The Preacher checked the chronometer on his "wrist." He had not been back to the planet that the locals
called "Earth" in years. 178 years, in fact. Much had changed.
He resumed human form, gripped the bullhorn and stepped out the back of the wagon. "Clear the path for
the King," The Preacher shouted through the device. The tech itself was enough to draw a crowd.
He surveyed the people gathered in the marketplace, standing in their robes and hoods under a rotting
sky and flaming sun. In the decades between his visits, the societies of this world had destroyed the
environment through casual violence and active neglect.
He smiled through his holographic mask. This experiment was turning out better than he could have ever hoped. He once
again raised the bullhorn. "The King is returning!" More heads turned from their business.
"We've been hearing that for years," shouted a heckler from the back of the crowd. A woman, perhaps his wife, hushed
him.
"Yes," The Preacher bullhorned back, undaunted. "But I am here to tell you he is coming back soon."
His academy rival, B'rrgh, had almost succeeded with his own messiah project on Tau Ceti Three. But The Preacher knew
that this one was certain to turn out even better. "Be patient, brethren. The King will come and set everything straight."
Some members of the crowd murmured in agreement. "He will bring a better world." The crowd burst into cheers. It was
time to sell souvenirs.
He checked his chronometer again. His engineered messiah would return in less than 80 hours.
Reaching his sales quota with the souvenirs, The Preacher removed his ceremonial sideburns and ventured with his
horse and wagon back into The Wasteland. Sun echoed off bleached sand and rock, dust swirling in hot blasts of air.
Some of the townsfolk back there had not seen a horse in years; it took some doing to get the horse away uneaten. As the
wagon bounced over broken road, the alien was considering whether the next stop would be as successful when he heard
a shout.
"Hey! Old man!"
The Preacher tugged at the reins, the horse stopping short of the humanoid gang, five of them, all teens or younger. The
greeting puzzled him. Had he not assumed a younger adult Earther form? "May I help you with something?" He wondered
whether he should impress them with the bullhorn.
"This is a toll road," their Mohawked leader said, stepping forward, metal-plated heels clanking against rock. The chain
around the youth's neck dangled loosely, clattering as he stomped toward the wagon. A tall girl with stringy blonde hair
stood at his left. On his right hunched two older boys, one with red brillo hair and freckles, the other dark complected, a
greasy black mop on his head. Behind them, cowering, a younger girl wore a wool cap and gloves without fingers.
"Toll road," The Preacher mumbled to himself, mentally searching his language file.
"Yeah, fragment" the leader bullied, punching the air with a leather fist. "You haffta pay to get through."
The Preacher calmly reached down and pulled a Thermoptikon from his boot, checking the meter. The charge was low, but
there was enough juice left to dissolve Leather Fist into gases.
"We don't ask for much," the punk said. He pointed at the horse. "Just the dog."
"I do not have time for this," The Preacher said, raising the device up and taking aim.
Then he stopped. Could his message save even these ruffians? He lowered the disperser. "Have you lost your way?"
Leather Fist balked at the soothing tone. "What do you mean?" Anger in his eyes wavered. "Where are we going?"
"Are you getting the most out of life?" The Preacher replied gently. His gimmicks were unprepared: no music, no vidboard,
no lighting. Only the tone of his voice. His alien ears could not actually hear the same frequencies as these children; it
would not be easy.
"This world is anarchy," The Preacher continued. "But you can have peace. You can have life. You can belong." Tall Blonde,
misty-eyed, stopped playing with her hair. Freckled Redhead's grimace loosened.
The Preacher focused on the group's leader. Stepped gingerly out the wagon and, reaching ground, moved gently toward
the youth. "There is a way that is rugged to a man, but can lead to truth."
Another step closer. "His is the life."
Another. "His is the truth."
Now within arm's reach of Leather Fist, who was entranced. "His is the way."
Leather Fist jolted, gritting teeth. "Lie!" He swung, hitting The Preacher in the head, knocking him down. Shouted to his
friends: "Let's eat his dog!"
Grease Boy shot for the wagon, Freckled Redhead on his heels. They jumped toward the horse, which was bugging eyes,
wheezing in fear.
On the ground, The Preacher spat dirt, shook his head. Vision slowly returning. He would analyze for linguistic
miscalculations later. He stretched for the fallen Thermoptikon.
