Unsettling News

Geryon's Code Cycle | The Orphaned Earth | Chapter 3

Grigory Safronov, August 12, 2192

The former helicopter hangar in Port Amundsen is sparsely lit by handmade lamps fueled by blubber oil. It accommodates about a hundred Moon Cross followers with faces weathered by the wind. Anyone who is twenty-eight looks as if they were forty.

The hangar isn't heated, but the men's heads are bare; in contrast to the widespread Antarctic lifestyle, almost all the young men have their hair shaved clean or cut short. The hair of older men varies in length, indicating their position in the Brotherhood ranks. Some of them wear ancient military uniforms, manufactured before the Blackout, that change color with the temperature and are reinforced with carbon and kevlar plates resembling armor from much earlier times. On the left side of the chest, close to the heart, they have five red equilateral eight-pointed crosses painted—one large cross against the lunar disk and four smaller ones.

Their ancestors came from all continents, and they have different eye shapes and skin tones, but with their heads lowered and eyes covered, they look as if they were members of the same family.

The small number of women are just as stern and focused as the men, and dressed the same, except for the scarves and hoods covering their hair.

They are frozen near the exit, like shadows; the light from the lamps, already dim, hardly reaches them, but, upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that they are armed.

The monotonous hum of their voices merges with the howl of the storm outside.

The round ceiling melts away into darkness; it feels as if it doesn't exist at all, and above the heads of those gathered is the infinite darkness of space.

If there had been more light in the hangar, they would have seen strange winged creatures, roughly the size of kittens, crawling along the roof.

On the wall, the most brightly lit, hangs a heavy metal cross, supported by two chains—two pieces of railroad track welded together. The golden flicker of the fire trembles on its gray surface, marked with small scratches.

Though roughly, yet carefully carved from whalebone, the figure of Christ resembles more of a titan, with heavy, haggard features.

It is not humility that is written on his face, nor even unbearable suffering, but primordial rage.

He is tied to his cross by his hands and feet with the rusty barbed wire; the crown of thorns, as expected, is made of the same. The drips of paint from under the thorns look like dried blood.

People in Antarctica speak many languages, but they pray in one that gives no one privileges—Latin, as in the times when people took the Word seriously and did their best to give meaning to their mundane lives.

The older ones were fortunate enough to hear the translation and explanation of the prayer from Apostle Aelius, while the youths were given a brief, sometimes jumbled account of the text from their companions and had to memorize it by heart, which was quite a challenge for them, as for a century and a half, if not more, common people had forgotten how to use their memory.

Is it any wonder that billions of mind cripples, of poor godless souls, who could hardly remember their names, had forgotten the true Word and how to survive face to face with unforgiving nature?

Aelius himself is here today as well; he is half-whispering his prayers with his flock, with his warriors․

Even now, kneeling with his head bowed in reverence, he is so imposing and tall that he seems like a messenger from another world.

His silvery, almost white hair flows freely over his broad shoulders, chest, and down his back.

Bright blue eyes sparkled in the deep, dark eye sockets, framed by silver eyebrows above.

The prominent heavy cheekbones seem to be carved from stone.

The lower half of the unsmiling face is concealed in a smooth beard, which extends down to his chest.

With arms folded, long fingers intertwined.

His left wrist was wrapped in a bracelet, a wide metal band, clearly of antique craftsmanship: not a scratch nor a speck of rust on it.

But now Aelius' voice grows louder.

He turns to the silent hall and utters a new prayer, just conceived in his mind.

The people turn into his echo: they pick up his words and quietly repeat them, sentence by sentence.

Their eyes remain glued to his statuesque figure, their faces filled with a desire for unity and an ambitious dream.

They ask nothing for themselves, nor do they cry out for mercy to a faceless force in the sky, as if knowing it’s useless.

They have known since birth that they came into this world to suffer, to starve, and to freeze, yet they believe—painfully, frenziedly—that it will not be in vain.

