BRENT suddenly levels the gun and shoots, five times in rapid succession, screaming as he does so.
BRENT
Fuck you! Fuck you!
When the smoke clears, the REBORN TOPHER is still standing there, unharmed but for five little puckered holes across his pale body. He smiles and looks down at the bloodless wounds. They close up.
TOPHER
Did you really think you were in a place where that would work? This all belongs to me—don’t you know that? This is all my dream, and this time I’m taking you along.
BRENT sobs and lifts the gun.
BRENT
There’s one bullet left...
TOPHER
Go ahead. What was it you said? “One bullet in Topher Holland’s brain and everything’s over”?
BRENT slams the gun against his own head and pulls the trigger. Nothing. A moment later the gun crumbles into dust in his hand.
TOPHER
You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?
He turns to ERIC and JANICE; they tumble to the floor, moving again.
TOPHER (cont.)
I never finished my story. See, I spent a long time—years—thinking about what to do to you. But then, slowly—oh, I had a lot of time—I came to understand that there are levels of betrayal. Many levels. And you were scared and young, just like I was.
(a beat)
But there are some betrayals that can’t be forgiven.
(he turns to BRENT)
Right, Topher? Come here.
BRENT (as we’ve been thinking of him) sways and crumples to the floor. TOPHER (as we’ve been thinking of him) points, and BRENT begins to crawl toward him, despite himself. TOPHER’s skin is giving off faint curls of smoke now. The music is growing more insistent as it builds toward its slow climax.
TOPHER
You ran, and ran, and ran, didn’t you? But you never really got away.
BRENT
(weeping, fighting, crawling)
No, please! I didn’t mean to...!
TOPHER
But you did it, and that’s all that matters. Abandoned this body like rats off a burning ship. Pushed me out of my own, so I had nowhere to go.
(a beat)
Black Sunshine. We’ll never know quite what that shit was, will we? The answer is probably buried in some government file forever. But it was sure something strange, something...bad.
(He leans down toward crawling BRENT/TOPHER)
You wanted to get out of this body bad, didn’t you? What you did to Kimmy, all the other crazy shit—none of that bothered you. But when the pain came, then you wanted out. And you got out. Jumped right into my body, didn’t you, Topher? And I had nowhere to go but this ruined, mutating shell. You took my body, didn’t you? You took my whole life!
BRENT/TOPHER has now arrived weeping at TOPHER/BRENT’s feet.
BRENT/TOPHER
I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!
TOPHER/BRENT
Sometimes it’s too late for “sorry.” Twenty-five years...Yeah, I'd say it was too late.
ERIC struggles to his feet.
ERIC
(to TOPHER)
Brent...? It’s you?
TOPHER/BRENT
He took my body just like a thief. Tried to make it his own, like repainting a stolen car. But it's over now, Holland, isn't it...?
TOPHER/BRENT pulls BRENT/TOPHER up off the ground and into his arms. The smoke is rising in earnest now, the first flames beginning to flicker from TOPHER/BRENT’s skin. BRENT/TOPHER is screeching and fighting, in pain, but can’t escape.
JANICE
Don’t! Oh, God, don’t...!
ERIC
Brent, we’ll help you...!
TOPHER/BRENT shakes his pale head. As the Roxy Music song comes up louder, he leans close to BRENT/TOPHER, close as a lover, and stares into his eyes. BRENT/TOPHER struggles even harder, like an animal in a trap, but it’s no use.
TOPHER/BRENT
(to ERIC)
No, there’s no help now—only loose ends. Only circles being closed. Sometimes the future can’t begin...until you kill your past...
Fire and smoke are leaking out of TOPHER/BRENT’s mouth as he turns back to BRENT/TOPHER.
TOPHER/BRENT
And now I want back all the things you took. The things that would have been mine...
The smoke and light is leaking from BRENT/TOPHER’s mouth, nose, and eyes now, being INHALED by TOPHER/BRENT.
TOPHER/BRENT (cont.)