Leather Fist stepped on his hand. "What's this, fragment?"
The Preacher gripped Leather Fist by the ankle, rolled back. The youth yelped and fell, kicking out with a metal-plated boot
heel, smacking the alien hard in the ribs. When the boot came down again, The Preacher grabbed it, shoved his elbow into
the youth's leg. The leg broke and Leather Fist howled. The Preacher grabbed the boot with both hands, twisting until the
crunching was louder than the howling.
Scrambling to his feet, muscles aching, The Preacher walked over to the Thermoptikon and picked it up. He could not get
into any more scrapes like this for a while. He was a Science Class, not a War Class.
At the wagon, he found Tall Blonde petting the horse and cooing. Stepping up the small ladder and pulling back the curtain,
he found that Small Girl with Cap was attempting to hack into the computer system. The other boys had broken open the
souvenir cases and were digging through the treasure. Even infidels could not resist merch. Freckle Boy ogled a "t-shirt"
with the legend "THE ONCE AND FUTURE KELVIN." Grease Boy, examining a "digital watch," turned with soft eyes to The
Preacher. "What's this?"
The alien smiled through his holo face. "That is a talisman, son. It has magic powers."
"Will it find food for us?"
The Preacher tousled the boy's oily hair. "This talisman tells you where the yellow orb is in the sky."
Grease Boy decided instead on what Earthers used to refer to as a "keychain," which, as The Preacher explained, would
magically open doors. Freckle Boy kept the t-shirt and Little Girl with Cap accepted a vidgame. Tall Blonde left with a pewter
Kelvin, hanging on a string of beads around her neck.
The kids headed east, waving and admiring their gifts with wide-eyed glee. The Preacher and his horse and wagon
headed west.
Leather Fist, voice hoarse and leg smashed, cursed and spat as they all left him there to die.
As his wagon clattered across broken asphalt, The Preacher's mental processes drifted to the beginnings of his
experiment. Two centuries earlier, he had connected with certain Earth scientists involved in the expensive process of
untangling time travel. He had come to them in the guise of a private Earth businessman offering to fund their research.
His stipulation: They use a particular rock legend as their "ambassador to the future."
"That's a bit unusual." Professor Girard sat behind his crowded desk, hands locked. The Businessman could see Girard
calculating the odds of completing his experiment without the funding. It would never happen.
The Businessman had smiled. "Research has shown Mr. Eastley is your generation's most marketable product."
With no other fiscal opportunities, Girard felt compelled to agree to the terms. The Businessman gave the team money,
supplied a few inconspicuous pieces of new technology, slipped in a couple of strategic suggestions to help the Earthers
get around theoretical roadblocks.
When the scientists "lost" their test subject, presumed atomized in the portal, they faked a medical report and claimed his
death. A world mourned.
For The Businessman, of course, this was all according to plan. Once he had altered the direction of the experiment to suit
his own needs, it was only a matter of waiting and returning to Earth as The Preacher to see the results of his work. He
knew if this celebrity continued making "personal appearances" long after announced dead, it would greatly accelerate his
Messiah thesis.
Reaching the big gate of New Detroit Kingdom at dusk, The Preacher barely made it in before the giant metal barricades
were closed for the night. Caravans were setting up camp outside, torches burning bright against dangers and
superstitions.
He parked the medicine wagon inside the gate, near armed guards warming themselves at burning barrels. Certain his
horse and wagon would be safe, The Preacher went for a walk down jumbled sidewalk. The streets were mostly empty. He
passed condemned buildings and cardboard tenements. Graffitied on a brick wall was the message "THE KING IS
RETURNING SOON."
Music wafting toward him, he rounded a corner to see a big patchy tent stretched across a fragmented old parking lot. Light
billowed out as wind whipped the raggedy entrance back and forth. The preacher could not help but smile as he heard
voices singing in unison: "What a friend we have in Kelvin / All our sins and greed and bears..." Outside, a sign flashed
warmly: "KELVIN SAVES. REVIVAL TONIGHT."
Inside the tent, he searched for a place to sit. Standing room only. Shoulder to shoulder, the gathering stank of grime and
hopelessness. He pushed through the aisles and sat on a patch of cracked asphalt where grass had burst through.