“…I will tear sin from my heart. I will praise Your name now and forever,” the Apostle’s voice rumbles, resonating to the bone and piercing the soul. “I will dispel the darkness of misconceptions over those who dwell on Earth. I will turn false gods to dust for the sake of the children promised Your kingdom,” the people echo, hypnotizing themselves.

"Amen!" Aelius' voice thundered, echoing off the jagged stone walls.

"Amen!" shouts the crowd, and a charged silence hangs in the air. All eyes are fixed on Aelius, tall and straight as a mast, with the fire softly glinting in his hair. The man who has brought them here, to the ends of the earth, to help his few remaining brothers in their struggle against the infidels.

"Your struggle shall not be in vain!" the gray-haired giant almost snarls, and the people raised their fists to the sky, for their Apostle had come not to bring them peace, but the sword.

But then the domed roof of the makeshift temple splits in two, its halves gracefully parting to reveal the cold, silvery moonlight that floods the hangar, sharply outlining the faces of those gathered. The hall falls silent in anticipation. A moment later, from the silver beam, a tall human figure takes shape — the one they call the Prophet. More than fifty years ago, he had allowed the true believers to survive the Blackout, and then, from that moment, to build an empire that stretched from the Great Lakes to Tierra del Fuego.

The Prophet is shorter than Aelius, though still taller than most of those present, and much older than the oldest man in the hangar. His features are strong, his large gray eyes beneath the gently arched dark brows appear youthful, despite the network of wrinkles around them. His thick chestnut hair is touched with silver, like frost, and through his mustache and beard, the confident smile of a victor shines through.

"My brothers and sisters!" he exclaimed. "I have not appeared before your eyes for a long time, and there were many reasons for that. The situation on the Northern Front has grown more complicated, and I have focused my attention on your brothers who are fighting there. But I do not forget about you and remember our main goal here - to subdue Heliopolis before winter and deal with the Seven Winds, this nest of debauchery and lust. I am still preparing for this... even now."

His voice reverberates off the walls, saturating the entire space.

"A mad and decisive battle is about to break out, and whenever you die, your last memory will be the wiping away of the remnants of a world that has brought itself to ruin...You will die happy men and will see me in paradise…"

The crowd roars excitedly, exclaiming: "Lead us into battle!"

"Many wonder," the Prophet continued, "do we have the resources to fight these two strongholds of sin? And I promise, you will have weapons and equipment that would be the envy of any existing army. You will receive these gifts," he pauses for a moment, from Heaven itself".

He shifts his gaze to the scatter of stars twinkling through the open roof. Among them, a pulsating dot moves quickly—one of the remaining satellites.

"God willing, I have the wandering stars at my command. From them I will watch the fight when your hour comes. And now I thank you with all my heart for your courage and devotion, fearless warriors of God.
I see you tirelessly bringing the Dark Age to an end, defeating death by death. Shedding blood so that blood will never be shed in the future.…"

Aelius lowers himself respectfully onto one knee, bowing his silvery head. Following his lead, the entire hall collapses to the rough floor. With two sweeping motions of his hands, the Prophet traces a cross in the air. For a moment, it hangs there, glowing white, as if the man had painted it with moonlight.

"Those I name to Aelius in the coming days will have the chance to speak with me in private. Remember: assist him in all things, obey his commands—you will be spared from any calamity, just as you were saved during the Blackout."

The frozen assembly shows no sign of rising. It’s as if they’ve forgotten how to breathe; only the roar of the furious wind outside, whipping the waves, breaks the silence.

"I bless you for the coming battle, brothers and sisters; Aelius will summon you in the coming days. Remember, the groans and cries of the godless is the best gift for your elder brother and the best praise for God."

Several warriors raise their faces, meeting the Prophet's broad smile. But within two seconds, his body bursts in midair, scattering into a billion specks of snow. For a few seconds, they swirl and shimmer before finally melting away. Only then do Aelius and the others rise to their feet.

