective planet’s God. They are responsible for many of society’s beliefs as they recruit a vanguard of old souls (star seeds and lightworkers) who sign contracts to incarnate on the planet with the design to raise vibrations and oblige the mission’s purpose of achieving ascension.
A hierarchy of angels are assigned to each species in tandem with the volunteer souls. On earth, they are known as the biblical watchers. They incarnate into augmented avatars or split their essence and attach to several bodies in a parallel timeline. Though they don’t remember their mission while alive, there is a definite code sequence imbedded into the fabric of their DNA, and, eventually, at preplanned intervals, the DNA will activate a burning desire in them and they will be driven to champion a cause that will utterly consume them, body, mind, and soul. It is written in their DNA, so shall it be done. These special souls are responsible for many of their respective planet’s spiritual and scientific innovations, pushing forward the bounds of various disciplines and the consciousness of their planet.
On earth, there was no other angel that had more of a lasting effect than the archangel known as Michael.
“I don’t know, sir,” Michael said cynically, “too many times,” he paused, “and yet,” pause, “not enough, equally, sir.”
The old man was hunched over the minibar with his back toward Michael. He turned and gave Michael his full attention. “Well, let’s see—you incarnated as Jesus, two Dali Lamas, Da Vinci; you attached to Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and even Albert Einstein,” the old man said, counting the fingers of his right hand. When he said Martin Luther King and Albert Einstein, a sixth and seventh finger sprouted on the outside edge of his hand. They were, however, the size of a baby’s pinky. Indicating that although the old man’s powers had faded with each failed cycle, his personality was still very much intact. He winked at Michael with smiling eyes as he wiggled the two deformed appendages. “Shall I continue?”
Michael wasn’t in the mood for such cheeky theatrics as he was still coming to terms with yet another failed mission under yet another failed ascended master. He could no longer bite his tongue. “So many attempts and yet, I didn’t even make a dent in the ascension.” His voice was low, grave. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then: “I’m tired, sir. I’m tired of trying in vain.”
“Oh, but you did make a difference, son. A profound difference, in fact,” the old man said. “The problem wasn’t with our message.”
“Then what was the problem, sir?” Michael’s voice was harsh, acidic. He apologized with his eyes.
“Ah, yes,” the old man said, “that is the ever-elusive answer to the most paramount of questions, now, is it not?” His head bobbled as he thought aloud. “And, as perplexing a question it is, the answer is invariably the same—something. But what is that something? Where did we go so terribly wrong, Michael?”
Michael didn’t answer the question; he just watched as the old man went back to rummaging through the bar aimlessly. What’s the point? Michael thought. Humanity is a lost cause. Legion should just terminate their existence once and for all.
“Did you know I’m the one-thousandth ascended master to champion humanity, Michael?” the old man asked over his shoulder. He combined two different drinks, tasted them, and poured it out. “Now, what was that recipe,” he said to himself.
“You’re the eleven hundredth ascended master to champion humanity, sir,” Michael corrected with as much respect as he could muster.
“Yes, of course,” the old man said. “So, then you are aware of their historically bad track record. Yes?”
“I am,” Michael said with a sort of prideful misery, “I’ve been assigned to humanity since the committee’s inception, sir. Back when humanity was on their home planet, Mars.”
“Oh? I wasn’t aware of that.” The old man turned, projecting genuine confusion. When in fact, he was privy to this information. It was just suppressed somewhere deep within his intellect, buried under 25,710 sum years of heartbreak. Michael had seen this happen 1,099 other times. The gradual decline of an ascended master’s powers accelerates drastically at the end of their last cycle. Michael knew the old man’s mind would be unsalvageable, sooner rather than later.
But despite the heartbreak from anticipating the inevitable occurrence, deep down, Michael was almost relieved. For the old man had watched his most beloved children try and fail so many times, and although Michael was going to miss him dearly, he was glad the old man would no longer have to endure the immense burden of the broken-hearted loop he was otherwise doomed to repeat.
In time, Michael thought, desperately wishing to spend as much time with the old man as was possible, even if that time was spent watching him slowly disintegrate into a shadow of his former self. Love is selfish in that way.
But Michael knew the old man would choose the same itinerary as most other ascended masters and opt to self-destruct prematurely. The decision would be made to minimize his own suffering, certainly, but more so to spare humanity from an extended period of turmoil. For the closer an ascended master reaches the end of their last cycle, the more they have a penchant for violent dementia, which creates waves of cataclysm on their corresponding planet and resets the planet anew.