The hymn ended and the revivalist moved into center stage, bedecked in sequin robe and ceremonial sideburns. "The
King is returning soon," the man announced in a thick, deliberate drawl. A few in the crowd mumbled "Amen." The revivalist
continued pacing. "I have a vision. The King of Kings wants me to build my ministry." A few more urged him on with claps
and uh-huhs. A musician to his right began softly playing a reed instrument.
The alien glanced around at the congregation, which was enraptured by the presentation. Not bad, he thought. A vidscreen
behind the stage glowed to life. Torches around the tent dimmed for the slides of Kelvin and Kelvin impersonators. The
revivalist talked low into the mic: "No, friends, we are not in the Land of Grace -- but the King is with us. And since this is a
religious service, we are obligated by the blood to take an offering." Music floated down from overhead speakers as ushers
began passing offering plates.
Not bad at all.
Having seen enough, The Preacher stood, pushed through the crowded aisle and out the tent. Heading down a different
street back toward the city gate, he passed a row of market tents, most closed for the night.
Still basking in the afterglow of the tent meeting, his thoughts drifted back to that first sighting. What had been so thrilling
was that this was not even a legitimate appearing -- by The Preacher's calculations, Kelvin Eastley's atoms would not
reunite for the first time for another seven weeks. But the fans were so lonely for this man, so determined his death was
somehow a mistake, they began to imagine him appearing in dumpy, out of the way places. In the months and years
since, of course, the lost time traveler would recorporealize at what seemed like random intervals, in front of a few
witnesses, only to disperse again for another block of random time. The entire process, of course, followed a special
mathematic formula of which only The Preacher was privy.
A voice from the darkness startled The Preacher from his memories. "Good evening," the voice said. Squinting, The
Preacher could see a man behind the table.
"Good evening to you," The Preacher replied.
"I've got a new talisman, embossed with the Visage." The man held out a leather piece with a brass ring in it.
"No." The alien glanced around at some of the other memorabilia before noticing something leaning against the tent's
back wall, hidden in brown paper. "What is that?"
"Oh," the seller beamed, grabbing the item and pulling the cover aside, "I haven't decided on a fair price yet. It's a portrait of
our savior on black velvet. You can see him holding the ceremonial staff."
"It's a guitar."
"Praise Kelvin."
At the wagon, The Preacher spent the night rechecking figures and filing reports. He should reach Michigan Town
tomorrow, with just enough time to reach the site and prepare the aged equipment.
The Messiah would be back in 26 hours.
Leaving as early as the gatemen would allow, The Preacher took his horse and wagon back into the blinding Wasteland,
his locator guiding him. By dusk, he had reached the next City without incident.
Rather than heading directly to his ultimate destination, he decided to set up, get the crowd primed for the Second Coming.
Flipping on the music, grabbing the bullhorn, he pulled aside the curtain and stepped onstage before the forming crowd.
"Friends, for years you have heard the warnings, you have heard the prophecies, you have heard the promises: The King
will return."
One man heckled, "Then why tell us all this again?"
The Preacher licked his lips, relishing this announcement. "Because He is coming tonight." He stopped to give the crowd a
moment to buzz. "Yes, Kelvin Eastley has been gone, preparing a place for you. But tonight he returns from his realm to
take the faithful under his wing!"
The Preacher smiled, pulling the curtain further back to reveal the souvenirs. "I have mementos to help you celebrate the
glorious return!" The Preacher bent on one knee at the edge of the stage, holding out odds and ends. He traded for coins,
live chickens, things tied in burlap. He checked his chronometer, synchronized with the digital countdown. He smiled dryly
to himself, looked off into the distance, calculated.
After the final sale, he packed the wagon, got in the driver's seat, grabbed the reins. Vaguely noticed the smell of rotting
fish. Clicked his tongue for the horse to move and the wagon lurched past tall buildings, monuments of broken glass and
rusted metal.
The entrance was buried under rubble behind a shack. Whatever had happened to the structure, the lab was protected in a
vault that even a Therzon Wave could not penetrate. However, it did take 40 sweaty minutes to peel back steel and concrete
to find the opening. He should not have wasted time with the crowd. Couldn't be helped now.
Eventually, he dug his way to the tunnel and vault door, punched in the code and entered. He was greeted by decades'
worth of stale air. His chronometer beeped.
