The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

by

Paul J. Bagnell

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Published By

Paul J. Bagnell on Smashwords

The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

This ebook-in-publication data/copy is on file with the Library of Congress.

ISBN: 978-0-9866159-2-4

Copyright 2013.TM by Paul J. Bagnell

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*****

The Last Nukyi

Book One

Fear Cosmic Annihilation

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SEGMENT ONE: THE MIND-CRASH AFFLICTION

C1: CONNECT TO EARTH

C2: CARRAVECKY & SONS

C3: ROPED INTO A MIND-CRASH

C4: HOT YET FROSTY

C5: UNLOCK THE NUKYI

C6: BAD CORPORATE FUNDAMENTALS

C7: HOT WAR UNLEASHED

C8: YOUR SECRET IS TOLD

C9: SUIT ME UP ’N SEND ME OUT

C10: ACCEPT OR SUBMIT

C11: KISS ME I’M BAD

C12: A ROOF OF FRIGHT

C13: MET YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN

C14: DON’T MOVE - YOUR HEAD’S NEXT

C15: WAKE UP I’M DYING

C16: WORLD OF INFERNO

C17: DATA DRIVE ME IN

C18: PACK ME SOME CASH

C19: SHOT OF REALITY

C20: I’M WATCHING YOU

C21: KNOCKED INTO A DREAM

SEGMENT ONE: THE MIND-CRASH AFFLICTION

Chapter 1: CONNECT TO EARTH

A punishing blast of energy smashed through the roof of Tom Bronze’s house as he lay in a dead sleep. The ghastly explosion showered incinerated debris throughout his bedroom as an aggressive light wave pulsated with coded bursts of radiation, which, seemingly, emitted a murky haze that crawled from the ceiling and settled on the floor like a thick, grey, woolen blanket.

This beyond-world beam, apparently, paralyzed Tom’s human physiology while this unknown cosmic invader probed the fragmented depths of the earthling’s mind, a proficient technology which triggered a genetic transformation that instantly hyper-altered every cell in Tom’s mortal matrix. His feeble body grew strong as strands of sinuous, steel-like muscles swelled beneath the skin.

Imprisoned by his reconfigured neural network, he was mentally bombarded with unexplainable images of himself transported beyond his mortal existence as he stood by a hellish fire of peat encased in a pit of crumbling mortar and burnt stone. Heat and smoke rose into the stagnant atmosphere. He wiped the clammy sweat from his brow and whispered, How can this be? These flames are burning hot.

Suddenly, Tom was startled by a shrill voice that made his skin shiver. He shifted his eyes from the fire to the darkness. He tried to grasp reality; however he realized this was just another unspeakable nightmare. Was it a dream or was it real? Did an angel or a demon or an unknown force from beyond induce this hideous voice? He felt desperately insecure.

In the near distance, Tom saw an immense figure that idled in a wall of fog. He tried to back away, but his muscles seemed frozen. Then, out of the murky hold, the massive body drew closer. In a big, crunchy voice it said, I come searching for a great champion.

A warm breeze crossed Tom’s face like a cloud of sour-tasting vapour that left a weakness in the pit of his stomach, partially restricting his vocal cords. What do you want with me? he replied cowardly.

I am The Be-Ing. I am an interdimensional life form sent to search for you, the powerful space soldier you were in your previous existence.

Tom was speechless. The only movement came from the whites of his eyes as he gazed into the fire and searched for an answer. He saw nothing but glowing cinders and spiking flames. Its warmth radiated from the burn, the true link between the forces of good and evil--forces which constantly battle in equalizing clashes, in constant conflict in the universe, yet restrained by the world of Line-Cross, a dimensional void which separates the pure from the impure.

A soupy knee-high mist settled on the ground and created an eeriness that further shrouded the landscape. Tom retched to inhale but almost choked on his dry, swollen tongue while the thick fog hung in the air and clung to his skin like a rotten carcass.

The sky grumbled as smoke spewed from the pit and discharged a fine dusting of ash that filtered down like grey snowflakes. The Be-Ing’s voice rumbled with the powers of the unholy, yet it gracefully extended its hands upward, and a beautiful spectrum beamed out from the tips of its fingers.

