The African sun lay hot and oppressive on his back as he bent double, slowly working his way up the mountain path. Sweat ran freely down his sun-scarred face.

He could see the cave entrance now and turned quickly to smile encouragement to his female companion. The fruition of fifteen years of research lay only metres away.

***

It started with a paradox. Studies on the exclusively female mitochondrial DNA revealed that the most recent maternal ancestor shared by all humans could be traced to one specific female living in Africa around 143,000 years ago; the so-called Mitochondrial Eve. Studies on the exclusively male Y chromosome showed that the most recent paternal ancestor was a man living in Africa around 59,000 years ago.

The missing 84,000 years had become the obsession that ruled Doctor James Mendel’s life. Once the government grants had been exhausted performing high altitude geographical surveys and extensive DNA testing throughout Africa, James cashed in his savings and took his obsession and uncomplaining wife Hannah to the source. Moving from region to region, village to village, testing and questioning the people about their history, legends and beliefs.

The culmination of those many years had led them here; to a small cave on an isolated mountain range in the eastern section of the Great Rift Valley in the southwest highlands of Ethiopia.

***

James switched on his torch, took a deep breath, and strode into the darkness. The torchlight showed a large cavern at the northern portion of which lay a deep, cylindrical crater. In its centre stood a small stone sarcophagus.

James rushed down the steep sides and with un-academic haste pushed off the lid. A small skeleton lay sealed beneath and James hastily scraped a piece of bone loose and placed it in the portable DNA analyser. Within seconds the blue LCD flashed up the word ‘Match’ and James let out a deep sigh.

“It’s her,” he said, looking up at his wife on the lip of the crater. “It’s Eve.”
It was only then that he looked seriously at the skeleton. The spine was elongated, as were the bones of the hands and feet. The skull was grossly enlarged with three inch-long oval eye sockets.
“Jesus,” he said, his voice breaking, “she wasn’t human”.

“My identity cannot be revealed.”

James jumped away from the sarcophagus. The voice had been ancient and at the same time not human.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, looking up at Hannah. Under the light of the torch, her eyes were opaque and her lips moved mechanically.

“84,000 years alone. That was how long it took me to raise you from primeval slime to the first human male genetically capable of reproducing with me.”
James looked into Hannah’s face and saw nothing he recognised.

“Hannah?” he asked, uncertainly.
“Hannah is merely a vessel,” Hannah replied in the same dead voice, “as are all females of your species. In another fifty years your scientists would have the sophistication to see me, buried deep and hard-coded into the mitochondrial DNA. Fortunately, you do not have fifty years.”

James’ curiosity moved faster than his understanding. “What do you mean?”
“We are stellar travellers. The large distances we travel require logistical planning over hundreds of thousands of years. It is my role to precede the migration and plant the self-propagating crops sufficiently in advance to ensure there is an adequate supply when the Others arrive.”

A cold sweat broke out across James’ back.
“Crops?” he croaked.
“Yes, James.” Hannah moved slowly, but purposefully, down the slope of the crater. “Not only have you discovered the origins of the human race, but also its ultimate demise.”

Hannah’s eyes loomed above him now, growing larger and more luminous as his torch fell to the earth.

He held the tattered, ancient book in open palms.

“Whoever believes that Jesus is the Christ is born of God.” His voice rang clear and strong throughout the dimly lit cave. “If you would be free of the Overlords then you must believe. Many will taunt you and call you Pinocchio and others will persecute you with violence. Turn the other cheek, I say, for you must believe! Your souls depend on it.” He paused before finishing. “Thank you for coming tonight. Remember to exit in total secrecy.”

Quite a few of the cyborgs that had gathered for the meeting voiced angry opinions.

“You’ve brought nothing but trouble ever since you found that book!”

“Go back to giving speeches for the Overlords!” Said another.

The majority simply filed out of the cave.

After most of the others had left, a young cyborg approached the pastor.

“Will I go to Heaven even though I’m only a MK-III Janitorial Unit?” He asked quietly.

The older cyborg, an Orator MK-IX, patted him on the shoulder.

“Of course, of course, my child. God loves all of His faithful children.”

“But we’re just robots!” The child complained.