Reorienting himself to the lab, he was surprised to be fighting through spider webs and coughing the dusty air. Perhaps
the vault had been compromised after all.
No time to consider this now, though, as he found the appropriate console, cleared off a thick layer of dust. He went to
another console and flipped a switch. Strobe lights flickered to life over a special chair in the center of the room. It had not
aged well. "Hardly a fitting throne for the King," he said, yanking it loose from metal brackets, tossing the chair out of the
circle of light.
The digital counter continued: 00:15:06. 00:15:05. 00:15:04.
He checked more gauges. The lights in the center of the room began circling, crisscrossing, overlapping. He flipped
another switch and the humming rose in pitch and volume.
00:11:53. 00:11:52. 00:11:51.
Odd, blue sparkles filled the air where the chair used to sit. Folding his arms behind his back, he strolled the
circumference of the room. In the center of the room, dusty air swirled. Once the countdown reached 10 minutes, he
resumed his checklist. He opened a panel containing a series of switches. Slowly, he flipped each switch. A pair of
gyroscope-looking objects crackled to life. Lightning danced.
00:06:01. 00:06:00. 00:05:59.
The sparks circled faster, glowing brighter, fusing into a ring of light, expanding until light exploded from the central
chamber, a pillar of solid light stretching upward toward infinity. Orbs of light darted around the room. In the center of the
pillar, black atoms raced, coalescing into a shadowy figure, arms raised in the light.
00:00:27. 00:00:26. 00:00:25.
Orbs of light leaped out the room and through tunnels, bursting through rubble to the crowded marketplace above. Some
shouted, some ran, some reached out for angels.
Inside the vault, The Preacher marveled at the lightshow in spite of himself. He turned and saw the familiar silhouette in
the light chamber. The pillar of light exploded, knocking The Preacher down. Everything stopped.
Darkness. Breathing. Emergency lights flickering to life, burning dull orange.
The Preacher stirred. From the other end of the room he heard a hollow yelp. "Hello? Where am I?" The Preacher, noting
he had resumed his natural form, scrambled for his cloaking disc, re-inserting it into his harness. His image flickered,
melting once more into the non-threatening form of a "human."
A bedraggled man stepped out of shadows, rubbing his forehead. "Didn't it work? I saw some..." Breaking off, searching for
words. "Well, I may have hallucinated on the chair there, but..." A pause. A whisper, "Where is everybody?"
The crowd hadn't dispersed. Everyone just stood, hushed. As the medicine wagon slowly emerged from shadows, the
people crowded around in anticipation.
The Preacher flipped on spotlights as a platform opened out the side. He clutched the bullhorn. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I
am proud to present to you the triumphant return of -- the Once and Future Kelvin!"
The crowd cheered as the spotlight found a familiar man standing before them, brandishing an acoustic guitar. The crowd
quieted, unsure what comes next when you meet God.
"I've been -- gone for a while," the man said slowly, choosing each word as if speaking them for the first time. "My friend
over there tells me how nice you've all been in my absence. Just thought I'd try to return the favor."
He looked out into the audience. "Any, um, requests?" The crowd shouted out all the questions pent up since time began.
Where can I find food?
Why are good people unrewarded?
Why did my children die?
Will you reunite Cities?
The desperate shouting overlapped into noise. The man onstage, overwhelmed, strummed a chord. "I -- uh -- here's a
song some people have been known to like."
He began singing something The Preacher remembered from before. At first the crowd listened politely but, as the song
progressed, faces dropped. By the second verse, they were wandering away in ones and twos.
Baffled, The Preacher pulled out a calculator and frantically pushed buttons. When it offered no help he threw it down. He
stepped clumsily off the wagon and waved his arms. "Where are you going? This is your Messiah, returned to you!" The
exodus continued. As the man continued his song, the preacher pulled out the bullhorn. "He has come back to lead you!"
The man onstage, spotlight in his eyes, continued the bittersweet song. Soon, the crowd had dwindled to five or six curious
onlookers.
The Preacher sat in the dirt. This should have worked.
Determined to try again, he consulted his notes for another test subject. An appropriate possibility caught his eye: On a
world adjacent to this one, an Elvis Presley. The alien pulled another device from his pocket and punched in the temporal
flare coordinates and he was gone.
This time he would not fail.
called "Earth" in years. 178 years, in fact. Much had changed.