Tom was awed as he watched the energy flow into the darkness momentarily illuminating the dead sky, which revealed the dead landscape and its lanky trees with wiry limbs, which knotted into a demonic bulk but seemed to embrace him like his mother’s cradling arms. Immediately, the deprived atmosphere reminded him of when he was lost in the dark, northern forest of Washington State during his early childhood but remembered he wasn’t frightened.

Tom blinked hard, an attempt to force the imagery from his eyes. The darkness receded like a clap of thunder and brought forth the clarity of this strange world. He collapsed to one knee and instinctively cupped a handful of soil and felt the damp texture of the loam between his fingers. This convinced him that this was no psychotic illusion. He stood and sifted the dirt from his palm to the ground. His eyes were fixed on The Be-Ing’s seven-foot-plus, two-ton mass as it hunched in front of him. Its body was sheathed with a jagged, rock-like exterior, which obviously served as protective armour.

Tom observed the creature’s mountainous head and torso, shouldered with thick tube-like arms capped with solid hands. Its fingers measured as big around as a man’s wrist, which, apparently, could mangle steel or gingerly crack an egg and were stretched out like sticks of potent TNT. Its powerful pipe-like legs with oval cupped feet impressively secured its immovable footing. The Be-Ing’s overall demeanour appeared evil, yet it seemed to possess a virtuous elegance.

Fem-Be-Kyi, The Be-Ing called in the form of a mystic spell; then it revealed its ultimate purpose for contacting the new arrival. You must concentrate. I come from a place where mortals do not exist. Immortality is beyond the comprehension of humans. What I seek is your soul’s capacity for life and the inter-powers of your mind. It is this which must be rediscovered and nurtured within you.

Yes, Tom mouthed willingly, as if chemically entranced.

"There is a world inhabited with life forms in a distant galaxy, billions of light years from planet earth. They are the ones who need the mighty space soldier hailed a Nukyi Salient. The Galaxy of Voge and God of Hege is the place of your Armageddon.

Your preparation will be rigorous and will require every ounce of strength your mind, body and soul can sustain. You must endure pain and fight the destructive forces of evil if you are to save yourself from annihilation.

Tom gulped hard. Why do you call me a Nukyi?

The honour has been bestowed, it cannot be withdrawn.

Why?

The Be-Ing shifted its mass to one side. You are who you are: a Nukyi Salient; and that cannot be changed.

Then, if so, how do you propose to send me on this infinite journey? Tom asked inquisitively.

The journey of a soul begins where infinity ends.

I don’t understand your mystic logic.

You must open your mind to the impossible.

How is that done in this world?

I shall teach you what is required.

This is just a mental hoax; none of this is real, just a dream--not to worry.

I am real and you are real, and there is no escaping your destiny. It is the way it is.

If you’re real, like you say you are, then convince me and tell me more.

Soon your quest shall be defined. For now, close your eyes and return. Soon we will meet again, in another dream.

I must know! When will that be? Tom shouted into the dead sky.

Soon! The Be-Ing roared, as a cloud of vapour sealed it in a whirling vortex and carried its massive body through an energy portal and into the abnormal beyond.

*****

Frantically, Tom sprang upright in bed, soaked in sweat and breathing like an asthmatic madman. Man, that was one bad-tasting fantasy! he sputtered out of breath, before he focused and saw the nasty aperture in the roof. There were wood fragments and plaster bits from the ceiling distributed about the floor. The dresser doors were flopped opened, and his clothes were heaped and scattered in an alien-looking formation. The bedside table was tipped over, a gifted porcelain lamp was smashed to pieces; and his cellular phone was crumpled into a mangled mess. He rubbed his eyes to help clear his vision. I must be sicker than diagnosed, he whimpered as he dozed off on the pillow.

Chapter 2: CARRAVECKY & SONS

The alarm clock struck 5:50 a.m. and rang with the sound of another dreadful Monday. Tom’s hands were clasped tight around the pillow; and without realizing his undiscovered strength, he separated the cloth, and a sack of feathers floated in the unsettled air.

