Planet Fever (28 page)

“
Yup. That is correct. They are all in league with a former associate of mine—a malcontent named Phos Atomos Paradosi. They’ve been manufacturing false, or misleading narratives in your head in order to confuse, diffuse, reuse and suffuse you with their agenda, which is shady and dangerous, and not a good deal for you and your human brethren, nor is it a good deal for your fellow mammals, the dolphins, or distant life-form cousins the trees, or really anything within the oxygen/carbon dioxide cycle of existence. The only critter that might benefit from their plan would be the cockroach, and possibly the naked mole rat, depending on what sort of spray paint they use to turn the sky red.

“Digressions aside: Since Phos and his cohorts are not playing fair, I’m popping in as a reminder to help you along. You see, they want to eliminate free will, but they cannot do it so long as it exists even as a concept in the mind. So they’re attempting to move the very concept out of existence, at least within the sphere of your minds. But it still exists in your mind, and it exists within your work-in-progress, or rather, your novel,
Planet Fever
.”

Again with the damn novel.

I hadn’t finished it and didn’t know if I wanted to. Hell, I didn’t even know what the damn thing was about, or where it was going. That novel was a microcosm for my mind: a complete mess.

“
Balderdash!!!
” The surrounding atmosphere—if that is what you want to call it—ignited like lightening as his voice thundered. His eyes illuminated through the tint of his sunglasses.
“The thing is around. Buried. Dig around for it. And remember: if you give it up, there goes all free will in your known Universe.”

I shivered and glanced around for a way out of the predicament, but I was stuck in that utter nothingness with the suspended upside-down (or right-side up, depending on your perspective), sunglass-wearing, all-knowing, mind-reading being called Atoz.

“‘Why me?’ you ask. ‘Because I felt like it,’ I retort. Stop asking these inane questions and get to it. You have a story to finish, and a universe to save. Capiche?”

“Uh—”

And within the blink of an eye he was gone, and I was back by my little campfire.

“What in God’s name was that?”

A pack of hyenas laughed for a good minute or two. At me, I conjectured.

THE FIRE
diminished and the hot coals of wood breathed their orange-black undulations and emitted the occasional spark into the (again) starry night. This was accompanied by more laughter of those hyenas that found many goings-on of the night hilarious.

What was the point of everything? What had Atoz meant by saying I had a universe to save? Saving “The Universe” seemed like a very tall order, not something a man like myself was prepared to take on.

Coming to no solid conclusion, I dozed off hearing Atoz’s voice repeating on a feedback loop in my brain:
You have a story to finish, and a universe to save.

The sun came up the next day and I decided to stay right there, on the peaceful mountaintop. I didn’t bother digging through the dirt to search for my novel. Why would it be on the mountain anyway? That made zero sense. As a matter of fact, I thought I had finally and utterly lost all touch with reality.

“That’s it,” I said to no one in particular. “I’m done. Out of ideas. Out of sanity. Out of order. Someone else will have to save the universe.” I laughed at that last part because saying it aloud sounded ridiculous. I waited for the hyenas to join in, but got nothing but a resounding silence. “Don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Don’t know where to go, what to say, what to think, so I’m staying right here, dammit.” I added the “dammit” for effect, and it seemed to work because a gust of wind whipped through me, causing me to tremble and wish I had a heavier jacket. That was the last thing I recall saying aloud for quite some time.

After my declaration and the gale force wind, I experienced the final repercussions of withdrawal as the narcotics evaporated from my system. An onset of delirium took over and by day three I had run out of food and water, leaving me dehydrated and starving. I was dry as a lizard. My skin was red-hot. I had officially integrated with the desert.

One night (how many nights had I spent out there? I didn’t know), I found myself spread out on my back, naked, staring at the sky and wishing an alien vessel would cruise by and nab me. What would they be like? Hostile? Hospitable? Indifferent? Most of outer space itself was hostile to humans by its very nature: a cold, airless, soundless expanse of nothingness. Empty oblivion between stars, debris, and planets. And our tiny little blue orb: a mere afterthought on the outskirts of a galaxy spinning around a universe of millions or billions of other spinning galaxies. Our planet was simply a compartment on a giant spaceship called “The Milky Way” that was ambling along the Universe, hurtling through the cosmos. And we were its tiny passengers in this planetary compartment aboard the vast ship. In a sense
we were aboard
a UFO within a UFO, except we weren’t “unidentified”—we were very much identified. We were individuals capable of free will and thought.