People begin to approach him, each in turn pressing their forehead to his hand—a gesture marked not by servility but by profound trust and love. Aelius’s lips part in a subtle smile, though only his lips smile. His eyes remain cold, revealing nothing, decipherable only to the rarest of souls.

"Teacher! I had a vision! May I tell you?" a boy of about sixteen whispers fervently as he stands before him. His head is cropped short, pale blond, and his lashes are light, as if frosted over.
"Was it not just a dream, Marcus?"
"No, teacher, I saw something with my own eyes," the boy says in a hushed tone. "Or at least I think I did. It was alive, but not from our world. It felt like it came from something ancient..."
"In the morning, once you're awake, come to me. Don’t keep the others waiting," Aelius says gently, tracing a cross in the air before the boy’s face.

The boy's eyes leave no room for doubt—he truly saw something extraordinary, something that demands the utmost attention. After all, the Apostle himself had taught the young ones to notice even the smallest oddity and report it immediately to their elders.

After the ceremony concludes and he’s at last by himself, the tall man makes his way to the door and locks the bolt.

Certainly, Aelius is to be at the disposal of God’s warriors at all times, day or night, yet there are moments when solitude is essential for him to keep his sanity.

There’s nowhere to sit, and Aelius, returning to the crucifix, lowers himself directly onto the stone floor, as if the strength that had kept him on his feet all this time has suddenly faltered.

He leans forward, hands folded on his knees, his white-haired head sinking as though a great, unbearable weight had been laid upon his shoulders.

One of the tiny creatures, its translucent, membranous wings outstretched, glides down from the ceiling toward the man and lands on his shoulder, clinging to his clothing with metallic claws.

With its spider-like multitude of eyes, the creature’s tiny body is crafted from resilient silicone, its metallic skeleton composed of flexible rods and countless hinges, enabling a variety of precise and complex motions.

Aelius winces, his expression twisted in faint revulsion, but he doesn’t bother brushing the robot off his shoulder and says quietly, "I’m listening."

"Moira has been declassified and shot," the robot tells him in the voice of the Prophet. The man bites his knuckle painfully.

"Was she tortured?”

"No, the Soviets injected her with drugs, so she told them everything and hardly realized she was going to die. They’re going to double the security now, but they won’t last long anyway. It’s the perfect moment to send in a swarm: no living force can resist it, and the power station will be almost untouched when it’s in my hands… I can just picture the panic they must be in right now, if they realize I can get to them anywhere, but they can’t do a thing to me…"

Aelius shakes his head silently. Three of his ten friends are gone, but the war on the perimeter of the USSR is still going on, guns and shells are still being produced, shooting down the Prophet's “birds,” and there seems to be an electromagnetic grenade in every hut. Though fragmented, industry has survived in many places. Some nuclear power plants and hydroelectric power plants have also managed to stay afloat and remain Prophet’s primary target. Moira, the Apostle’s former crewmate, scout, missionary, and saboteur, was sent to this most difficult region. But she was getting old, like all the Apostles scattered around the world. It seemed that the Earth was draining them at the speed of light.

“Aelius…"

"Please, use my real name…”

“The loss has hit me hard, too, Grigory, but there’s no time for tears. Get ready to go out by the end of the week," says the winged robot with a gentle, insinuating male voice. “I want you to lead the squad.”

"Where to this time?"

"McMurdo, my friend. Coal and silver for your men, new blood for my reserves. But that's not even our primary right now. Someone from Nautilus has stepped ashore not far from the city.”

“When?”

“My drone discovered the debris of the shuttle from Njord. It seems to have happened some years ago. And you, Captain, must make sure this is not Fermion’s flight engineer.”

The man jerks his head up, taking a quick breath.

"No way," he mutters, grabbing the jug of water to relieve his sudden thirst. "He couldn’t have made it."

Grigory rises and starts nervously pacing the huge, somber temple hall in wide strides.

