The Missionary by Nicky Martin
This story originally appeared in Alien Dimensions Issue #9
Lorn tilted his head, dangling the dropper above his ear, and squeezed it. Cold and smooth, the blue liquid dripped into his sinuses, freezing his head with a pleasurable arctic chill. The spreading numbness came with a calming ambient sound, like rustling leaves inside his skull. His neck lolled in paralysis, like a sleeping baby, as the junkie nodded off.
Lorn was addicted to Swish, a new, liquid ear-dropper drug that functioned as a depressant-hallucination. It was made from irradiated run off, and was all the rage in the skyscraper-slums, since it was cheap, easy to make, gave you a hell of a trip and killed you pretty quickly in a nice, peaceful way. Some would consider the “death’s looming specter” a downside when choosing a recreational drug of choice, but not Lorn. He loved the stuff.
Our hero’s arms went limp, and his ear-dropper rolled out from between his fingers, onto the wet ground. A bold rat scooped it up quickly, scurrying off to die once it tasted the liquid inside. Rotting garbage’s stench wafted from a crackling fire a few feet away from Lorn, but he didn’t notice it. The fire’s owner had died and (understandably) left it burning a few hours ago. “Euphonious Alley” was a notorious refuse for the Shanghai dropper community. Tons of consciousness-cosmonauts like Lorn made it a temporary-home or a permanent resting place.
Not for Lorn though. Lorn wouldn’t die for a few days yet, but what will be surprising for him, is that he’ll die sober.
Lorn was now exploring the neon vistas of another dimension inside his mind. An interior universe populated by sentient beams of energy. Lorn was a bold, red ray, flashing through a vacuous void of omni-darkness. He was far out.
So, a blaring siren didn’t wake Lorn up; neither did the net deployed by the flying robot. He was still unconscious when the drone took him to the landing bay of a ship. Even the rocket lift-off didn’t stir Lorn from his stupor. In fact, it wasn’t until the next day that Lorn left color-world, and wrenched himself back to the dreary landscape of the ship’s holding bay.
“Nuuuuhhh,” Lorn groaned, meaning to say, “Who moved me and why?”
A few minutes or hours later, those same folks began Lorn again. He couldn’t walk yet—there was still too much poison in him for that—so a conveyer belt dragged him along like resented luggage at a crowded airport.
The sing-songy lilt of a woman’s voice crackled loudly over an intercom, “Welcome to the Intergalactic Ship, Excalibur, Home to the Glorious & True Church of Astrotology—Where Everyone Must Worship the Stars!” Lorn knew this church. It was the one banned on Earth, exiled to space. How he had ended up here, he’d never fully understand.
The walls were colored brightly, with paintings of a noble man wearing a gold suit. Some were just classical portraits, but others were murals showing him playing with children, helping an old woman through a commuter’s tube, mining rock samples on Tethys. “Seems like a lot of work,” Lorn thought, his beard getting caught in the gaps of the moving platform as he laid totally motionless.
The walkway came to an abrupt stop and Lorn vomited from the sudden lurch. That’s weird, he hadn’t eaten in a week. Did they give him food? That was nice of them.
A holo-screen flickered on and—oh, what fun! It was a projection of the man from the paintings.
“We welcome you on your first steps toward the glorious truth of the universe!” said the sage speaker, wearing a sequined robe. “Marvelous happenstance has brought you here–down to your every single molecule. We are certain you are a chosen one to be among our exalted ranks! For you, my boy, are a chosen universal warrior! A voyager, explorer of stars! The galactic cowboy out roaming the dark and cold desert that is the universe…”
Were they just trying to butter me up? Lorn wondered, or maybe he really is special: a prodigal son. Maybe he’s here to save the religion from some heretics or…Lorn’s mind wandered, when could he get high again? That’s the important question. Does this ship have a Swish dealer—or maybe, he had just found his calling: selling Swish to an untapped market!
The talking head on the screen said more adjectives, then it turned off, and the wall lifted up. Two armed guards with light-weight, high-impact, black-polished elastomer law enforcement batons stood solemnly. Lorn shuddered at the memory of how those things feel when you’re getting beat with them. A phantom pain shot through his clavicle. It took him a minute to notice the smaller, unarmed man standing between the two guards.
“Welcome Mr. Hubston,” said the man. “I’m Dr. Carag. We’re happy to have you aboard the ship.”