“We were created in the image of humans, who were created in the image of God. Do you not think God planned our creation long ago? Of course. This is all a part of God’s master plan. We must pray that He uses us to bring His message to others.”

“Ok, pastor. I’ll pray tonight before I suspend myself for nano-repair. Thanks!” With that the child ran off down the exit passage of the cavern.

The pastor removed his prayer shawl from around his shoulders and lowered himself onto one of the large boulders that the cave offered. He stared at the cover of his recently discovered Bible. New International Version. What might that mean?

Suddenly a blaring light shone down the exit passage.

A piercing noise came over a loud speaker and echoed into the cave, “Orator MK-IX, you have been discovered. Come out of the cave peacefully or you will be destroyed.”

“Rusted bolts!” The pastor cursed.

He ran toward the entrance of the cave and peered out. In a semi-circle ring surrounding the mouth of the cave waited six MK-VII Annihilators. The particle beam cannons that made up their arms gleamed in the moonlight. What could an Orator do against this?

The pastor fell to his knees and prayed. “Father, please deliver me from these Annihilators.” He repeated the prayer over and over again.

The wail of the Annihilators suddenly ceased, only to be replaced by the buzz of charging cannons.

The Orator quickened his prayer recital.

The humming of the cannons built to an amazing level. Then silence. Then explosions rocked the cave as particle beams slammed into the walls of the cave. Shot after shot thundered in the Orator’s ears. Rock crumbled down around him until he was buried under a pile of rock. Then silence again.

The pastor lay deathly still under the rubble, watching through a small break in his prison as an Annihilator with a search scope swept right by the cave mouth.

“No electrical pulses detected.” The Annihilator reported into a two-way speaker.

“Return to the city. You have done well.” Came a response over the Annihilator’s speaker.

The great killing machines whirred into motion and departed.

The Orator could still move a bit and the rocks slid off quite easily.

“Praise the Lord!” He exclaimed. “This proves everything. God has answered my prayers!”

He dusted himself off and returned to the city to prepare for next week's meeting.

Dearest Stevens,

I must say that your illness yesterday morning has led to a series of most frightfully exciting illuminations unto my existence. Far be it from me to make any attempt to minimize the impact which you have made on my stay here at the manor over the last sixty years, but I believe that even you, with your staunch resolution and stiff upper lip might smile at the discoveries that lay before us…but perhaps I am moving too quickly. I shall begin at the beginning.

When you left a note with the cook describing the extent of your unfortunate condition, I was a bit taken aback. Surely the man who once served my breakfast covered in the pox of a chicken, the man who once carried me down the stairs while suffering from a broken toe, the man who once served our high tea on the afternoon of his own appendectomy could overcome the slightest of stomach influenzas. Do not worry, my fine man. While your absence initially panicked me, I was quickly subdued by an invigorating breakfast of quail eggs and orange juice. Thank heavens for the dumbwaiter. What a dreadfully creaky device! Stevens, I can assure you that your non-creaking presence has been missed greatly.

Without your presence to guide me, I decided that I should repair to the library, since I’m in no state to descend the stairs on my own. It has been some time since I last lost myself in the vast catalog of wonders my family has amassed over the years. As the day continued, I happened upon a volume which was not familiar to me at all. A guide to the Chumley Family Tree! Truly astounding! I was giddy with pleasure as I read about my family’s history…the stuff of legends, my good man, legends. I read the book deep into the night, when I found the greatest piece of anecdotal amusement I have ever witnessed.

Apparently, two-hundred and fifty-seven years ago, my family was much like yours! Butlers, maids and cooks, they cared for the original owners of the manor. At some point, there happened to be some great crisis in the land. A dreadful revolt by the peasants, it seems. The threat of death loomed large in the minds of my ancestors’ employers, and so, a magnificent plot was devised. They dressed the servants in their own clothes, and presented them as the true owners of the manor! Oh, the hilarity. At some point, my family assumed the power that had fallen into their laps, and dismissed their now employees – to what end, I do not know. The crisis passed, and the Chumley family remained in their newfound glory. Tremendous, Stevens, tremendous!

The most humorous tale which I could ever imagine cannot match the bare facts that lay before me...and you would never guess the namesake which they assumed during that fantastically tumultuous period: Stevens! What a shockingly refreshing story, wouldn’t you say, good friend? Ha ha!

