Entry 09 – Central Olympus, Superstition
Deep in the sublevels of Central Olympus, there is an elevator whose doors cannot be opened with a clearance level of BLACK. Which is almost unfathomable, because there is no higher clearance. Nobody can access any sublevel in Central Olympus without a BLACK clearance in the first place.
And yet, this door exists.
There is a panel by the elevator’s inconspicuous doors. I swipe my card over it and I am rejected instantly. Something clicks in the black steel-panelled walls. Some unseen machinery creaking—arming itself in wait of another error.
It won’t get it.
I place my palm on the panel instead. My updated presidential subdermal nanocircuitry interacts with the panel and it responds with a soft hum. Of course. I am no longer just any man, but one of the Ageless Council. This final path, I must walk alone.
The doors slide apart, ushering me towards a cocoon of darkness and recycled air.
I step inside.
The doors slide shut, and the falling darkness abruptly cuts me off from my senses. I reach for the cuffs of my jalabiya and miss. No, this is not a symptom of my old friend; the neurodegeneration of my descending tracts. Something about the darkness is suffocating. More oppressive than my eyes closed; or the void of space ever present a few inches behind every wall of this space station.
The journey is short.
The elevator pulls to a halt by silent magnetic brakes. When the doors slide open again, a lobby spreads out before me. Faint blue lights line the floor from the exit of the elevator. I squint into the darkness. But besides the lights on the floor, everything is shrouded in shadow. The lobby itself is freezing cold. It is a struggle to keep myself from shivering.
And so I follow the lights.
However, a few steps into the lobby the dark shifts ever so slightly, betraying the silhouetted figure of something.
“Councilman Tiku Agbado.” A voice starts. It is oddly unaccented, seeming to emanate from the thing before me. “Welcome.”
I halt my advance at the final strip of blue luminescence. The temperature has dipped even further. The figure draws closer, stepping into the torus of blue lambency. Bifid legs of lustrous steel support a barrel-like torso made of the same metallic alloy. Its arms fold behind its torso, not unlike a human’s would. Its face, a steel sculpture of engineered humanness—complete with green-pulsing porthole eyes—appears last, emerging from the shadows like it was stripping down a hood.
“What are you?” I ask.
The robot’s hands unfurl, presenting me with a coat. “I am Prometheus, your guide to immortality.”
“Becoming a machine?”
It chuckles curtly. “No.”
At the snap of Prometheus’ fingers, the lights come to life. The room is a high walled vault, sterile but for a scattering of tables and beds and incubators and servers. An enormous vat occupies the wall at the end of the cavern. It is over ten feet high, bubbling with amber liquid. A multitude of thick wires—like the tentacles of a many-limbed squid—snake outward, connected to numerous monitors. I draw closer to the biomechanical agglomeration, my pacemaker working to manage the excitement in my heart.
“What lies in there?”
I don’t wait for Prometheus to answer before my hands reach for the frosted-over glass. My reflection spreads over the vat’s surface—an amber-tinted likeness of a black man too old to stand without vertebral implants.
Then, in one terrifying heartbeat, the liquid within bubbles caustically. The contents materialize suddenly beneath the glass; unlike anything I have ever seen. Half a torso and half an exposed thoracic cage float within the liquid—an abominable cocktail of primate and something arachnid. Covering its skin is an epidermal makeup of hair and chitin like the desiccated grasslands of Old Earth. Before it sank.
The creature’s head is partially lost, fossilized within a chunk of space rock.
And somehow, I feel its scrutiny. It steals the air from my lungs.
Prometheus appears beside me. “That, is the reason you are here today. Are you ready to begin the procedure, Councilman?”
A draft of cold air escapes my parted lips as I ponder Prometheus’ half-answer. I stare at the alien in the vat for a moment longer before swallowing my reservations.
“I… I am.”
*
Entry 03 – North sector, Juggernaut
“… and that concludes my report on the recently completed station-wide popularity poll.”
“What did you say the projections from the South are?”
Oteri, the latest aide in a long line of failures, fidgets visibly. “Mixed. Most of the results came out inconclusive. The sector is still unstable.”
On the screen, a recent campaign video of Adaobi Ibe-Ozoma plays. She keeps outlining each of the deficiencies in the Juggernaut’s sectors. Insecurity in the South sector. Dwindling output on the farms on the South West. When she begins to outline measures to reverse the downward trend of Juggernaut’s economy, I turn off the screen.
“Cynical woman,” I hiss. “This forty-year-old politician girl thinks she can run this station with only statistics and fancy words.”
“Many people seem to agree with her.”
I deign to give him a scathing look. “Has the campaign team begun working on my next speech?”