"Our Railtown scout… What if we send him to McMurdo? He gets people to trust him fast, and he easily digs out the crucial details."

“Sorry to bring it up, but if your flight engineer is there, he’ll reveal your guy in no time.”

"At least he can send a signal about his location in the city. And finding out that he was there once will be a breeze. Why kill him now, anyway? What's so dangerous about him?”

"Who knows, maybe Rakhmanov’s involvement is behind Moira’s capture,” mildly says the robot. "Let’s put it like this: if he stays in McMurdo, we should capture him, dead or alive. If he moved on, we must know, where to. If”

“You keep Earth under control. What should we be afraid of?"
"The most dangerous delusion people have is believing in their own omnipotence. I’ve outgrown that, and I wish the same for you.”

"So what have you been doing all this time?”

“I’ve been busy with a lot of things in Europe and Asia, you know. Until I detected a very unsettling signal from Antarctica. Someone managed to temporarily circumvent my radio blockage.”

“Impossible!" Grigory wheezes.

"No one in the Brotherhood should know it. They placed a radio beacon with a generator on the Central Glacier. The beacon kept transmitting the same encrypted message, calling on the Martians to wipe out Solweig. The message was transmitted in the name of Winged Sun. And you think it’s the Holy Spirit who informed them?”

"But what does McMurdo have to do with all this?"

“The shuttle, Grigory… McMurdo is the only settlement in that region for miles. Any normal person, knowing where they’ve ended up, wouldn’t walk past even the most rundown village without refilling their supplies. You see, when you're fleeing from a guarded underwater base, you don’t have much to take with you."

“If I were Rakhmanov, I wouldn’t stay long in this junkyard. I’d go search for Heliopolis or... or Mirny. Heliopolis is still our primary goal, right?"

"I have my reasons, my friend… Besides, McMurdo is barely a challenge for you. Its so-called guards are just ordinary thugs, more accustomed to bullying their people than facing real danger. The local ruler and his ragtag gang have piled up all the coal from local warehouses, and the townsfolk were so spineless they didn’t even resist—now they’re repurchasing their own coal from these rats. Oh, and make sure to keep the prince alive. If your former engineer or the unknown Nautilus guy was in town, he has probably said something interesting."

"He might not have spilled a word. Hard to believe he holds any affection for the wonderful rulers of this place," the man remarked, his last words soaked in pure disdain.

"Talking isn’t always a choice. You’ve been on this planet long enough to know that!" the robot snapped. "Do you understand your current mission?"

"Coal, silver... and Rakhmanov," Grigory muttered, his tongue refusing to utter the name of his long-forgotten comrade.

"How much time do you need to be ready, brother?"

"How many warriors do you think we’ll need?”

"Around two hundred is more than enough.”

"We move out in a day. The sooner we’re done with this, the better.”

"That’s the spirit. Because next up is…"

"Heliopolis," the man said, with obsession in his voice. "Hard to believe we’ve made it this far. After all these years…"

"Great things start with small steps! I’m preparing the next cargo shuttle. Weapons, armor, equipment—just imagine how happy will be your valiant knights!” Said the mellow voice through the robot’s speakers.

"First, they’ll need to learn how to use all that stuff," the silver-haired man muttered skeptically.

"It’s all as simple as it gets—the boys will be ready in under a month." The many-eyed robot pulsed between white and red, as if basking in its own triumph. "When Heliopolis falls, you may say Antarctica is ours. They thought they could hole up in their cave forever. Fifty years wasted when they could’ve fought for the whole continent. Pathetic fools."

"No," Aelius replies sharply, a hint of frustration in his voice, surprising even him. "They simply didn’t want violence or enslavement. I don’t see the point of it either. It’s better to talk things over first."

"With those cave-dwelling communists?”