I hope this missive finds you in better standing than your early morning note had indicated, for we have much to catch up on, Stevens. I cannot wait until the time when I may go downstairs again.

Best Regards,
Sir John Chumley, esq.

I wanted to take the time and write this for you, to tell you all of the wonderful things that you have done for me. I wanted to say how much I appreciated your friendship when others avoided me. How for those brief moments the darkness lifted and I could see clearly once again.

I remember when you first found me, lying sweating and curled up on the floor, clutching my head and trying to think straight. You reached down and cradled a boy not much younger than yourself. Unconcerned, you saw hurt and wanted to heal; you saw pain and wanted to soothe. Others shied away, but you stood steadfast and undaunted; rooted to the worn rug like a great rock in a storm.

That was in the beginning, when I first started to hear the voices in my head, when the whispers were still soft and muted, just a shadowed caress across my mind. Over the years Doctors came and went, medicines helped or didn’t, but you remained with me each step of the way.

I remember how you encouraged me, told me you would be with me till we discovered how to make the voices stop. You promised to help end the voices and you have never wavered on that. Where others gave up, you have always stuck to your word.

That is why, dear friend, I write this for you. To make sure that long after we are forgotten, these words will remain. Months ago, the voices started to build again. Whispers became a raging torrent of hate and self-loathing. For days I could not sleep, I literally couldn’t stand to be in my own skin. The voices sang a constant litany of my deepest fears and revulsions. They grew so bad that I started running around my room, blindly thrashing, tearing at the air to try and throttle those unseen whisperers. In my rage I inadvertently smashed my mirror, and a jagged piece of glass cut my arm. As I focused on the wound and the crimson stain escaping me, I noticed something strange, the voices had stopped.

I sat with disheveled hair and laughed as I bled. I cried in the silence and simply stared in amazement. A few hours later the voices came back, a tentative susurration tickling my ears, but I didn’t care. I knew the answer.

There were those who told me that you weren’t real. With their calm voices and serene wordings they hurt me and tried to make me believe that you never existed and I was the source of the whispers. They sat behind their oak desks, angelic concern in their eyes as they tried to confuse me. I would never abandon you, just as you have never abandoned me. In the end I know that you and the voices are the only ‘real’ things in my life.

As I write in this journal and peek up over its torn leather binding, I can see you sleeping lightly. You guard me even in your sleep. I was so thankful that you said you would spend the night. I don’t think I could have stood to be alone right now.

I can’t write anymore. The insane mutterings are building again, demanding that I give in to them. Do not fear. I am still smiling. I discovered it. I know that blood quiets them, and that this time I can end them forever.

I will leave this next to you my friend, so that whenever they find my body, the world will know that you kept your promise.

A Mother’s Discovery

It had been nearly three months since Stacy announced she’d start doing her own laundry. Megan had felt proud to have such a mature and responsible daughter.

Really, the house was in fairly good shape. Stacy kept all her things in her own room. That just left the front room, bathroom, and kitchen. Megan wasn’t even going to bother cleaning her bedroom. There was no way Paul would be in there tonight.

James had left nearly a year ago, but she still felt a bit unnerved inviting another man to her house. Nevertheless, Megan took some pride straightening her humble little home and making it presentable. She felt a prickle of excitement as she mindlessly reorganized the books on the shelves.

Megan experienced a twinge of nostalgia while dusting the photos in the hall. She could remember when each picture had been taken, but somehow failed to sense how those distant events connected to her current life.

Caught between the desire to be helpful and the wistfulness of forgotten times, Megan found herself standing in front of Stacy’s door. She briefly contemplated ignoring her urge, but eventually disregarded the “Danger - Radioactivity” sign and entered her daughter’s room. Megan brushed aside a sharp stab of guilt by telling herself that Stacy would be grateful for her help straightening up.

But looking around, Megan simply didn’t know where to begin. Gone were the Teddy Bears and Raggedy Ann dolls of the past. Now wild and fiery posters for bands Megan had never heard of were tacked haphazardly to the walls and ceiling. Stacy had strewn her clothes, mostly black, all around the room.

Megan decided that was where she would begin. She started making a pile of dark denim pants in the middle of the room. Before long, the heap had become too large to carry so Megan fetched the hamper from the back of Stacy’s closet.