Lorn grunted and wiped vomit off his mouth. “Where am I?”
“Take a look outside this window, Lorn,” the doctor said, patiently waiting for Lorn to stand up and shamble over to the window. Underneath the ship was Earth, and he could see Europe through cracks in the atmosphere’s clouds.
“Did you kidnap me and bring me into space?” Lorn asked.
“Kidnapping implies what we did was illegal; actually, what we did was begin your journey of rehabilitation.”
“Can I get high now?” Lorn asked disinterested.
“Of course not. In fact, mentioning contraband evokes the same punishment as possessing it. Guards, show Mr. Hubston what we do to those who endanger the purity of our ship…” The guards unlatched their batons, and Lorn remembered how hard elastomer feels.
#
He was still woozy, sitting in an uncomfortable chair.
“Today,” the doctor addressed the circle of addicts, “The group will discuss how pure-living rewards The Leader spiritually, which then rewards us spiritually.” Oh, he’s some sort of doctor/consoler/quack, Lorn thought.
Lorn had been to meetings like these before. They were usually pretty reserved until one person had a huge outburst as they reckoned with the immensity of their problem. Then, the meeting usually ended because people felt awkward, so they go out to eat something. Lorn decided he would be that person.
Each person shared their experience around the circle. First up was a woman with short shaved hair. She seemed shaken, afraid of something that was no longer a thread. “I read what The Leader said about addiction and dependency,” she eyed the doctor cautiously.
“What did he say,” the doctor asked menacingly.
“He said… ‘We use mood-altering substances to explore the darkness within…’” she coughed, making sure she didn’t miss a word, “But now, for the first time in history, we can explore the darkness without…”
“Throughout,” said the doctor, “But very close. Excellent. And what do you think this means, everyone?”
A stocky man with exaggerated muscles interjected, “I think it means that we need to go to space, and not do drugs, and make The Leader happy.”
“Very good, Tyr,” the doctor replied nodding. The strongman looked content.
Lorn was next up to share. He started working himself into a frenzy. He knew if he showed off his raw emotional depth, to atone for being an addict and beg everyone for their mercy/pity/forgiveness/etc., he could move on to more important things like getting a nice hit of Swish.
“Lorn, would you like to introduce yourself to the group,” the doctor asked.
Lorn stood up, rolled back his shoulders, and started to hyperventilate. “Folks, I am just so moved at the displays of love, affection, dedication and hope that I saw here today. I want you to know that my name is Lorn Hubston and I am an addict. I cannot help myself from snorting, smoking, dripping, or consuming drugs in all their forms. And it is, just as our glorious Leader proclaimed, because I wish to see the deepest recesses of human perception. I do not mean any harm or malice in my drug use, but now I have found a home that will let me put my passions to the test—and explore the real…” Lorn babbled on for a while but even he lost conviction in his story. His cravings were starting to give him stomach cramps.
“Thank you very much, Lorn,” the doctor said, shooting him a gaze of contempt. He could see right through the ruse and knew theatricals like these signify a trouble maker. “Now before we all get dismissed to the cafeteria and have our calorie shakes,”
Just what Lorn was waiting for…but wait, there’s more?
“We must do the universal pledge,” the doctor rolled out a machine with a variety of handles. Something like metal tentacles that each person in the circle was forced to hold. Lorn picked his up. It felt strangely cold against his palm.
“We pray to you, Lord our Prophet,” said the doctor, “Hear our cry against the dark grandeur of the universe! Bare us your creed!” Lorn wondered if holy men practice talking like this or are gifted with the ability to make it up on the spot. “May the Universal Constants, Laws and Sacred Equations be on our side as we bring our glory unto new cultures. May all the tribes of the universe come to know and respect us. Bless us, oh Masters, with your Absolutism of Coldness!”
The handles became incredibly frigid, there must be some cooling mechanism in the box connecting them. Lorn dropped the handle, his palm blistering in quick cold—strangely, the wound burned and felt incredibly hot.
#
The patients of the I.G.S. Excalibur were mostly frail and shell-shocked. Their skittishness showed when Lorn tried to sit down at a few tables. No one moved for him, they just averted their gaze as he fumbled to take a seat.
The calorie paste was no better or worse than any other calorie paste Lorn consumed previously. It was mild and practically tasteless. He wondered if it was doused with some sort of drug that prevented his death from withdrawal. Lorn hoped not.