"They’re not exactly in a position to throw their weight around," the "Apostle" says, musing. "I get it, you’re itching to try out your battle machines and all that. But I’d rather not kick off a new world by wiping out the brightest minds on the planet. The 'Winged Sun' will be a lot more useful to us alive. I’m pretty sure kindness will pay off."

"The smartest people on the planet. So, that’s your view?" the man says, addressing Aelius. "I see, you weren’t so generous with the others. Elitism is clearly ingrained in your minds, almost instinctual. Offering them cooperation might be worth considering, but the most persuasive offer is one backed by a powerful gun."

"How soon will you honor your promise, Prophet?”

"What’s the rush? You’re wise, powerful, and still healthy, and you’re vital to me here. I’ll be there at the moment you start to wither, but you have years before that happens. So, tell me, what is your greatest dream? Is it just the Transition?”

"To witness the renewed Earth with my own eyes. When that happens, I won’t even fear dying forever..."

"I know that already. But what do you want for yourself... as someone still mortal?”

"To see the crew... We’ve been scattered all over the planet... I’ve started to forget their faces, they’re fading from my mind like old paint... But in my dreams, I see them every night. We talk, we laugh, just like we did back in the good old days, watching the sunrise on that cliff by the ocean, like when we first arrived. When I awaken, I know what happened and who was there, but I can’t remember their faces or the little details. I hear their voices like they’re behind thick glass. They’ve become shadows. And sometimes I wonder—did I make them up, and everything that came before?"

The man’s voice shakes. The air rushes out of his lungs in a loud, uneven rhythm.

"I’ll send you to see the ones who are still alive," the winged robot promises.

“When?"

"When we find out who came to us from Nautilus.”

"That’s like trying to find a black cat in a dark room. Anything could have happened to him."

"There aren’t many places to go in Antarctica, and even fewer where you can stay to live. And yeah, I get it, it’s tough for you because of Moira. Her mind hasn’t been downloaded.”

The man slams his huge fists against the floor and breaks down, sobbing violently, as if something deep inside him has just burst into a thousand shards.

"I don’t know who you are anymore," the robot says, baffled. "People die around you almost every day…”

"Not these people," Aelius snarls.

"Oh, give me a break! You used to go on and on about how lucky you were to have this big, messy family. How they made you feel things you could never find on that sterile homeworld of yours. You said these were real people, and those—just androids. Didn’t you?”

"I did. And I believed it… until the dreams of our better days started chasing me.”

"You’ll have different dreams soon. Sweeter ones.”

"One thing I don’t get—why haven’t the desmoduses found him yet? You have more of them than seagulls on the coast.”

"When someone truly wants to disappear, only another human can track them down. Especially if they used to be friends."

The Apostle halts, his mind reeling from the words that just rang out. His old companion, his teacher, his curse—no longer appears perfect to him. He has always believed that Prophet could understand everything. But there’s something he’s lost the ability to understand, and chances are—he never will again. The realm of human emotions seems to be forever lost to the one who has built himself a stronghold on the Moon...

"Prophet..." says the man hoarsely, but gets no reply. Grigory calls to him a few more times, and then he grabs the robot still perched on his shoulder and squeezes it in his fist as if he means to crush it. But then he stops himself, regaining control, and simply flings it away with all his strength. Just before it crashes into the wall, the mechanical creature flaps its wings, shoots up toward the ceiling, and vanishes into the dark.

Night, indeed, is a strange time, when from the deepest, most hidden corners of the mind, things emerge that you never even knew existed. Feelings, buried for years, break free. Unworthy, suppressed, and often terrifying desires come to the surface. It’s no wonder that the superstitions of an ignorant, uninformed human mind created werewolves, creatures craving human blood. It’s no accident that so many murders in books happen in the dead of night. The night is when instincts that have long been silent start to wriggle at the sticky, murky bottom of consciousness—and yes, you do change, but not into another being. You change into your true self. You confront your deepest emotions, feel your good and bad desires more acutely, experience your pain more deeply, and often tremble at the thoughts that arise in the darkness.