He finally reactivated from a dull state of consciousness and lifted a weary eye, which strained looking at the clock, resting dial up, and calling on the floor. He sat up, brushed the chalky ceiling dust off the chard sheets, and balanced his infected body weight on the edge of the bed. He mumbled lethargically, It’s going to be another brutal week digesting my unflavoured employment obligations.

Cool breezes bleed in through the wound in the roof. He surveyed the circular damage and questioned, What the hell went through here last night? His sense of perception was blank. He reached over and slipped his robe from beneath an unnaturally formed jumble of clothes, and proceeded from the bedroom down the stairs into the living room.

The front picture window, which seemed wider than standard builder’s dimensions, captured the light of the morning sun. He paused to feel the warm rays on his unshaved face. Five days of cold rain--at least it’s bright, dry, and warm today, he whined, as he seriously debated whether to go to work or call in sick, however, he continued toward the kitchen.

Fresh coffee dripped from the automatic dispenser and filled the room with an aroma of strong hazelnut. He poured a hefty cup of brew, a simple chore he found difficult each morning, thanks to his constant state of over exhaustion and negative financial position.

He returned to the living room and eased into his housebroken recliner, like an 80-year-old man. His aching finger stretched for the remote. The television flashed on, another typical morning of news, weather, and sports. He clicked through the available channels with every morning news broadcaster reporting the same globe bleakness in different, phony smiles. Bored, he switched them off.

A peaceful sensation cleansed his mind with a feeling of profound serenity. Strangely, it felt foreign to him. He sighted to his right and sipped the hot drink. His wife and two young children posed in the colourful photograph. They gleamed so happily. It was a joyful picture of better times. A year ago, she left with the girls. He knew they were healthy, living with her folks up north, but he was afraid to call. He was drowning in regret, mental pain killing him. He regretted not spending more quality time with them, but his noble accounting career got in his way. He couldn’t change his past although he wished he could. There were too many useless excuses handcuffing his stubbornness, and due time would determine if their untied marriage arrangement was best for the family.

A fond memory splashed in his teary eye. It was the day of the firm’s annual summer picnic that she told him she was leaving. That was a bad time in his life--a day he’d never forget, even if he lived a thousand years.

He levered forward in his worn-in recliner and gulped the remaining mouthful of warm fluid and retired the mug next to the family picture as he did every weekday morning.

*****

Tom stepped from the hot shower and steadied dripping wet in front of the vanity mirror. A film of steam clouded his view. He cleared the moisture with the palm of his hand with his refined torso reflected back at him. Immediately, he noticed the difference in his muscular classification. Only days ago, he estimated that he was losing a chest and gaining a gut. Now, he looked lean and inhumanly vascular with an overly developed physique that defied a logical explanation. His muscles bulged from beneath his taut skin in mounds and dips that crossed his pecs, abs and thighs. He pulled his dirty-brown hair away from his blue-stressed eyes and slanted closer to his detached duplicate, as if to study his transformed symmetry. I need to get my vision tested and my hair trimmed, he promised, and scuffed from the bath.

Luckily, his many suits still hung in the closet. Each appeared worn and tattered, but he, particularly, liked the dark-blue one--the one he’d purchased at a local discount clothing store and the one he’d always worn on Mondays. Today was no exception to his predictable obsession.

He hurried to get ready and left the house. He jumped into his pre-millennium import economy model, parked in the driveway. The vehicle was rusted. Oil leaks and spot-filler indicated that it should be put to rest at the nearest junkyard, but he prayed that tomorrow would bring prosperity into his life and medicate his revolving anxiety. He slapped his vinyl briefcase on the backseat, fumbled the car keys between his swollen fingers, and then clumsily started the vehicle. The smell of burnt oil and trail of blue smoke polluted the morning air. He had never gotten a fine, even though the government strictly enforced the automotive pollution control laws.

The drive to his office job usually lasted a good thirty-five minutes. I should arrive at my monkey-cage door with a clean 60 seconds to boot, he moaned and glanced (a force of habit) at his damaged fifty-cent watch.

