Thoughts in Chaos
By Rune Grey
The sense of warmth intruded upon Lacan, a welcome feeling after
weeks of the bitter cold of the northern icecap. He didn't
question the feeling at the moment, content to simply bask in the
warmth and restore the energy that trek and the bitter cold has
slowly sapped away from him.
The realization that it WAS warm, when what had seemed to be only
a moment ago he had been lying face down on top of one of the
world's largest glaciers, was what brought him to immediate
consciousness. It wasn't frozen snow that his head rested
against, but a massive cavern floor made of a type of strange
luminescent rock that he had never seen before in his life.
Lacan slowly levered himself to his feet, trying to take in the
sights that protruded themselves violently into his vision. His
first thought, that this wasn't a natural cavern, was
justified... no cavern that he had ever seen had possessed this
strange, almost circular appearance. It was as if a gigantic
sphere had been gradually filling in over the years, leaving only
the upper quarter hollow.
And no natural cavern carried the controlled aura of power Lacan
felt swirling around him. The waves of energy slowly rose from
the floor in a serene fountain of light, slowly drifting towards
a small opening in the ceiling before vanishing into the night
air. Curious, Lacan slowly extended his hand, placing it just
inside of the cascade of rising light.
Contact . . .
Lacan staggered backwards, startled at the word without sound
that had echoed through his head. Bits of energy and light clung
to his fingertips, glimmering for a moment before they faded
away, absorbed into his skin. Lacan shook his hand slightly,
wondering just had and produced such a reaction...
With what he deemed was appropriate caution, Lacan against
approached the cascade of light. Reaching out, he placed a single
finger within the barriers of the energy cascade, ready to snatch
it back a moment later. When no reaction occurred, he thrust his
entire arm up to his elbow into the cascade, at once hoping and
fearing tha there would be some form of reaction.
Contact . . .
This time he did not pull away from the cascade of power,
although he felt his entire arm tighten as the voice ran through
him again. It echoed from the crown of his head to the soles of
his feet. But it wasn't quite a voice... it was words, but no
sound, as if thoughts were being directly impressed upon his
Contact... you have returned, at long last.
"Returned? What do you mean by that?" Lacan responded,
his voice slightly hoarse with surprise. "And why do you
keep calling me 'Contact'?"
Because you are the direct descendent of the one who
first came in contact with my power. What is more, you are more
than his descendent in flesh, but in spirit as well. You have
transmigrated across the millennia through the collective
consciousness and genetic structure of humanity that was created
by 'God' in the first days.
Lacan staggered slightly as the words washed over him, images of
a ship, a young boy -him- and a young woman, suspended
in a pillar of glass, -Elly!- a part of him sobbed as he
recognized her face.
I see. Then, it is too late for us. She has gone
ahead, transmigrated to her next incarnation. You will not be
able to complete your purpose without her, not in this
The purpose to which you were sworn over ten
millennia ago, in exchange for your survival upon the Eldrige.
The destruction of my prision of fleshy exsistence. The purpose
for which you have been gifted with immortality.
Join with me, and learn.