A knock comes at the door, soft and careful. Grigory hesitates for a moment, choosing to ignore the late visitor, but the idea of spending the whole night alone with his true self is too terrifying. In just a few steps, he crosses the distance to the door. Outside, framed against the starry sky, stands a short figure. It’s Marcus — the guy with the white eyelashes — who can’t sleep. He must have come to get something, maybe tea. Despite his fine clothing, Grigory, who’s had to become Aelius once more, feels a deep chill in his bones, and the young man — no doubt still feeling the cold from outside...

"Teacher..." the young man breathes from the doorway. "I’m sorry, but I can’t wait until morning. It could still be nearby. Are our messengers still winged?”

"Our messengers are, yes," the man answers seriously, though he’s not entirely certain he’s aware of every invention the Prophet has created.

"Then I’ve seen a demon. A gaunt, metal creature," the boy says sharply, as though the monster just appeared to him moments ago.

"What size?" Aelius asks, his voice cautious as he lets the boy enter.

"About the size of a grown man. On four legs. It moved like it was flowing over the rocks.”

"Okay... Anything else? Its face, its eyes...?"

"This is the most terrifying part," the boy gulps, a lump in his throat, and stammers out, "This beast... It had... A human face! Whether you believe it or not, I have to tell you... Almighty God, I never could have imagined such a hideous thing!"

"Did he spot you?”

"Probably. He hid right away.”

"When did it happen?”

"Just before sunset.”

"Where was it?”

"By the crack. That's where he slipped away.”

"Are you absolutely certain your vision didn’t fail you? That it wasn’t just a trick of the light, shadows playing with your mind? Could it have been a dog?”

"No... The face... It was almost human... I swear!”

"Come with me."

They’re in the small annex, its walls uneven and rough; the dish of fat Aelius brought from the main hall sits on the table. The walls are lined not with icons, but with bundles of dried fish. On the stove, which burns with charcoal, a kettle of herbs gently bubbles. The young man, sitting at the table, presses his lips together in focus, outlining a skeletal figure on all fours by the edge of the crack, using charcoal on the stone surface. At last, the gray-haired man removes the kettle from the stove and pours the contents into chipped ceramic mugs. Marcus takes a sniff and sips cautiously.

"The taste is different today. What’s this, teacher?”

"Fireflower. Don’t worry about the name. It provides deep, wholesome sleep. You’ve deserved it, child.”

They sit in complete silence, sipping their tea and savoring every drop, and the anxiety that had gripped them both begins to fade. The Apostle is once again a fortress of confidence and strength. But when two desmoduses swoop into the room, wings beating as they hover above the table, the young man instinctively clenches his fists and presses his back to the wall.

"Relax, alright?" Aelius says, setting the headband, fused with opaque glasses, on Marcus’s head and carefully adjusting it. "Now, I want you to imagine the demon, as if you’ve just seen it. Try to remember every detail.”

"Yes, teacher," the blonde young man whispers anxiously.

A few seconds later, an image is displayed on the wall of the room, allowing the older man to see what startled his guest. Aelius frowns: no, not an animal. Not a play of light or a wild imagination. Here it is, the monster, large but surprisingly agile and flexible, its body structure like that of a large feline. Noticing Marcus's presence, it swiftly dives into the crevice, though it could kill the boy with a single blow of its long metal paw.

It’s unlikely that the Prophet sent this weird robot here. The Prophet has a thing for drones.

The Apostle slowly sweeps his gloved hand over the image, then alternates connecting his index, middle, and ring fingers to his thumb. He lifts his thumb as if in approval, then gestures with his right hand toward the exit. The drones blink white lights at him and fly off. Aelius takes the headband from the young man and places it on the nearby nightstand.

“Do you recognize it?" Marcus asks through the slumber.

“Soon we shall know what it is,” says the older man. Taking a sharpened piece of charcoal, and starts drawing the "demon" on the wall.