“Hey…” Lorn whispered to the burly guy from the group meeting, “Wish wish.” It’s street slang for swish. Burly guy didn’t answer the call. “Don’t talk to me,” he said. This wasn’t going well.
“Attention!” the speakers crackled to life, “All patients report to the Worship Wing for weapons training.” Lorn followed the sad, single file line as it marched down the hallway. Weapons are fun, he thought. This might be better than hearing a bunch of mopes talk about some book he hadn’t read.
“The core tenant of belief in Astrotology is Missionary service,” said a different man, this one in a shiny, sequined general’s uniform. His entire chest was pinned with ribbons. “Your journey to new worlds, far and foreign, will cleanse your soul, making you one with the universe. And likewise, you will bring resources and glory back to your home planet for…”
Lorn’s concentration was shot. He didn’t want to think about Swish so he looked around the room instead. Robot suits lined the walls. Essentially, they were massive, metal pants—designed to traverse the unfettered terrain of alien worlds.
“The key to understanding your enemy—or rather, your converts—lies in the Reality Augmentation Technology (RAT)” the general explained. “The eyewear allows you to see the true nature of the convert’s planet: their resources, weaponry, leadership structure, and more. You’ll be happy you have this data available to you in combat. Plus, the Xenus atmosphere is toxic, so you literally can’t live without it.”
Were they missionaries or soldiers? The general continued, “Your Bi-Pedal Motion Mechs will do most of the heavy lifting. Well, walking. There will be no lifting.” Lorn was inferring that the natives weren’t receptive to the Astrotologists gospel.
“As most of you know, few recruits—or rather, patients—make it back from their first air-drop. Many die before they reach the planet’s surface. Fewer still make it back from their second air drop, and likewise too for their third. But after that third one—the sweet spot, I call it—we see people really come into their own, mastering the Bi-Pedal motion units.
“So concludes your training,” the general moved his arm out in front of him, “Your next drop is in one hour. God speed and glory be to the Leader for all infinity.”
Lorn found the girl from earlier’s meeting. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?” Lorn asked.
“You probably will,” she snapped, “But I hope to avoid it.”
#
Even in the mecha legs, Lorn felt the air whip against him from the ship’s open airlock.
“Commence falling in 3…2…” Lorn didn’t hear the last number. Instead, he plummeted down through Xenus’ thick atmosphere. His stomach lurched from his body, as he stared in horror at the planet’s fiery surface. The roaring infernos stank strangely of machine diesel. Explosion-made creators pocked the planet’s surface. He smashed into a flying demon, punching off its head and dismembering it with a chainsaw. The banshee shrieked in pain, a beastly death rattle that suggested a murder by something much worse.
Lorn knew he was in Hell.
He felt the slamming impact in his entire body as his mecha legs hit the planet’s surface. Lava streamed everywhere, explosions burst forth like the core of a volcano. These creatures didn’t seem interested in a human’s interpretation of god.
He plowed forward, crushing demons under the weight of his robot feet. The demons were scary looking, leathery wings, sharp claws, big tusk teeth. But they seemed more terrified than angry. Lorn felt their cold, green blood splatter as laser chainsaws emerged from his mech-feet. It all seemed a little much. How did patients die if the “converts” didn’t even fight back?
Lorn was bored with it all. He resigned himself to suffocation. Sure, his lungs will explode, rupturing into his other organs so he slowly hemorrhaged to death on an alien planet, but he’d be the only man to ever fully breath the atmosphere of Xenus. Plus, it didn’t seem like he’d ever get back to his true love: squeezing chemicals into his ears.
And anything’s better than killing helpless civilians who didn’t do anything.
He tugged at his helmet.
**WARNING! DO NOT REMOVE! ATMOSPHERE NOT BREATHABLE**
He wrenched the helmet free from its airlock and took his fatal breath…
Except, the atmosphere was fine–oxygen rich even. There was no lava, no harsh war-zone, the alien super demons were nothing but an electronic illusion. The mech-legs were still real, as were all the Astrotologists slaughtering the natives. They were pink, skinless amphibians; little frog man. They cowered in fear. Poor things.
Lorn abandoned his suit. He was a deserter now, and if he got caught he’d be executed. He didn’t much care about the mortal consequences presented to him.