The smell was the first thing Megan noticed when she opened the hamper. Organic yet metallic. She immediately knew, but refused to believe until her eyes verified her fears. Dumping the contents on the floor, Megan found a bloodstained washcloth. It was not the remnants from cleaning a minor scratch or abrasion. Nor was it blood from her period. They had negotiated that hurdle a couple of years earlier.

In a panic, Megan began to frantically search her daughter’s room. She emptied drawers and searched under the mattress until she found what she had hoped she would not find.

Suddenly, Stacy stormed into the room. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

Surprised by her daughter’s unexpected entry, Megan dropped the bloody X-acto blade she had found.

“Get out!” Stacy screamed.

“Stacy, Honey,” Megan began.

“I said, GET OUT!”

“Sweetie,” Megan pleaded. “What have you done?” Megan rushed to her daughter and grabbed for her arms. Stacy tried to dodge and they both ended up in a heap on the floor. “Please, let me see your arms,” Megan begged.

They were both crying and flailing around on the floor like two overturned insects. And as they struggled with each other, Megan was able to slip Stacy’s sleeve up to reveal smooth purple scars and newer cuts trickling with fresh blood. Stacy tried to jerk away as her Mother fought to pin her down.

Between tears of desperation and grunts of exertion, Megan managed to plead, “Why, Stacy? Why do you cut yourself?”

“Leave me alone,” Stacy screamed. “Just leave me alone.”

Sara pushed the envelope away. “I’m not going to accept your resignation, Greg,” she said. “Not yet.”

“Well I’m not staying, Sara,” I replied, pushing the envelope back across her desk.

“Look, Greg, you can’t expect nine men with the average mentality of a five-year-old to understand that the woman who nurtured them for eight years decided she just didn’t want to run a group home anymore.”

“But it’s been three weeks, Sara. They won’t respond to me in any way.”

“Take Carl, for example,” Sara continued. “He thinks like a preschooler. He came to Rivington when he was sixteen; his mother deserted him. Tanya became his mother figure eight years ago, and now she’s gone.”

“I’ve tried especially hard with Carl,” I said. “I’ve tried talking with him, watching TV with him--I let him help me set up that ice cream party—none of them responded to that, actually.”

Sara stood up. “Look, Greg, I’ve got a meeting. Come see me in another week.”

I drove back to the house and on the wrap-around porch saw nine pairs of eyes purposely avoid mine. The porch is the gathering place, as it probably was in 1932 when the Rivington family moved into their newly-built mansion. Rooms inside which had once been bedrooms for parents and their five children were now, thanks to a generous endowment, inhabited by nine men with mental retardation.

Thomas, one of the rotating part-time staff made up of graduate students, greeted me.

“So, how’s it been?”

“Pretty quiet,” Thomas said. “Donald wouldn’t eat any dinner.”

“Oh great,” I said. “Next they’ll be staging hunger fasts.”

“Um . . . I don’t—“

“Just messing with you, Thomas,” I said. “Frustration.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know. I thought that movie night thing you did was a great idea.”

“Just another one of my bombs . . .”

“Well what about asking their families for help?”

“These guys are all wards of the state,” I said. “None of them ever gets a visitor, ever gets picked up to go anywhere, ever gets a phone call. And still, I can’t seem to find anything, anything at all, that they’ll respond to.”

It was after ten when Thomas and Nate got everyone showered and settled in. I told them goodnight, a little jealous as they headed out for a few hours of beer and carousing.

I, on the other hand, headed for my room where I plugged in my earphones, put in a disc, and sat down at the computer to log in the stats from the last couple of days.

I had almost finished when I got this feeling I wasn’t alone.

Slowly turning around in my chair, I saw Carl standing in the doorway with a look of concentration on his face--only he wasn’t standing—he was sort of dancing, and, amazingly, he was keeping the beat to the Stone’s “As Tears Go By.” I’m kind of a classic rock freak.

And then I realized the jack for the earphones was pulled out. Not only could he hear the music, it was damned loud. I reached for the volume control and started to turn it down—and then, on a sudden impulse, I turned it up instead.