And now—allegedly—forces within the great galactic ship wished to catalogue and enslave the cargo and rip away the things that made us most human….

If true: how was I supposed to stop that from happening—with a book?

You betcha.

“MR. BIKAVER,
I appreciate the exposition and flights of fancy you are sharing with me about this account. It is very fascinating and entertaining. But I must insist you ‘cut to the chase’. Did this ‘Atoz Al Ways’ character, or ‘author’ give you anything besides the anecdotal information you mentioned in your account?”

The Interrogator has grown impatient with the story. Perhaps he doesn’t think it’s leading anywhere. I don’t blame him.

“I eventually stumbled upon a bunch of dossiers. Buried in the dirt.”

“A bunch of dossiers?”

“Yes. In manila envelopes. I am guessing he left them there for me.”

The Interrogator ponders this for a bit.

I break the silence: “Yeah. I think he was trying to help jump-start me back into my novel. You know the one—
Planet Fever
.”

NOTE: The following is what was found in a manila envelope:

REALITY AUTHOR/DESIGNER (RAD) DEFINED: Atoz Al Ways became bored with the standard “automating reality rendering machines;” his goal was to populate his Designer Multiverse with other little designers, authors and renderers like himself, who would be free to design as they wished, themselves being unique individual creations. So he set up a program whereby certain characters would be selected and put through what he calls “Hell Life” to see if they “got what it takes”(which he was quoted as saying in a “60 Millenia” interview while puffing a cigar). Once they sign on, they are placed through a grueling reality: their memories are wiped clean and they are dropped into a random scenario whereby they have no clue what is going on. The only criteria for pass or fail: in the end, do they trust that their honcho knows what he is doing and hang on? Or do they say, “fuck it, this ain’t worth it” and go some other way, and washout?

“Trust is the foundation for any relationship, and any company worth its grain of salt is founded on trust.” …I trust them to invent realities. Do they trust me, though? That is the question.

Atoz’ early RAD (Reality Author/Designer), who happened to be a non-human, was a great disappointment. This subject failed to trust Atoz’ plan to induct human beings into the RAD Program. Who was this disappointing RAD, now turned RADiCal (Reality Author/Designer in Calamity)? Phos Atomos Paradosi, an old buddy and business associate of Atoz. Phos set up and is currently heading the N(aI)IS, which is gobbling-up all the assets of the Universe at a stunning rate.

NOTE: The key to any RAD-in-training is his “Book of Life”—if he signs away the rights to it, or allows anyone to requisition it, or coerce him into changing it, then he is washed out. Each RAD-in-training titles his own “Book of Life” whatever he wants to.

NOTE: The following is what was found in a manila envelope:

MY EYES
opened and I was camped out by the side of some remote dirt road. I vaguely recalled having climbed down the mountain and wandering to here. I looked and saw the “North Guardian Angel,” that strange mountain I had been camped atop, was about a mile away. How many nights had I spent up there? When had I staggered to this spot? How had I staggered to this spot? Why was I naked?

The hyenas stopped laughing. I yawned a waking yawn. A morning breeze stoked the coals of a smoldering fire I must have fashioned the night prior.

I stared off toward the mountain I had just conquered. Though fatigue, hunger and bewilderment taunted me, any fear or apathy which might have resided within me had vanished.

A bird whistled, precisely like the one from my childhood: two slow whistles rising in pitch (G, A), followed by three successive, rapid whistles jumbled in F, octave lower F, and C. Suddenly my mind’s eye was seized by a streaming torrent of seemingly ancient symbols, but three dimensional and holographic in nature. The architecture, the logic, the programming code, the schematic, the story of the cosmos made perfect sense as a winding yet simple, elegant equation; this information poured into me as a steady data-stream of what appeared to be ancient pictographic computer code language. It hit my mind fast and concise. My eyes shuddered as I absorbed this fleeting comprehension with awe. How would I remember all this information? How would I even relate it to anyone if I could remember it? I knew I wouldn’t. How could I? It seemed untranslatable….