He resumed human form, gripped the bullhorn and stepped out the back of the wagon. "Clear the path for
the King," The Preacher shouted through the device. The tech itself was enough to draw a crowd.
He surveyed the people gathered in the marketplace, standing in their robes and hoods under a rotting
sky and flaming sun. In the decades between his visits, the societies of this world had destroyed the
environment through casual violence and active neglect.
He smiled through his holographic mask. This experiment was turning out better than he could have ever hoped. He once
again raised the bullhorn. "The King is returning!" More heads turned from their business.
"We've been hearing that for years," shouted a heckler from the back of the crowd. A woman, perhaps his wife, hushed
him.
"Yes," The Preacher bullhorned back, undaunted. "But I am here to tell you he is coming back soon."
His academy rival, B'rrgh, had almost succeeded with his own messiah project on Tau Ceti Three. But The Preacher knew
that this one was certain to turn out even better. "Be patient, brethren. The King will come and set everything straight."
Some members of the crowd murmured in agreement. "He will bring a better world." The crowd burst into cheers. It was
time to sell souvenirs.
He checked his chronometer again. His engineered messiah would return in less than 80 hours.
Reaching his sales quota with the souvenirs, The Preacher removed his ceremonial sideburns and ventured with his
horse and wagon back into The Wasteland. Sun echoed off bleached sand and rock, dust swirling in hot blasts of air.
Some of the townsfolk back there had not seen a horse in years; it took some doing to get the horse away uneaten. As the
wagon bounced over broken road, the alien was considering whether the next stop would be as successful when he heard
a shout.
"Hey! Old man!"
The Preacher tugged at the reins, the horse stopping short of the humanoid gang, five of them, all teens or younger. The
greeting puzzled him. Had he not assumed a younger adult Earther form? "May I help you with something?" He wondered
whether he should impress them with the bullhorn.
"This is a toll road," their Mohawked leader said, stepping forward, metal-plated heels clanking against rock. The chain
around the youth's neck dangled loosely, clattering as he stomped toward the wagon. A tall girl with stringy blonde hair
stood at his left. On his right hunched two older boys, one with red brillo hair and freckles, the other dark complected, a
greasy black mop on his head. Behind them, cowering, a younger girl wore a wool cap and gloves without fingers.
"Toll road," The Preacher mumbled to himself, mentally searching his language file.
"Yeah, fragment" the leader bullied, punching the air with a leather fist. "You haffta pay to get through."
The Preacher calmly reached down and pulled a Thermoptikon from his boot, checking the meter. The charge was low, but
there was enough juice left to dissolve Leather Fist into gases.
"We don't ask for much," the punk said. He pointed at the horse. "Just the dog."
"I do not have time for this," The Preacher said, raising the device up and taking aim.
Then he stopped. Could his message save even these ruffians? He lowered the disperser. "Have you lost your way?"
Leather Fist balked at the soothing tone. "What do you mean?" Anger in his eyes wavered. "Where are we going?"
"Are you getting the most out of life?" The Preacher replied gently. His gimmicks were unprepared: no music, no vidboard,
no lighting. Only the tone of his voice. His alien ears could not actually hear the same frequencies as these children; it
would not be easy.
"This world is anarchy," The Preacher continued. "But you can have peace. You can have life. You can belong." Tall Blonde,
misty-eyed, stopped playing with her hair. Freckled Redhead's grimace loosened.
The Preacher focused on the group's leader. Stepped gingerly out the wagon and, reaching ground, moved gently toward
the youth. "There is a way that is rugged to a man, but can lead to truth."
Another step closer. "His is the life."
Another. "His is the truth."
Now within arm's reach of Leather Fist, who was entranced. "His is the way."
Leather Fist jolted, gritting teeth. "Lie!" He swung, hitting The Preacher in the head, knocking him down. Shouted to his
friends: "Let's eat his dog!"
Grease Boy shot for the wagon, Freckled Redhead on his heels. They jumped toward the horse, which was bugging eyes,
wheezing in fear.
On the ground, The Preacher spat dirt, shook his head. Vision slowly returning. He would analyze for linguistic
miscalculations later. He stretched for the fallen Thermoptikon.
Leather Fist stepped on his hand. "What's this, fragment?"