The perpetual cycles of creation, destruction, and renewal that have become the norm for humanity isn’t how the divine script was originally written. It has only transpired that way due to humankind’s eternal inability to achieve enlightenment. They have failed time and again, reaching levels of high technology, before crumbling to dust and starting anew. This is the core of truth behind the ubiquitous legends of ancient peoples, and the cyclical rise and fall of civilizations as humanity goes from age to age and sun to sun.
The Mayans believed humanity was in the fifth and final world, or sun. And in a way, they were right. For this is the last cycle under the current master as the energy from the population acts as beacons to the universe, letting it know what age to usher in next, for better or worse.
The intermittent periods between lucidity and dementia become fewer and further the closer an ascended master reaches their last failed cycle. Eventually, inevitably, all ascended masters who do not complete their missions in time enter a state of delirium, inadvertently wreaking havoc on the species that has broken their heart, which, coming full circle, is the root cause of the destruction itself in a superb exhibition of bittersweet irony. The last one hundred years of their fifth cycle are always the worst. As such, most ascended masters decide to self-destruct at the onset of the worst of times.
In his time serving as humanity’s head archangel, Michael had encountered only one ascended master stubborn enough to endure until the contemptuous end. The subsequent destruction was so immense that Mars (where humanity was at the time) collided with another planet that previously orbited between Mars and Jupiter. And like so many other time-old stories, the enduring lore of the incident survived in the collective consciousness of humanity, passed down by the oral traditions of the ancients. The planet was called Tiamat, and the debris of evidence is commonly referred to on earth as the asteroid belt.
“What I can remember,” the old man said, “is when I stepped forward, most thought I had either lost a bet or had gone stark raving mad.” He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes shifting colors. “The prevailing school of thought was then as it is now—that humanity shall forever remain cursed and any master who champions them is doomed to fail.”
There was a loving twinkle in the old man’s eyes as elusive memories returned.
Michael allowed the old man his fading memories, for he knew it would be a rare occurrence in the immediate future.
As predicted, after only a few short moments, the sparkling fire that the memory had given life to extinguished, and Michael knew the old man had lost it. It broke his heart to see the old man just so, and to nudge him back on course, he queried, innocently enough, “So, why did you take it then, sir?”
The old man looked at Michael with lost eyes. There was a second when no light emanated from them like a drunkard who gazes upon a mate but seemingly looks right through them. The occurrence was brief but pronounced, and Michael’s heart was submerged with warranted spite for humanity’s inability to reach ascension. They are outright murderers, he thought.
Meanwhile, the old man had recovered well enough as he finally found the ingredients, and he gave Michael his full attention.
“Why did I take what, son?” he asked.
“The mission to run earth,” Michael said, “if it was said to be cursed, that is.”
“Well,” the old man said softly, “I imagine I took it for the same reason I don’t regret taking it—I thought I could make a difference, son.”
The old man shook what he thought to be two martinis and gave one to Michael, who reluctantly took it, despite the undeniable fact that angels don’t drink alcohol. But in the declining years of their last cycle, and with their waning minds rapidly deceiving them, ascended masters often performed peculiar and irrational acts.
Michael had once been acquainted with an ascended master who became incurably enamored with carriers of the MC1R gene. Their fire hair and the polka-dotted blemishes that ran the length of their skin convinced her that they were somehow good luck and the missing link in saving humanity. The infatuation bordered on pathological, and in a desperate effort to save humanity, she recruited a slew of fifth-density souls whose DNA harbored this very chromosome. It wasn’t a bad idea, in theory. However, her execution was flawed.
In her ailing state, she ignored Michael’s counsel and refused to send them through the soul regenerator machines, opting instead to send them down in their natural form. Their descendants are commonly referred to today as gingers, but in their inaugural cycle, they were revered as gods as they were of giant proportions and possessed such knowledge, they seemed divine, indeed.
The old man held his drink at arm’s length. Wishing to put his failing mind at ease, Michael partook in the toast. It was, however, noticeably pungent, and possibly even poisonous, Michael suspected. And when he glanced at the minibar, his suspicions were confirmed— instead of alcoholic beverages donning the ledges, there were several cleaning products, and Michael noticed the minibar wasn’t a minibar at all—but a cleaning caddy.
The old man’s dementia was making him a danger even to himself. He had been tiptoeing that invisible line of no return for some time and had just officially crossed it. He only had about another hundred years of a semi-lucid state remaining. That’s not long enough, Michael thought.
The old man motioned Michael back to the translucent wall. After the gesturing nod, a fluffy cloud in the shape of a couch slowly manifested. By the time they reached it, it was finally a physical object. Michael noted the gradual progression of manifestation as an irrefutable indication that the old man was due presently to die.
The old man plumped down ever so slowly and patted the rolling mist of the cloudy cushion next to his own. Michael sat next to him. They sat silently for a spell, looking out of the translucent wall at the massive blue marble. “So, Michael, my boy,” the old man said unsurely, “how was your last mission?”