Oteri coughs. “Yes. They have isolated four of Ibe-Ozoma’s points that can be assimilated into your campaign promises. We think you can present a few credentials—”
I scoff. “I have no interest in such trivialities. There is more to winning an election than promising the world to your subjects.” I rise, reactivating the holo-board. A real-time image of Juggernaut fills the screen. The gargantuan ark station has its North and South sectors designed as concentric discs, one overlying the other. Each ‘disc’ is linked by the hull bridge of Central sector. Satellite sectors connect to Central through miles of stem corridors. The satellite sectors are globular, spinning on dedicated axes. Hundreds of satellites encircle the station like man-made stars. Half belong to me.
“All of this is mine,” I hiss under my breath. “Let me tell you a story, Oteri. Do you know when this ark set sail?”
“Err… no. No sir. I do not.”
“You’re one of those who were born on Juggernaut then. Never saw Old Earth?”
“No sir. Except in the archives.”
“You’re not unlucky. There wasn’t much to see there in the last days anyway.”
I swipe the screen for an image of Earth, blue in its entirety. “The skies went ablaze. The seas rose and lands were swallowed in its entirety. Everyone was fleeing. The Western world had long mastered space exploration. And we, the poorest of the poor? Nobody cared, Oteri. I had to make the Juggernaut happen! When the Arabs built their space continents and charged the corrupt elites of Africa’s entire national treasuries just for a ticket, I stayed. Built this future for us. And indeed the Juggernaut became the Giant of Remnant Africa. A refuge for all the survivors that swam out of the sunken Earth.”
Oteri doesn’t answer.
“But don’t be fooled. Even after surviving the waters and making heaven, there was a madhouse. Everybody wanted a seat at the Juggernaut’s ruling assembly. Again, I had to take the helm. I made the economies of North and Central happen. That same economy Adaobi Ibe-Ozoma thinks her Bachelor’s degree will help her solve. I, Tiku Agbado, orchestrated every leadership regime that pulled this station forward. Two Heads of Assembly. The newly appointed ambassador to Superstition! It is my turn, you see? My time to hold the reins of Juggernaut. Officially.”
Oteri remains mute. Smart fellow. Not at all like his predecessor, who thought it quick-witted of herself to debate with me about the exponential corruption and inadequacy of the administrations of the past Heads of Assembly.
I lift my hand to dismiss the image on the screen, but then the arm begins to spasm. The contractions zigzag up my arm and into my shoulder. Pain splinters across my back and a small gasp escapes my lips.
“Sir!”
“Get out!”
“B-but sir, your hands…”
“I said get out!”
*
Entry 01 – North sector, Juggernaut
It is said that the youngest member of the Trans-Galactic Ruling Council is two hundred years old.
She does not look a day over sixty.
Her face fills my holo-board, as though time swept by and forgot to take her. Her hair is silver-grey, and a mole sits on her upper lip. She smiles easily. It does not reach her eyes.
“Apologies Ms. Harrison, but I cannot offer Superstition our fusion engine.”
“It is a spare, Mr. Agbado.”
“You should be talking to the Juggernaut Assembly.”
“But you hold sway over your station’s affairs. Dare I say, even more than your Assembly.”
Tremors push against the implants on my vertebrae. I am used to the pain. I do not let it surface.
“Typical of you foreigners. Always trying to sow unrest to expand your empire. Ah, but you people call it a free republic now. Sorry.”
“A trade then,” she says. “A piece of the new sector we are constructing.”
“You mean all of it?”
Her plastered smile falters. “Surely you jest.”
“Over my engine?” I laugh. “Would the Arabs even demand anything less? You’re the ones expanding faster than the timeline needed to build a corresponding engine. I doubt there is anything you can offer me of equal value.”
“At least we’re over the faux bureaucracy now.” Her expression changes. Hardens. “What if I offered you a seat on this council? With all of its perks.”
“And what would those be?”
“What every monarch since the dawn of man has dreamed of. Perpetuity.”
The ageless Trans-Galactic Ruling Council.
“I’ve heard about your health ‘challenges’.” She pauses for effect. Debilitating effect. “Don’t you think a partnership would benefit us both? Even the Arabs would never be able to get such a bargain.”
Silence stretches between us, screaming against my ears, her pixelated likeness before my eyes, the steel on my spine.
“All for a fusion engine?”
“Yes.”
“And the rumours about Superstition trying to break space have no merit?”
Harrison smiles. “You are as shrewd as I’ve heard, Mr. Agbado. But I’m afraid I have no comment on that. However, if you do happen to step into the spotlight and become Juggernaut’s Head of Assembly, the Council will extend an invitation to you. You need us, and you know it.”
My hands tremble at her benign smile. Of course she knows.