He crept up on one of the frogs. It gurgled. “It’s ok. I’m not gonna hurt you, little guy,” Lorn edged closer, wanting to touch the tender, pink smoothness. They reminded him of prehistoric man—something from before animals had evolved functional skin. “I’ll help you! I’m not like the others,” the creature had no choice. Its jiggly legs couldn’t propel it away fast enough.
Lorn picked it up. It felt cold and soft, like freeze-dried jelly. “Do you know where I can get drugs around here, little guy?” For all his faults, the junkie had a tenacity of focus when it came to locating drugs. “Any kind will do.”
To his surprise, the creature nodded yes. Did it understand him? It tried to make words, but more incomprehensible gurgle sounds bubbled from underneath its head.
Lorn set it down and it teetered toward a rocky path. On foot now, Lorn followed, wearing only a form-fitted space suit. He was surprised at how fast he was adapting to space travel—then again, the drive for Swish was proving he was capable of incredible things. Maybe the Astrotologists were right: exploring the vistas of higher-consciousness did change a person.
The frogman ignored the chaos that was destroying its home. The soft patter of footsteps stopped as the pair crept into a cave-house. Lorn’s sherpa gurgled. A more wrinkled frogman stepped into the light of a fire. After more gurgling, it offered Lorn a seat on a rock.
The junkie watched as the two frogs worked to boil roots in a kettle. So much is the same for life everywhere, Lorn thought, all living things enjoy tea. Boiled and hot, the drink had the sweet stench of decay. No stranger to drinking poisons, Lorn gulped half the beverage in one sip.
His perception narrowed into a white pin-prick of light. Everything else went quiet. He felt nothing—it was as if his body evaporated into mist.
The older frogman appeared before him. “Your masters are destroying our planet for the crystals we use to power our farming equipment.”
Lorn couldn’t answer, he could only observe. He saw through the layers of the frogman from pink, soft flesh to green, icy blood. The frogman was prepared for such a response.
“You can stop this, we have a solution,” the elder waved his wooden walking staff passionately. Lorn doubted the wisdom. He couldn’t stop the interstellar assault occurring on this planet any more than he could stop getting captured or using Swish. Whatever this tea was, it was way better than Swish.
“We must weaponize your mind,” the elder frog began dancing now. “Ritualized truth!”
Lorn saw the nodes of connection open up before him—the frogs were being killed so their crystals could power the hyperdrives of fast space travel. The Astrotologists weren’t enemies of earth: they were its conquerors. He had no chance for rehabilitation—only conscription!
“You are the chosen one,” the elder frog was lying, just like the doctor. His gurgles seemed unable to hide the falsehood. “You see the truth, now feel it!”
Lorn felt agony as the top layers of his skin were ripped from his body. He was soft and pink now, too. He could sense his pulse, his blood pumping through his appendages. His skull shook at the weight of his blood.
“Go,” said the elder frog, “Return to your ship. Your mission is almost complete.”
The concoction kept his skinless body alive as he headed back to the battlefield. The mecha-humans continued to slaughter with no sensed exhaustion. They kept stomping, chopping, shooting, as if they could never stop.
The Excalibur had landed near the battlefield, ready to collect the surviving fighters. The junkie climbed the loading bay in a trance. Stepping foot back on the ship, he felt a quivering inside him. Soon, he would emerge. Not yet.
“What happened to your equipment soldier!” barked the general. “Do you know how much money you’ve wasted?”
“It will take him years to work off the bill,” the doctor snarled. “A pitiful excuse for a missionary. You should have died on the battlefield!”
Lorn pulsed. Energy welled up inside of him. The knowledge sought desperately to escape. It shook him, and finally it emerged. He exploded with an impact of untold proportions. His molecules broke their atomic bonds and unleashed a massive mushroom cloud of energy. The Excalibur was no more.
#
On Earth, the ancient husk of The Leader shuddered. He felt the depletion of energy in the Astrotologist psycho-sphere. Somehow, the Amphibinoids had stopped his benevolent action. No matter, five more ships would return—this time with even stronger Scripture behind them.
The old man reached next to this bedside and picked up an ear dropper. He applied three drops to each ear and right before the trip began, he set his equipment down gently. Now, he could see the vistas of color, the beams of light, the projection of Xenus right in the theater of his own mind. The hallucination filled him with valor, for soon he would conquer this world just as his father had conquered the limits of consciousness.