The inner city was a beehive of business activities. Skyscrapers stilted high into the Seattle skyline; and with each new construction, the structures got more obnoxious and intimidating. It was a magnificent sight but a constant reminder of the unforgiving jungle where he earned his modest living. There, built high into the clouds, the Belk Tower stood structurally invincible and ruled over the ongoing construction like a king wearing reflective gold.

Tom rolled up to the tower’s underground entrance. Today, Joey, the gate attendant, spied into his vehicle for some unknown reason before he lifted the entry barrier, then waved him past. Tom claimed his paid monthly billet and hurried from his vehicle with briefcase in hand in pursuit of the elevator before the doors sealed.

An English gentleman, who worked on floor fifty-four, saw Tom approaching and held open the doors.

Thanks, Tom said apologetically.

You’re welcome, young Bronze, the older executive said and pushed the button for floor fifty-one, Tom’s floor.

Tom could only guess what numerically scrambled reports Selly required reworked this week while he stared up at the floor level indicator lights to avoid small talk conversation with other office acquaintances.

The elevator doors unsealed at L51 and exposed the hallway. Its oak grain walls lined the entire length of the corridor, which led to his current place of employment.

He made his way toward the etched glass doors that read: LANKENBURY, MACKENZIE & MCBRIDLE--ACCOUNTING, AUDITING & TAXATION which spanned the entire width of the office frontage with an abundance of posh and prestige.

Stella, the office receptionist, a well-spoken African American woman with over three decades of business administration expertise, was seated at the frontline workstation, organizing paperwork and weekend voice messages. She noticed Tom and smiled as he entered the office.

The clock that hung on the wall behind her indicated it was exactly eight o’clock.

He was cutting it really close today, he thought, while he greeted her with a cheerful good morning; but he had to force a natural smile.

She returned his good-will cheer and continued sorting the messages.

He strode to the right of her control post and headed toward the centre offices; a drone of voices and computer equipment originated from beyond the temporary partitions. His fellow employees, a new breed of young accounting grads, who were attempting to make their mark in the corporate world, anxiously rushed to finish a year-end consolidation deadline for a high-profile multinational organization.

Tom squeezed into his tiny area, a six-by-six cubicle of compressed workspace. His station was adjacent to the computer lab; and from his standard plot, the digital buzz always seemed sharper than anywhere else in the office. He stretched back and gazed up at the ceiling tiles. He counted the number of squares hundreds of times, bringing back a lost memory or an idea, but not today.

Minutes passed as Tom scrutinized the seconds. He hadn’t yet seen Selly this morning. He usually arrived at 8:01 carrying an armload of auditing reports and business outlines for revisions. Maybe he got tied up in the morning traffic or something, Tom thought.

He rested his sober eyes, and complained, I never slept a wink last night. The words seemed to roll off his cankered tongue. Last night had to be the worst sleep I experienced in months, he mumbled, desperate for sympathy. His self-bitterness was elevated by an indescribable itch that he felt from head to toe.

Selly arrived a few minutes late.

How’s it going? Tom asked in a tone to appease his departmental supervisor.

I’ll need these by the end of the day. If there’s a problem, call me, Selly said bluntly, as he unloaded the bundle of work on Tom’s desk.

Sure. I’ll get cracking on them right away, he replied, and daydreamed in the direction of the papers.

As quickly as Selly had appeared, he vanished - no thank you, no goodbye.

Every day it was the same thankless objective--crank out pounds of client reports, which meant squat. He smelled displeasure all around him--a big, rich firm with little appreciation for his number-crunching talents. He controlled his growing temper by inhaling and exhaling. This technique usually worked; but, today, it was ineffective. A rage was burning within. With clenched jaw, he seethed boyishly. I destroyed my wonderful marriage for this bland daily grind. Maybe if I slave harder, I’ll be someone important within these walls of hierarchy, he said, as he chewed the words in his mouth. It was always the same. He was chasing that golden carrot but was always just a hair short of a success.