“Your move, Tiku Agbado.”
*
Entry 04 – A few miles into Juggernaut’s orbit
“With a station like Juggernaut, one would think people would spacewalk often.”
Black Pepper readjusts the collar of his jumpsuit. A nervous tic. Perhaps an action meant to anchor himself. The man must not venture into space very often. Strange, but not surprising.
“I guess Africans are tired of looking to the gods for answers,” the man replies. “For all we know, heaven is black and cold and starless.”
“If I wanted to hear poetry, there are hordes of griots at Central.”
“I see. Was just wondering out loud why this ostensibly expensive suit with a note to these coordinates showed up on my safe box.”
“The walls have ears,” I tell him. We are in my personal floater. Myself and the guest, in the cockpit of the stingray-shaped vessel. The station expands outwards a few kilometres off, each metallic buttress highlighted by the void it wears like a sleeve. Another episode of humans defying God. Successfully. From this distance, the trailing lights of the inter-sector trains track across the station’s hull. Juggernaut is the miniaturisation of a galaxy, held aloft by steel and the colliding atoms of a nuclear engine.
Mine.
“So,” Black Pepper’s tone loses the lilt. “What is the job?”
I lock my digits between each other. “Adaobi Ibe-Ozoma.”
I watch his expression. It does not falter. It is as though he is made of stone, or bolts and code like the househelp-bots.
“That job is ten forms of suicide,” he says, nonplussed. Like he is casually commenting on the quality of a piece of freshly baked loaf.
“Complete it, and you’ll be set for life.”
“The people have hope for Adaobi Ibe-Ozoma. I’m not a politics person, but you must be down bad if you’re considering the services of an assassin.”
It’s getting harder to control the votes. Sway the elections by clout or cash. Adaobi Ibe-Ozoma can give the people the change they want, but only after I’m done. After me!
“One billion credits,” I deadpan. “Half upfront.”
His composure cracks. Slightly, almost imperceptible, but I see it. “I know you, Black Pepper. You live in the depths of Central sector. Way too close to the South for your own good. You do good work too, but you just haven’t been able to save quite enough, have you? This job is the game changer. You, your wives, your children? Out of that dump.”
He grinds his teeth. “Getting to Adaobi Ibe-Ozoma will not be easy. She wears anti-phaser shields so advanced…”
“Superstition-grade, I’m aware.” I reach under my seat and flick a button. A panel slides out of the wall. Within it is a weapon.
“This is a remastered M82. Old Earth weaponry. Shields won’t stop this.”
Black Pepper cradles the gun. “I’ve heard of these. Simulated them even.”
“Good. Once the job is completed, you’ll get a new set of coordinates and you’ll get the rest of your money.”
“I’ll be pulling the trigger against the change this station needs. Lighting the torch to possible unrest. This one bullet can potentially end the lives of thousands.”
“I never took you for the sentimental type.” My tone is acerbic. “Then again, you were reciting poetry.”
“Don’t misunderstand. My last born reads a lot. Will your administration make her future any better than what we have now?”
Irritation twitches against my eyebrow. “With a billion you could even relocate to Superstition. You don’t need to watch the dogs eat themselves.”
“You’re a ruthless man, aren’t you, Tiku Agbado?”
“No.” I squeeze away the makings of a new tremor. “Only out of time.”
*
Entry 02 – North sector, Juggernaut
RE: NEUROIMAGING SCANS
Dear Mr. Tiku Agbado.
Find attached the report to your recently concluded neural scan. We advise booking an appointment at your earliest convenience.
It is also imperative to note that craniospinal implants are not a form of definitive care. Prolonged usage may significantly decrease prognosis…
<Are you sure you want to send this mail to the trash?>
*
Entry 05 – North sector, Juggernaut
The news reel flashes over my holo-board. It’s been flashing since it first broke six hours ago. “ADAOBI IBE-OZOMA SHOT WHILE GIVING RALLY SPEECH IN SOUTH SECTOR.” Head shot. Brutal. Impeccably precise. The reel has updated with efforts by the station guard to lock down the sector. Too late. Black Pepper is a southern rat. They will never get him.
A monitor comes to life beside me. Motion detected on the floater’s pressure chamber. Black Pepper has already reached the coordinates of our second meeting? I am impressed even further. Good money. Good money.
I turn on the surveillance feed.
I watch him walk into the narrow corridor and undo his jumpsuit helmet. He fiddles with his collar the way he likes to. Then he hits the access panel to the cockpit, our meeting point.
The feed cuts off.
And instantly another feed appears, recording from a slight distance away. It is directed at the floater, now aflame in a million sparkling bits, exploding silently in the vacuum.
