Fear the Abyss: 22 Terrifying Tales of Cosmic Horror (36 page)

"In other words, you did the bare minimum to fulfill your responsibilities to the Species Advocate General. This is just like all those times in the last galactic campaign. Hundreds of sentient species gone in the name of planetary preservation!" Vornholt stabbed the air with his fork. "Hundreds of cultures crushed underneath the heel of the Great Authority!"

Ciprian dropped his fork and pointed a finger at Vornholt. "Careful, ambassador. You forget yourself. Remember that as a liaison between Species Advocate General and the Great Authority, I have a responsibility to both offices. Do you really wish for your last statements to go on record with the Great Authority?"

Vornholt sighed heavily. Such was a career in the intergalactic bureaucracy. He waved the comment away. "I'm sorry. I spoke out of anger. So this decision is final?"

Ciprian nodded. "Quite. The Erasure Protocols are already en route. Some sort of virus, I believe. And if it's any consolation at all, the extinction will be swift and relatively painless."

*****

Thursday

Ciprian's house wasn't exactly a mansion, but it was by far the most lavish residence that Sarah and Taylor had ever entered. It was one of those houses that Taylor had marveled at during his short time in California: a big place that seemed to be stuck on a hillside so precariously that even a small mudslide could wash it away. He figured that the people who lived in such places were so rich that they could afford to give fate the finger. All their bright, shiny, expensive toys could wash out into the Pacific, and these folks wouldn't bat an eye, just open the checkbook and have the replacements delivered. But it wasn't until Ciprian opened the sliding glass door that led to the massive deck on the back of the house that Taylor really understood the appeal of these houses. The view was literally breathtaking. Taylor heard Sarah gasp as she stepped out into the cool night air. Her hand tightened around his as Ciprian led them to the waist-high rail at the deck's edge.

"All those lights!" Sarah said, gazing down on the city below. "It's like a sky full of stars!"

Ciprian smiled. "You think so?"

"It certainly is something," Taylor said. "I mean, just look at all those lights. Can't tell where the night sky ends and the city begins. How it must have looked out the window of the space shuttle."

Ciprian applauded briefly. "Absolutely brilliant, young man."

Taylor scuffed his shoes on the tiles. "Well, you know…"

"Now, it would please me greatly to hear you sing," Ciprian took each of them by the hand, turning them away from the sea of lights below.

Taylor glanced down at the pale, soft hand holding his own with a strangely delicate grip. "Um, like, right out here? Or do you have a studio in the house?"

"Oh yes, right out here." Ciprian dropped their hands and spread his arms in an expansive gesture. "With the stars above and the stars below! What better place is there for music as heavenly as yours?"

Taylor smiled at Sarah. He cleared his throat. "I guess we can do that."

Ciprian perched atop the rail, his arms folded nonchalantly across his chest even as he sat with nothing between him and the rocky ground below except the gentle breeze. "Splendid," he said. "Now delight my ears with those angelic voices."

*****

Friday

"You are an optimist, Vornholt. It's what makes you a great advocate for disputed species. Don't misunderstand; I admire your passion in defending these creatures." Ciprian gestured to the patrons scattered about the coffee shop. "But surely even you realize that their stewardship of this planet has been irresponsible, even reckless."

Vornholt nodded. He was resigned to this outcome. This was a discussion that he and Ciprian had joined in many times before. But it never became easier in the repetition.  Vornholt compiled a mental list of the arguments he could make for
homo sapiens
. Sophocles, the Taj Mahal, Shakespeare, Beethoven, Wagner, Van Gogh, the pyramids of Egypt.  But a nagging voice in the back of Vornholt's mind, a voice that spoke with the haughty tenor and self-assured voice of Ciprian, also whispered to him: Buchenwald, Hiroshima, Mi Lai, Chernobyl, Nanking.

Vornholt shook his head, silencing the voice. He tried to conjure up in his visual frame the painted ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, but all he could manage was a replay of the images from his drive across town, the vehicles full of curious humans eagerly craning their necks in their vain hope to glimpse some atrocity. He tried to conjure the beautiful proportions of the Parthenon, and instead saw those same commuters driving away from the scene of the accident, disappointed in their frustrated bloodlust.

Vornholt's eyes scanned the restaurant. A child in the far corner began to scream. Its parents ignored it, too absorbed in their hand-held computers to be bothered. Vornholt watched the child's face contort in anguish. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "So much potential…so much wasted potential. This job can be so depressing."

"Such a beautiful planet…one deserving of a noble race to populate it. Remember that, Ciprian." He glanced over his shoulder at the screaming child. "And besides, once the Erasure Protocol takes hold, there will be no more of that damnable racket."

"Not with a bang, but a whimper," Vornholt sighed.

Ciprian's brow wrinkled. "Beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Forget it. Just so much dust that will whirl away in the wind."

"Sometimes, Vornholt, I wonder if we're speaking the same language."

*****

Thursday

Taylor had hit upon the idea of combining Sarah's operatic range and delivery with pop music one day while he was sleepwalking through another day at the tire factory. He'd been walking aimlessly in the parking lot during his lunch break and had seen a lone flower—a pretty weed, really—growing from a crack in the asphalt. If the metaphor had manifested itself as slap to his face, it could hardly have been clearer. Taylor knew that he'd at last found their way out, their means of breaking into the spotlight. He was convinced that his own earthy, almost raspy delivery would contrast neatly with her angelic soprano. In a pop music format, the result would be almost exotic. People would be unable to resist.

"Amazing no one's done it already," he'd told Sarah. "Like that old commercial with the peanut butter and chocolate…some things just seem to go together."