The Preacher gripped Leather Fist by the ankle, rolled back. The youth yelped and fell, kicking out with a metal-plated boot
heel, smacking the alien hard in the ribs. When the boot came down again, The Preacher grabbed it, shoved his elbow into
the youth's leg. The leg broke and Leather Fist howled. The Preacher grabbed the boot with both hands, twisting until the
crunching was louder than the howling.
Scrambling to his feet, muscles aching, The Preacher walked over to the Thermoptikon and picked it up. He could not get
into any more scrapes like this for a while. He was a Science Class, not a War Class.
At the wagon, he found Tall Blonde petting the horse and cooing. Stepping up the small ladder and pulling back the curtain,
he found that Small Girl with Cap was attempting to hack into the computer system. The other boys had broken open the
souvenir cases and were digging through the treasure. Even infidels could not resist merch. Freckle Boy ogled a "t-shirt"
with the legend "THE ONCE AND FUTURE KELVIN." Grease Boy, examining a "digital watch," turned with soft eyes to The
Preacher. "What's this?"
The alien smiled through his holo face. "That is a talisman, son. It has magic powers."
"Will it find food for us?"
The Preacher tousled the boy's oily hair. "This talisman tells you where the yellow orb is in the sky."
Grease Boy decided instead on what Earthers used to refer to as a "keychain," which, as The Preacher explained, would
magically open doors. Freckle Boy kept the t-shirt and Little Girl with Cap accepted a vidgame. Tall Blonde left with a pewter
Kelvin, hanging on a string of beads around her neck.
The kids headed east, waving and admiring their gifts with wide-eyed glee. The Preacher and his horse and wagon
headed west.
Leather Fist, voice hoarse and leg smashed, cursed and spat as they all left him there to die.
As his wagon clattered across broken asphalt, The Preacher's mental processes drifted to the beginnings of his
experiment. Two centuries earlier, he had connected with certain Earth scientists involved in the expensive process of
untangling time travel. He had come to them in the guise of a private Earth businessman offering to fund their research.
His stipulation: They use a particular rock legend as their "ambassador to the future."
"That's a bit unusual." Professor Girard sat behind his crowded desk, hands locked. The Businessman could see Girard
calculating the odds of completing his experiment without the funding. It would never happen.
The Businessman had smiled. "Research has shown Mr. Eastley is your generation's most marketable product."
With no other fiscal opportunities, Girard felt compelled to agree to the terms. The Businessman gave the team money,
supplied a few inconspicuous pieces of new technology, slipped in a couple of strategic suggestions to help the Earthers
get around theoretical roadblocks.
When the scientists "lost" their test subject, presumed atomized in the portal, they faked a medical report and claimed his
death. A world mourned.
For The Businessman, of course, this was all according to plan. Once he had altered the direction of the experiment to suit
his own needs, it was only a matter of waiting and returning to Earth as The Preacher to see the results of his work. He
knew if this celebrity continued making "personal appearances" long after announced dead, it would greatly accelerate his
Messiah thesis.
Reaching the big gate of New Detroit Kingdom at dusk, The Preacher barely made it in before the giant metal barricades
were closed for the night. Caravans were setting up camp outside, torches burning bright against dangers and
superstitions.
He parked the medicine wagon inside the gate, near armed guards warming themselves at burning barrels. Certain his
horse and wagon would be safe, The Preacher went for a walk down jumbled sidewalk. The streets were mostly empty. He
passed condemned buildings and cardboard tenements. Graffitied on a brick wall was the message "THE KING IS
RETURNING SOON."
Music wafting toward him, he rounded a corner to see a big patchy tent stretched across a fragmented old parking lot. Light
billowed out as wind whipped the raggedy entrance back and forth. The preacher could not help but smile as he heard
voices singing in unison: "What a friend we have in Kelvin / All our sins and greed and bears..." Outside, a sign flashed
warmly: "KELVIN SAVES. REVIVAL TONIGHT."
Inside the tent, he searched for a place to sit. Standing room only. Shoulder to shoulder, the gathering stank of grime and
hopelessness. He pushed through the aisles and sat on a patch of cracked asphalt where grass had burst through.
The hymn ended and the revivalist moved into center stage, bedecked in sequin robe and ceremonial sideburns. "The
King is returning soon," the man announced in a thick, deliberate drawl. A few in the crowd mumbled "Amen." The revivalist
continued pacing. "I have a vision. The King of Kings wants me to build my ministry." A few more urged him on with claps
and uh-huhs. A musician to his right began softly playing a reed instrument.