A life...you got to live a life...but it should have been mine...
BRENT/TOPHER
(shrieking in terror)
No...no...!
TOPHER/BRENT
We got married, didn’t we...and we even had a child! Ah, she’s beautiful...
BRENT/TOPHER
No! Not them! Tracy, Joanie! Give it back!
TOPHER/BRENT
(gently)
No, it’s you who have to give it back now, Topher. Everything you stole. But don’t worry—it’s only for a moment...
BRENT/TOPHER is fighting, struggling, but his life and memories are leaking out of him, being devoured by TOPHER/BRENT—the real BRENT. The music comes up—Roxy Music, swelling...
TOPHER/BRENT
So many things that should have been mine. My memories, my future. Stolen. All you left me was the past. All you left me was that night.
(a beat)
Remember this song, Topher? It used to be one of your favorites...
(sings, almost a whisper)
“Inflatable dolly—dee-luxe and dee-lightful. I blew up your body...but you blew my mind!”
As the guitar solo wails in, the flames suddenly become an INFERNO—a wall of fire. We see the two figures writhing within it, hear BRENT/ TOPHER’s shrieks grow more and more SHRILL, then descend into bubbling GASPS as the figures in the flames slowly MELT TOGETHER...
A moment later, there is NOTHING: TOPHER and BRENT and the painted EYE on the wall are gone. The music is gone. ERIC and JANICE are huddled together in the deserted empty bedroom, with dawn light filtering through the cracked windowpane.
Silently, and as carefully as if they’ve both been badly bruised, they walk down the stairs, which look quite normal now. They make their way across the bare living room and out onto the front porch, where they stand for a moment, looking out across the empty dirt lot in the early morning light, to the trees and town beyond.
JANICE
What happens now?
ERIC
The future.
JANICE
Brent...Topher...whoever he was. He has a wife, a daughter. What are we going to tell them?
ERIC
(shrugs)
The truth? Or some part of it?
(a beat)
Maybe not.
Without looking, they reach out and find each other’s hands, then walk down the porch steps and out into the field that once was an orchard. We pull back, watching two small figures walk slowly, holding hands, across the empty field. Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” comes up, sweet and sad.
ROLL CREDITS. THE END.
And Ministers of Grace
The seed whispers, sings, offers, instructs. A wise man of the homeworld once said, “Human beings can alter their lives by altering their attitudes of mind.” Everything is possible for a committed man or woman. The universe is in our reach.
Visit the Orgasmium—now open 24 hours. We take Senior Credits. The Orgasmium—where YOU come first!
Your body temperature is normal. Your stress levels are normal, tending toward higher than normal. If this trend continues, you are recommended to see a physician.
I’m almost alive! And I’m your perfect companion—I’m entirely portable. I want to love you. Come try me. Trade my personality with friends. Join the fun!
Comb properties now available. Consult your local environment node. Brand new multi-family and single-family dwellings, low down payment with government entry loans...!
r />
Commodity prices are up slightly on the Sackler Index at this hour, despite a morning of sluggish trading. The prime minister will detail her plans to reinvigorate the economy in her speech to Parliament...
A wise woman of the homeworld once said, “Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow.”
His name is Lamentation Kane and he is a Guardian of Covenant—a holy assassin. His masters have placed a seed of blasphemy in his head. It itches like unredeemed sin and fills his skull with foul pagan noise.
The faces of his fellow travelers on the landing shuttle are bored and vacuous. How can these infidels live with this constant murmur in their heads? How can they survive and stay sane with the constant pinpoint flashing of attention signals at the edge of vision, the raw, sharp pulse of a world bristling and burbling with information?
It is like being stuck in a hive of insects, Kane thinks—insects doing their best to imitate human existence without understanding it. He longs for the sweet, singular voice of Spirit, soothing as cool water on inflamed skin. Always before, no matter the terrors of his mission, that voice has been with him, soothing him, reminding him of his holy purpose. All his life, Spirit has been with him. All his life until now.
