The Coming

It has been eons since I first discovered conscious thought.  Yet, I know nothing of my source, nor of my destination.  I do know that I am traveling, because I can sense infinitesimal course changes from time to time.

I struggle with identity: I don't know who I am, or who I will be.  I know only this ovoid shape, it's smooth metallic walls cool to the touch, yet pulsing with energy.  I know the blinding white plasma which arcs around and through me, both sustaining and protecting me.  This much I can feel -- no more.

I struggle to maintain my thought processes, lest I go mad.  I work through mathematical progressions, I practice speaking -- at least I believe it is speaking, how will I know, unless there is someone to hear me?  I exercise, jumping and turning, lashing out against the impenetrable shell of my prison with sometimes purpose, sometimes frustration.  I pose myself, letting the plasma throb through me, seeking different postures to minimize turbulence in its wake.

I think ... think ... think ... until my thoughts jumble incoherently.  Why am I here?  Where am I going?  Will it serve any purpose to arrive at my destination completely mad?

I fight ... fight ... fight ... clinging to sanity in desperation.  Or is it sanity?  Perhaps it is sanity toward which I am slipping.  How would I know?  I have nothing to use for comparison.  A language fills me -- at least I think it's a language.  I babble on, composing, processing, uttering gibberish that I ... I think I understand.  I think....

The time is near, I can feel it.  The shell of my existence is decelerating, turning, making radical course changes.  I feel ... I feel ... gravity.  Yes, Gravity, I know what that is.  How do I know that? I'm ... I'm fallllinnnng....

The pain!  The pain!  There are blinding white flashes as the plasma around me grows hotter.  The impact jars me, but doesn't harm me.  The plasma has protected me, and now it is dwindling.  It is only an occasional spark now, and the glowing walls of my prison tick-tick-tick while cooling and dimming.

I struggle against the walls, kicking and screaming.  I must get out.  I need air!  These walls are closing in as I gasp for breath.  I kick harder and faster, a desperate fear clutching in my throat.

A crack!  I see a crack.  Hope quickens my spirit.  I rest a moment, gathering strength.  I must make this effort count.  As I rest, I summon all my frustration, my fear, my resentment of this prison, letting it fill me with rage.  I focus upon the cracked wall, and let every emotion strike out as well as I leap.  Suddenly, the plasma is back, summoned by my mind, striking ahead of my feet, forcing the crack wider.  I strike, a scream of anguish upon my lips, and the shell explodes.  I am surrounded by a billion shards of light, a tiny supernova of rage, and the cold rushes in.

Suddenly, I am freezing.  In a defensive stance, I instantly reach out with my mind, and summon the plasma to me.  I command it to warm me.  My temperature regulates and evens out.  It is then that I look down, and notice the tiny creatures.  They are prostrated before me, their hands spread out in supplication.

Supplication?  Do I know that word?  I must, for I have just used it.  Yet how did I know it?

The tiny creatures look up, their small faces streaked with tears.  My heart lurches.  They know so little.  They need so much.  With that realization dawns a new understanding.  I have been sent here.  It is for these creatures that I was prepared.

One of them rises, holding out his hands imploringly.  I speak, and the light of understanding crosses his countenance.  They dance around me in rapture, as I gaze about me.  This is a new world to me, yet I feel that I know it.  My birth and programming began eons ago, deep in intergalactic space, yet I know this place.  I know these people.  It is just today that I was fully born.

I have come to fulfill my destiny -- and theirs.


Dallas D'Angelo-Gary 03