The alien glanced around at the congregation, which was enraptured by the presentation. Not bad, he thought. A vidscreen
behind the stage glowed to life. Torches around the tent dimmed for the slides of Kelvin and Kelvin impersonators. The
revivalist talked low into the mic: "No, friends, we are not in the Land of Grace -- but the King is with us. And since this is a
religious service, we are obligated by the blood to take an offering." Music floated down from overhead speakers as ushers
began passing offering plates.
Not bad at all.
Having seen enough, The Preacher stood, pushed through the crowded aisle and out the tent. Heading down a different
street back toward the city gate, he passed a row of market tents, most closed for the night.
Still basking in the afterglow of the tent meeting, his thoughts drifted back to that first sighting. What had been so thrilling
was that this was not even a legitimate appearing -- by The Preacher's calculations, Kelvin Eastley's atoms would not
reunite for the first time for another seven weeks. But the fans were so lonely for this man, so determined his death was
somehow a mistake, they began to imagine him appearing in dumpy, out of the way places. In the months and years
since, of course, the lost time traveler would recorporealize at what seemed like random intervals, in front of a few
witnesses, only to disperse again for another block of random time. The entire process, of course, followed a special
mathematic formula of which only The Preacher was privy.
A voice from the darkness startled The Preacher from his memories. "Good evening," the voice said. Squinting, The
Preacher could see a man behind the table.
"Good evening to you," The Preacher replied.
"I've got a new talisman, embossed with the Visage." The man held out a leather piece with a brass ring in it.
"No." The alien glanced around at some of the other memorabilia before noticing something leaning against the tent's
back wall, hidden in brown paper. "What is that?"
"Oh," the seller beamed, grabbing the item and pulling the cover aside, "I haven't decided on a fair price yet. It's a portrait of
our savior on black velvet. You can see him holding the ceremonial staff."
"It's a guitar."
"Praise Kelvin."
At the wagon, The Preacher spent the night rechecking figures and filing reports. He should reach Michigan Town
tomorrow, with just enough time to reach the site and prepare the aged equipment.
The Messiah would be back in 26 hours.
Leaving as early as the gatemen would allow, The Preacher took his horse and wagon back into the blinding Wasteland,
his locator guiding him. By dusk, he had reached the next City without incident.
Rather than heading directly to his ultimate destination, he decided to set up, get the crowd primed for the Second Coming.
Flipping on the music, grabbing the bullhorn, he pulled aside the curtain and stepped onstage before the forming crowd.
"Friends, for years you have heard the warnings, you have heard the prophecies, you have heard the promises: The King
will return."
One man heckled, "Then why tell us all this again?"
The Preacher licked his lips, relishing this announcement. "Because He is coming tonight." He stopped to give the crowd a
moment to buzz. "Yes, Kelvin Eastley has been gone, preparing a place for you. But tonight he returns from his realm to
take the faithful under his wing!"
The Preacher smiled, pulling the curtain further back to reveal the souvenirs. "I have mementos to help you celebrate the
glorious return!" The Preacher bent on one knee at the edge of the stage, holding out odds and ends. He traded for coins,
live chickens, things tied in burlap. He checked his chronometer, synchronized with the digital countdown. He smiled dryly
to himself, looked off into the distance, calculated.
After the final sale, he packed the wagon, got in the driver's seat, grabbed the reins. Vaguely noticed the smell of rotting
fish. Clicked his tongue for the horse to move and the wagon lurched past tall buildings, monuments of broken glass and
rusted metal.
The entrance was buried under rubble behind a shack. Whatever had happened to the structure, the lab was protected in a
vault that even a Therzon Wave could not penetrate. However, it did take 40 sweaty minutes to peel back steel and concrete
to find the opening. He should not have wasted time with the crowd. Couldn't be helped now.
Eventually, he dug his way to the tunnel and vault door, punched in the code and entered. He was greeted by decades'
worth of stale air. His chronometer beeped.
Reorienting himself to the lab, he was surprised to be fighting through spider webs and coughing the dusty air. Perhaps
the vault had been compromised after all.