Humble yourselves therefore under the strong hand of God, so that He may raise you up in due time.
Sweet and gentle like spring rain. Unlike this unending drizzle of filth, each word Spirit has ever spoken has been precious, bright like silver.
Cast all your burdens on Him, for He cares for you. Be in control of yourself and alert. Your enemy, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour.
Those were the last words Spirit spoke to him before the military scientists silenced the Word of God and replaced it with the endless, godless prattle of the infidel world, Archimedes.
For the good of all mankind, they assured him: Lamentation Kane must sin again so that one day all men would be free to worship God. Besides, the elders pointed out, what was there for him to fear? If he succeeds and escapes Archimedes the pagan seed will be removed and Spirit will speak in his thoughts again. If he does not escape—well, Kane will hear the true voice of God at the foot of His mighty throne. Well done, my good and faithful servant...
Beginning descent. Please return to pods, the pagan voices chirp in his head, prickling like nettles. Thank you for traveling with us. Put all food and packaging in the receptacle and close it. This is your last chance to purchase duty-free drugs and alcohol. Cabin temperature is 20 degrees centigrade. Pull the harness snug. Beginning descent. Cabin pressure stable. Lander will detach in twenty seconds. Ten seconds. Nine seconds. Eight seconds...
It never ends, and each godless word burns, prickles, itches.
Who needs to know so much about nothing?
A child of one of the Christian cooperative farms on Covenant’s flat and empty plains, he was brought to New Jerusalem as a candidate for the elite Guardian unit. When he saw for the first time the white towers and golden domes of his planet’s greatest city, Kane had been certain that Heaven would look just that way. Now, as Hellas City rises up to meet him, capitol of great Archimedes and stronghold of his people’s enemies, it is bigger than even his grandest, most exaggerated memories of New Jerusalem—an immense sprawl with no visible ending, a lumpy white and gray and green patchwork of complex structures and orderly parks and lacy polyceramic web skyscrapers that bend gently in the cloudy upper skies like an oceanic kelp forest. The scale is astounding. For the first time ever in his life, Lamentation Kane has a moment of doubt—not in the rightness of his cause, but in the certainty of its victory.
But he reminds himself of what the Lord told Joshua: Behold I have given into thy hands Jericho, and the king thereof, and all the valiant men...
Have you had a Creemy Crunch today? It blares through his thoughts like a klaxon. You want it! You need it! Available at any food outlet. Creemy Crunch makes cream crunchy! Don’t be a bitch, Mom! Snag me a CC—or three!
The devil owns the Kingdom of Earth. A favorite saying of one of his favorite teachers. But even from his high throne he cannot see the City of Heaven.
Now with a subdermal glow-tattoo in every package! Just squeeze it in under the skin—and start shining!
Lord Jesus, protect me in this dark place and give me strength to do your work once more, Kane prays. I serve You. I serve Covenant.
It never stops, and only gets more strident after the lander touches down and they are ushered through the locks into the port complex.
Remember the wise words, air quality is in the low thirties on the Teng Fuo scale today, first time visitors to Archimedes go here, returning go there, where to stand, what to say, what to have ready. Restaurants, news feeds, information for transportation services, overnight accommodations, immigration law, emergency services, yammer yammer yammer until Kane wants to scream. He stares at the smug citizens of Archimedes around him and loathes every one of them. How can they walk and smile and talk to each other with this Babel in their heads, without God in their hearts?
Left. Follow the green tiles. Left. Follow the green tiles. They aren’t even people, they can’t be—just crude imitations. And the variety of voices with which the seed bedevils him! High-pitched, low-pitched, fast and persuasive, moderately slow and persuasive, adult voices, children’s voices, accents of a dozen sorts, most of which he can’t even identify and can barely understand. His blessed Spirit is one voice and one voice only and he longs for her desperately. He always thinks of Spirit as “her,” although it could just as easily be the calm, sweet voice of a male child. It doesn’t matter. Nothing as crass as earthly sexual distinctions matter, any more than with God’s holy angels. Spirit has been his constant companion since childhood, his advisor, his inseparable friend. But now he has a pagan seed in his brain and he may never hear her blessed voice again.