I smile to myself and go over my speech again. Insecurity in the Juggernaut. How I barely survived my own assassination due to a last-minute change of plans.
Adaobi Ibe-Ozoma can die a hero. I, on the other hand, do not plan to die.
*
Entry 08 – Intimidation, en route to Superstition
It takes eight days to reach Superstition, the station-continent of the old West. Superstition is anchored deep within an asteroid field, and ever expanding. The station does not travel across space anymore, seeking some kind of exoplanetary Elysium. Instead, it has become a hive of mini stations, with each hub interlinked like an arachnid’s spinning web. The pinnacle of mankind’s creation.
And for the first time, they have extended an invitation to the Juggernaut.
Our envoy pulls in on the Intimidation, the Assembly’s official vessel. Envoys from the Assembly stand in the sky room, eyes wide in awe at Superstition’s megastructure. Arching elevators etch infinite distances into space. Each sector is almost as large as Juggernaut itself.
And not a single one of my people knows that I am the reason why they are here.
Not really. They marvel at the infrastructure, yet with each converging space bridge, I see what the Ageless Council has been planning for decades. Some weeks ago, I received structural plans for a conceptual fusion mega-engine. An engine theoretically capable of creating breaches in known space-time.
Into another universe.
We adjust our kaftans and agbadas as we board the capital of Superstition, Olympus. Olympus is the ‘eye’ in this grand machination. Whatever they hope to channel to break space will happen in Olympus. A few more years and they could. Easily. Why rush now? And why bring me into it?
In fact, why do it at all?
I smile with my fellow Assemblymen, adjust my fila and wait for the landing protocol to commence. However, for the first time, even I question my motivations.
*
Entry 06 – North sector, Juggernaut
“If you’re watching this video, that means I have died.”
Black Pepper’s face fills the display. “Tiku Agbado had me killed.”
“Good job Oteri,” I say, dismissing the video from the holo-board. “If that had come out… hmm.”
“Y-yes sir.”
“You mentioned that one of his wives was going to upload the video. Has that been taken care of?”
He nods mechanically.
“Good. I knew you were a sharp one. I trust you have not told anybody else about this.”
“O-of course not sir.”
“Very good. And our numbers?”
“Climbing steadily sir. With Ibe-Ozoma gone, her running mate has been unable to garner her kind of support.”
“Such charisma is one-in-a-million.” I turn to face the aide. He shrinks at the crookedness of my paralysis-affected smile. “Too bad.”
*
Entry 07
INVITATION TO SUPERSTITION, THE FREE REPUBLIC
Head Assemblyman Agbado.
Congratulations on your victory in the just-concluded elections. Find attached below your schedule for your inauguration into the Trans-Galactic Ruling Council as an envoy of Juggernaut. We hope to see you soon.
Janet Harrison.
For the Ageless Council.
*
Entry 10 – Central Olympus, Superstition
I don’t know what immortality is. What it does feel like is liquid fire spilling into my veins through the cold hollow IV tubes. A cacophony of beeping monitors ringing loudly inside my eardrums. My bones. I become one with each cell in my body. Rejuvenation. Affirmation of every decision I have made until now. My delegates lounge above in the upper levels of Olympus, oblivious to my transformation. My transcendence.
I feel… alive!
Until I begin to see the flashes.
First, it is a simple image. A possible trick of the anaesthesia. Then, again. A vessel unlike any shape I have ever seen, imagined or dreamed. A planet burning. My body now replaced by alien integument that reflects the stars. Skin latticed with woven obsidian, and heavy with the hope of an entire species.
Are these the alien’s memories?
I see a rift in space. The strange vessel jets through the rift—gate?—while an armada of arks wait behind.
What is this?
My newly rejuvenated muscles spasm over the bedsheet. I feel the alien vessel crashing. Breaking the gate. Burning. Dying.
Persisting.
Then, thriving.
Suddenly, I hear its voice. A single command in my hippocampus. Urgent. Imperative. An endless chorus of one singular task.
Finish the engine. Reopen the gate and bring my people through!
The Ageless Council were no longer human! Only avatars for this alien and its civilization.
And now, I have become…
…one
of
them.
Prometheus, the robot, kneels beside me. “Welcome to the Ageless Council, Tiku Agbado. Let’s get started, shall we?”
It all makes sense too late.
End
Uchechukwu Nwaka is an Igbo medical student at University of Ibadan, Nigeria. His works have appeared in PodCastle, Escape Pod, Fusion Fragment, Omenana among others. When he’s not trying to unravel the mysteries of human (or inhuman) interaction, he can be found reading manga, streaming TV shows, or generally trying to keep up with an endless schoolwork. Find him on Twitter as @uche_cjn.