No time to consider this now, though, as he found the appropriate console, cleared off a thick layer of dust. He went to
another console and flipped a switch. Strobe lights flickered to life over a special chair in the center of the room. It had not
aged well. "Hardly a fitting throne for the King," he said, yanking it loose from metal brackets, tossing the chair out of the
circle of light.
The digital counter continued: 00:15:06. 00:15:05. 00:15:04.
He checked more gauges. The lights in the center of the room began circling, crisscrossing, overlapping. He flipped
another switch and the humming rose in pitch and volume.
00:11:53. 00:11:52. 00:11:51.
Odd, blue sparkles filled the air where the chair used to sit. Folding his arms behind his back, he strolled the
circumference of the room. In the center of the room, dusty air swirled. Once the countdown reached 10 minutes, he
resumed his checklist. He opened a panel containing a series of switches. Slowly, he flipped each switch. A pair of
gyroscope-looking objects crackled to life. Lightning danced.
00:06:01. 00:06:00. 00:05:59.
The sparks circled faster, glowing brighter, fusing into a ring of light, expanding until light exploded from the central
chamber, a pillar of solid light stretching upward toward infinity. Orbs of light darted around the room. In the center of the
pillar, black atoms raced, coalescing into a shadowy figure, arms raised in the light.
00:00:27. 00:00:26. 00:00:25.
Orbs of light leaped out the room and through tunnels, bursting through rubble to the crowded marketplace above. Some
shouted, some ran, some reached out for angels.
Inside the vault, The Preacher marveled at the lightshow in spite of himself. He turned and saw the familiar silhouette in
the light chamber. The pillar of light exploded, knocking The Preacher down. Everything stopped.
Darkness. Breathing. Emergency lights flickering to life, burning dull orange.
The Preacher stirred. From the other end of the room he heard a hollow yelp. "Hello? Where am I?" The Preacher, noting
he had resumed his natural form, scrambled for his cloaking disc, re-inserting it into his harness. His image flickered,
melting once more into the non-threatening form of a "human."
A bedraggled man stepped out of shadows, rubbing his forehead. "Didn't it work? I saw some..." Breaking off, searching for
words. "Well, I may have hallucinated on the chair there, but..." A pause. A whisper, "Where is everybody?"
The crowd hadn't dispersed. Everyone just stood, hushed. As the medicine wagon slowly emerged from shadows, the
people crowded around in anticipation.
The Preacher flipped on spotlights as a platform opened out the side. He clutched the bullhorn. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I
am proud to present to you the triumphant return of -- the Once and Future Kelvin!"
The crowd cheered as the spotlight found a familiar man standing before them, brandishing an acoustic guitar. The crowd
quieted, unsure what comes next when you meet God.
"I've been -- gone for a while," the man said slowly, choosing each word as if speaking them for the first time. "My friend
over there tells me how nice you've all been in my absence. Just thought I'd try to return the favor."
He looked out into the audience. "Any, um, requests?" The crowd shouted out all the questions pent up since time began.
Where can I find food?
Why are good people unrewarded?
Why did my children die?
Will you reunite Cities?
The desperate shouting overlapped into noise. The man onstage, overwhelmed, strummed a chord. "I -- uh -- here's a
song some people have been known to like."
He began singing something The Preacher remembered from before. At first the crowd listened politely but, as the song
progressed, faces dropped. By the second verse, they were wandering away in ones and twos.
Baffled, The Preacher pulled out a calculator and frantically pushed buttons. When it offered no help he threw it down. He
stepped clumsily off the wagon and waved his arms. "Where are you going? This is your Messiah, returned to you!" The
exodus continued. As the man continued his song, the preacher pulled out the bullhorn. "He has come back to lead you!"
The man onstage, spotlight in his eyes, continued the bittersweet song. Soon, the crowd had dwindled to five or six curious
onlookers.
The Preacher sat in the dirt. This should have worked.
Determined to try again, he consulted his notes for another test subject. An appropriate possibility caught his eye: On a
world adjacent to this one, an Elvis Presley. The alien pulled another device from his pocket and punched in the temporal
flare coordinates and he was gone.
This time he would not fail.
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| "All Our Sins And Greed And Bears" |
| Originally published at INFUZE ... September 2004 |
© 2004 Chris Well
StudioWell
| ©2009 Chris and Erica Well |
STORIES and ART