I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. That’s what Spirit told him the night he was baptized, the night she first spoke to him. Six years old. I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.
He cannot think of that. He will not think of anything that might undermine his courage for the mission, of course, but there is a greater danger: some types of thoughts, if strong enough, can trigger the port’s security E-Grams, which can perceive certain telltale patterns, especially if they are repeated.
A wise man of the homeworld once said, “Man is the measure of all things...” The foreign seed doesn’t want him thinking of anything else, anyway
Have you considered living in Holyoake Harbor? another voice asks, cutting through the first. Only a twenty-minute commute to the business district, but a different world of ease and comfort.
...And of things which are not, that they are not, the first voice finishes, swimming back to the top. Another wise fellow made the case more directly: “The world holds two classes of men—intelligent men without religion, and religious men without intelligence.”
Kane almost shivers despite the climate controls. Blur your thoughts, he reminds himself. He does his best to let the chatter of voices and the swirl of passing faces numb and stupefy him, making himself a beast instead of a man, the better to hide from God’s enemies.
He passes the various mechanical sentries and the first two human guard posts as easily as he hoped he would—his military brethren have prepared his disguise well. He is in line at the final human checkpoint when he catches a glimpse of her, or at least he thinks it must be her—a small, brown-skinned woman sagging between two heavily armored port security guards who clutch her elbows in a parody of assistance. For a moment their eyes meet and her dark stare is frank before she hangs her head again in a convincing imitation of shame. The words from the briefing wash up in his head through the fog of Archimedean voices—Martyrdom Sister—but he does his best to blur them again just as quickly. He can’t imagine any word that will set off the E-Grams as quickly as “Martyrdom.”
The final guard post is more difficult, as it i
s meant to be. The sentry, almost faceless behind an array of enhanced light scanners and lenses, does not like to see Arjuna on Kane’s itinerary, his last port of call before Archimedes. Arjuna is not a treaty world for either Archimedes or Covenant, although both hope to make it so, and is not officially policed by either side.
The official runs one of his scanners over Kane’s itinerary again. “Can you tell me why you stopped at Arjuna, Citizen McNally?”
Kane repeats the story of staying there with his cousin who works in the mining industry. Arjuna is rich with platinum and other minerals, another reason both sides want it. At the moment, though, neither the Rationalists of Archimedes or the Abramites of Covenant can get any traction there: the majority of Arjuna’s settlers, colonists originally from the homeworld’s Indian subcontinent, are comfortable with both sides—a fact that makes both Archimedes and Covenant quite uncomfortable indeed.
The guard post official doesn’t seem entirely happy with Lamentation Kane’s explanation and is beginning to investigate the false personality a little more closely. Kane wonders how much longer until the window of distraction is opened. He turns casually, looking up and down the transparent u-glass cells along the far wall until he locates the one in which the brown-skinned woman is being questioned. Is she a Muslim? A Copt? Or perhaps something entirely different—there are Australian Aboriginal Jews on Covenant, remnants of the Lost Tribes movement back on the homeworld. But whoever or whatever she is doesn’t matter, he reminds himself: she is a sister in God and she has volunteered to sacrifice herself for the sake of the mission—his mission.
She turns for a moment and their eyes meet again through the warping glass. She has acne scars on her cheeks but she’s pretty, surprisingly young to be given such a task. He wonders what her name is. When he returns—if he returns—he will go to the Great Tabernacle in New Jerusalem and light a candle for her.
Brown eyes. She seems sad as she looks at him before turning back to the guards. Could that be true? The Martyrs are the most privileged of all during their time in the training center. And she must know she will be looking on the face of God Himself very soon. How can she not be joyful? Does she fear the pain of giving up her earthly body?