Again, he stretched back, his head tilted, his eyes locked on the ceiling tiles. This strange ailment, he suspected, was brought on by the dream. What does it mean? The answer was there. He was sure of it. To find it was another matter, but there was something mysterious about this mental imagery--that amplified voice. Who did that voice belong to, and what does it or he or whatever want?

A flood of emotions created a memory flashback from last night’s dream and revealed some sketchy mental details. He remembered the contained fire. The tall trees that meshed together to architect a barricade against the damp wind, the cool soil; and, of course, that blurry figure. It all seemed so strange and out of place with bits of pieces that didn’t fit into any equation. He could feel it. It was calling him, seeking his help. He was mentally baffled.

The untidy stack of financial reports on his desk brought him back to a dismal reality. He hopelessly eyed the two inches of rough textured paper bound in coloured file folders. He retrieved the first on the schedule and stared uncomfortably at it. The force of last night’s alien wave still mentally distressed him.

The telephone rang. He snapped up the receiver. Bronze speaking.

Tom, how are you? It’s Jack Mackenzie, said the voice with an Americanized Scottish accent.

Sir, I’m sorry, but I haven’t completed your client’s file, Tom said, as he searched through the mountain of work in progress.

That’s perfectly all right, he said politely. This morning call concerns another matter.

Then, what can I do for you, sir? Tom replied verbally crippled and defenseless.

Tom, can you please come to my office? There’s an important matter that I would like to discuss with you, Mackenzie instructed.

Yes, sir, Tom replied slowly. In all the years he’d been there, he was never exclusively called to the founding partner’s office. I'll be right there, sir. He broke his uninterested daze from an unaudited statement and hung up the phone. Then, he forced himself from the chair, afraid of the grim news to follow.

He heard Stella laughing as he rounded the corner of her comfortable perch. She appeared to know how to enjoy her stressful environment. Even when things heated up around her, she remained cool and calm.

Mackenzie was the second-most powerful man in the firm. He was one of the three names etched on the glass doors; and he could make or break any employee with just one word, yet he seldom used his gold pen to slay the common dragon. Tom forged onward, barely able to stomach the early-morning stress and annoying butterflies in the pit of his stomach, en route to Mackenzie’s quarters.

The partners’ offices were lavishly installed along the west-side and restricted the spectacular view of the city’s architecture and the hierarchy who dwelled there.

Maybe one day he could have his name assigned to one of those privileged office domains, but Tom wasn’t convinced. He stalled in front of Mackenzie’s place, gulped a mouthful of air, and tapped.

Come in, the voice said cheerfully.

Sir, you wanted to see me? Tom said in a mousy voice.

Yes, Tom, Mackenzie ordered as he moved around to the front of his desk. His motion was strong, like that of a man in his early thirties. In fact, Tom knew that Mackenzie was about fifty-eight years of age and healthy as a horse. The boss stood straight and commanding, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. His face was smoothly shaved, and he measured more than six-feet-three from head to toe. He brushed his hand across his thick brown hair, an attempt to flatten the mane to one side. Please, come in. Close the door. Tom, help yourself to a coffee, he offered in a fatherly tone, and pointed to the credenza.

Tom poured a medium, and sat down. He secretly surveyed the handsome settings, especially Mackenzie’s imperialistic desk. It was genuine Asian mahogany, graced with a hand-carved sculpture, a figurehead mounted on the bow of a seventeen-century warship. The designer walls were dressed with contemporary paintings. Each canvas looked pricey and probably cost more than the average annual income of a typical blue-collar worker.

Tom, do you like working for our firm?, Mackenzie asked, in a tone demanding the truth.

Yes, sir, I’m very happy here, he replied cocksure, but swallowed his true feelings.

Mackenzie was seated like an emperor behind his desk. He bent forward (his eyes seemed to cut through Tom). You’re presently working under Selly’s supervision, correct?

Tom nodded a weak ‘yes’ response.

Mackenzie paused. He seemed to be waiting for a detailed explanation and then continued. I respect your professional abilities and that’s why I’d appreciate your efforts if you’d accept an assignment working under Celia McBridle’s authority. He donned his eyeglasses and, seemingly, paged through Tom’s employment history. One of our largest clients has a major complication. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses. "They need a