And now it seemed that at long last their lucky break had arrived. Ciprian smiled broadly as Taylor and Sarah worked through an
a capella
rendering of "Islands in the Stream." Their voices wove in and out of one another, Taylor's assured baritone rumble the black asphalt through which the flower of Sarah's angelic voice sprang.

As the last notes of the song faded into the night, Ciprian hopped down from the rail and applauded. "Magnificent. Simply magnificent. That British fellow who called your gorgeous music kitsch couldn't have been more wrong."

Taylor gave Sarah a quick hug and turned back to Ciprian. "So we're going to work together? You think we can make a life out of this?"

"Yes, young man. I think you will lead quite an interesting life from here on out." Ciprian insinuated himself between the two young singers, linking his arms through theirs. "Now, let's slip inside and have a celebratory drink."

Taylor and Sarah didn't, as a rule, drink. They were both products of a Mormon upbringing, and although neither of them was particularly devout, they'd never really consumed alcohol outside of a couple New Year's Eve toasts and the odd sip of wine at a fancy dinner. But the look they shared as they followed their new benefactor into the house silently assured one another that—just this once—it would be okay.

The couch in Ciprian's living room was overstuffed and made of soft leather. Sarah and Taylor laughed as they sank into it, nearly spilling the fizzy drinks that Ciprian handed them. He sat next to them, and busied himself mixing his own drink from the tray on the coffee table.

"And now that we've toasted the next phase of your lives, I have a bit of a confession to make," Ciprian said. He polished off his drink in one gulp and began making another one. He poured liquor into the glass and began chipping away at a bucket of ice, bringing a black-handled icepick down in sharp stabs.

"Me too," Sarah giggled into her glass. "I think I'm drunk."

Ciprian smiled. "That's so very endearing."

"No, I'm dizzy too." Taylor put his drink down. He struggled to rise from the deep cushions, nearly making it to his feet before gravity pulled him back down. He gripped the armrest like it was the lap bar on a roller coaster.

Ciprian chipped more ice, reducing the large, irregular chunks to diamond-sparkly chips.

"Don't you have an ice machine?" Taylor's voice was thick, slurred.

"Oh, some things are just better done by hand, young man." Ciprian paused in his work, holding the icepick up for inspection. He touched the sharp tip with a finger.

Sarah went on giggling. "What's this confession? Is it a juicy secret?"

"My confession is this: I have little interest in the music of this planet," Ciprian said, his smile falling away. "You're to be a consolation prize of sorts. But trust me when I say that you don't know how lucky you are. It's so rare that anyone does."

Sarah's eyelids fluttered and she slumped against Taylor, her drink tumbling out of her hand. Taylor continued to struggle weakly, but his eyes were fighting to stay open. His voice was slurred when he spoke. "What…who…"

Ciprian gazed down at the icepick in his hands. He turned to Taylor, who was no longer moving. The two young singers slumped together on the couch, their faces resting cheek to cheek. Ciprian rose and stood above them.

"Even if this does hurt, trust me when I say you won't remember it," Ciprian assured them.

*****

Friday

The two ambassadors finished their meals without conversation. Vornholt had lost his appetite, and pushed the colorful pieces of fruit around his plate, occasionally chewing a bite in sullen silence. They paid their bills, leaving the customary gratuity for their server, despite Ciprian's grumbling that the young man hadn't really earned it. Vornholt fixed Ciprian with a venomous glare, and Ciprian reluctantly placed a few more notes of currency on the table.

"It's a matter of principle," Ciprian argued as the two colleagues walked out to the parking lot. "I have to stand by my philosophy."

"The species will be, for all intents and purposes, extinct within a year, and their currency a distant memory," Vornholt spat. "Why quibble over a few pieces of paper that are worth nothing to you?"

"Indeed, Vornholt," Ciprian answered, laughing. "But why should it matter to the server, either? If he is facing annihilation, what possible comfort can those few notes of currency bring?"

Vornholt shook his head. "Ciprian, perhaps you are right about our speaking in different languages. I sometimes feel that I will never understand you."

Ciprian laughed again and slapped his colleague on the back. "Don't be so downcast, Vornholt. Accompany me to my vehicle. I have something that just might bring you out of this dark mood."

"Somehow, I doubt that very much."

Vornholt followed Ciprian across the parking lot. Ciprian paused by a large flashy sports utility vehicle, a massive and ugly sculpture of glossy painted metals set atop immense tires.  Vornholt sighed. How typical of Ciprian, to argue for the welfare of the planet and the stewardship of its resources while driving such a monstrosity.

"During our meal, you accused me of not fighting hard enough to make your case to the Great Authority," Ciprian intoned, resting an elbow casually on the vehicle. "Your accusation was far from the truth, Vornholt, and it hurts me that you have come to think of me thus.  Believe it or not, I do value our friendship."

Vornholt looked at Ciprian suspiciously, and said nothing.

"In fact, I argued strenuously for
homo sapiens
," Ciprian continued. "Your argument, though flawed, was beautifully written. Really, you'd outdone yourself. I read it in its entirety when I presented your—our—case to the Great Authority. A compromise was reached."

Vornholt's pulse jumped. "But you said the verdict…Erasure Protocols already enacted…"

Ciprian held up a hand. "Phased extinction, yes. And that plan will proceed."

"I don't understand…"

Ciprian cleared his throat. "You are a music lover, yes?"

Vornholt nodded. "You know that I am."

"I remember when the Great Authority ruled in favor of the extinction of the Kilgarian Slime Mold Merauders during the last galactic campaign. Terrible creatures, the Kilgarians. They made a religion of rape and torture. As I remember it, even you could not make a strong case for their survival. And yet, you were quite taken with their music. Do you remember what you said to me after the Great Authority's ruling came down?" Ciprian asked.

"I remember saying that their music was so beautiful that it nearly atoned for all the atrocities they committed."