“We’ve already broached that topic, sir,” Michael said respectfully.
“Have we now?”
“Yes sir.”
The old man nodded in defeat. “What was it we were talking about then, son? I have a sneaking suspicion; it was of paramount significance.”
“We were discussing where we erred with humanity, why we were unable to achieve our objective, sir.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man said. “That is the question, now, isn’t it?” He overcompensated for his disorientation with an exaggerated nod that swiftly bobbed up and down. “What indeed?”
Michael’s heart ached for the old man. He had served under many other ascended masters, but with this one, he genuinely believed they had a chance at completing their mission the moment the tenth billion soul was born. He was certain, in fact, under this ascended master’s guidance, they’d finally get humanity to the fifth density and end their suffering.
“So, then,” the old man said, “where would you say we went wrong?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Michael said, trying to hide his annoyance.
“Oh, but you must have some inclination, son. After all,” he lightly touched Michael’s knee, “and feel free to correct me if I misspeak, but have you not incarnated on earth more than any other angel?”
Michael nodded in agreement, but the old man was waiting on a verbal cue.
“There’s so much, sir,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Start where you must, but it is imperative we speak on these matters directly. For I fear I will be unable to articulate my message in the very near future, and we have yet to have our after-action review, and transfer briefing. As I suspect, I’ve already informed you that you are to be my replacement—”
Michael opened his mouth to object, but the old man raised his hand and voice.
“—And as reluctant as you may be to accept the dubious honors,” he continued, “the bylaws on this matter are very clear, son—if a volunteer does not step forward, the outgoing ascended master has full autonomy and shall pick their successor, and although there’s never been an angel successor, I care not for tradition and only for the salvation of humanity.”
The old man’s eyes went blank again. Michael knew the expression wasn’t spawned by amnesia but heartbreak and regret. For he had seen it many other times on many other ascended masters.
They sat in silence. The old man’s eyes melted into brown eyes and then into hazel with specks of green; albino eyes; baby blue.
Aside from the changing colors, they remained blank and expressionless.
“I believe you’re Legion’s best chance at accomplishing the mission,” the old man said, “but if by some chance you can’t, then you terminate and are released from your torment.” He looked at Michael warmly. “Either way, this is a win-win situation for you, Michael.”
Michael realized he was right.
The old man gazed upon his favorite angel and closest confidant, and Michael was unable to refuse any longer.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I guess we can start with my last incarnation.”
“Yes, let’s,” the old man said with giddy anticipation. “Activate afteraction review modality.” The translucent walls blinked in a mercury-like substance and went back to the translucent walls.
“After-action review modality activated, sir,” said the ship’s AI system. “Will there be anything else?”
“That will be all for now,” the old man said.
There was a long pause as Michael secretly hoped the old man’s memory evaded him, but no such thing occurred. “Well,” the old man said impatiently.
Michael dug deep for motivation to have what was, in his opinion, the most meaningless conversation. “As you well know, sir,” he paused, looking for the best words, and decided on a direct approach, “due to your lingering dementia, my last incarnation was terminated prematurely.”
“My word,” the old man said, “what happened now?”
Michael let out a slightly perturbed sigh. “I was afflicted with an ailment from an untested vaccine, and like so many others, I was unable to shake the long-term effects, sir.” The old man nodded as if he remembered, but Michael knew this was only a charade. “But even if my mission wasn’t curtailed,” Michael said, “I wouldn’t have made much of a difference, regardless, sir.”
“Uh-huh,” the old man said, “and why do you suppose that is, Michael?”
Just then, the after-action review modality activated. The ship interfaced with Michael’s consciousness, and the translucent walls became malleable, as ripples of a mercury-like substance began oscillating and transforming into checkered graphs. The squares were twelve inches by twelve inches, and they slowly covered the walls, ceiling, and floor.
Michael heard what they were before they fully manifested in form. They were television sets depicting live scenes from earth—social unrest, circus governments, banks, and corporations breaking laws with impunity, and wars aplenty.
Michael acknowledged the ship’s interfacing and continued: “Well, it’s 2026, sir.”
He said this as if it were the be all end all of answers, but the old man couldn’t fathom the significance of the date, and Michael sensed he wasn’t satisfied with the answer. “Humanity is beyond salvation, sir,” he added begrudgingly. A burning resentment was percolating toward the old man for making him state the obvious.
The old man shifted on the cloud couch. The rolling plumes gently massaged his aging body. “Specifics, Michael,” he said.
Michael considered the myriad of problems facing humanity and decided to start at the source. “I guess we can start with the disconnect, sir.”