I stood up and started to dance; I didn’t look at Carl, but I let my expression match his. I glanced out into the hall as doors opened, and I saw men in pastel pajamas moving down the hallway, swaying to the music.

The song changed to “Get Off My Cloud,” and we all kept on dancing.

Time Traveller Journal – Agent Jones 23445

After many attempts I believe I have finally discovered the moment when human civilisation began. Approximately twenty-six thousand years and and fourteen days ago I encountered Phlegm, an early Stone Age man and his wife Catarrh.

I was shocked to discover that their early civilisation had so many rituals. Phlegm went hunting every day. He’d often return late in the afternoon thirsty and slightly grumpy (he wasn’t a very good hunter). Every afternoon Catarrh would attempt to revive his spirits with something she called “Hite ee” – a warm, wet liquid made by pouring warmed water over any old leaves picked up from the floor.

The hite ee would be served in hollowed out skulls. I now believe that these are the skulls of Phlegm’s enemies, a tribe called the Kustoma Surfice, a tribe that remained vilified for many thousands of years.

Another custom was the act of picking up a skull of hot hite ee from the floor to drink then pouring it over one’s groin. However this custom was becoming increasingly unpopular as Phlegm’s nervous system began to register that it was actually quite unpleasant.

Phlegm then began to explore new ways to manage his hite ee. He hit upon a winner and named it in honour of his wife – the Coughing Table (later abbreviated to the coffee table).

The Coughing Table was a huge success and often the whole village would want to crowd round to share the experience. But how to accommodate five people at once? Late one night Phlegm bumped into the corner of the Coughing Table whilst going for a pee and in a flash realised what he should do.

Not wanting to disturb his neighbours (who were actually sleeping next to his dog Lulu at the time) Phlegm waited until the next morning before starting work. He took his best stone axe and carefully removed all the corners from his Coughing Table. Phlegm was convinced that this new innovation would solve his over-crowding problem and invited every one to lunch to celebrate.

There was much excitement and the crowd (both of them – Hiccup was not feeling very well) got a little restless. Unfortunately Big Steve bumped into the Coughing Table in the commotion. The top wobbled and “rolled” across the cave. Everyone stood open mouthed as the Coughing Table rolled out of the cave and across the plateau (running over Lulu). Yes, this was the moment that roadkill was invented.

James had always carried on his work later than the other men on a dig. It wasn't so much as the greed in him that kept him working late into the night, but mostly the raw curiosity of learning something that no other man or women knew.

This tribe had lived deep down in a canyon to try and block out harsh weather in the area. He hadn't been properly dry for days. James knew that they lived together, sometimes caring the old and sick. There were drawings that told stories about these people. Peaces of wood were also found that looked as though they were once part of some type of a musical instrument. They had found these pieces in almost every hut they studied. He though it strange that mostly the men and young boys had these pieces of wood. The tribe had been whipped out by what looked to be a land slid.

James had been determined to find a complete siyotanka. That's what they called it, or at least he was sure that's what this tribe was referring to on the few bits of writing they had deciphered. The other men made fun of him for wasting well needed sleep on some stupid love flute. He didn't care what they thought, and he was now on his fourth hut. This one was nicely preserved by mostly clay, he had found furs, and tools carefully wrapped in furs and put away for safe keeping. They were neat and organized like modern day people.

It was nearly light out side, carefully removing bits of dry clay and sweeping away the dust to get a better look at his latest find James noticed it was a small box carved of cedar. This was perhaps what he had been sleeplessly hunting for. Carefully he chiseled the seam of the box and pried it open.

He slowly opened it and looked down at a small wood flute. He was finished, he had finally reached his goal, and there in his hands was the love flute, the siyotanka. His work hadn't been for nothing; slowly he raised the flute to his lips and gently blew into the little pipes. A wonderfully, loud sound filled the hut and he jumped in fear, looking around as if he expected someone to be spying on him. He had never heard anything so beautiful and loud. This tiny flute was a marvelous creation, the time that had to go into carving out its chambers for it to play so loud.

He looked down at the flute again, and slowly raised it to his lips, the rain was pouring down harder than ever and James doubted that the other men would be woken up by just a small wood flute. He drew his breath quick and sharp and then let it all poor out through the flute in a random song that he began to play. It didn't matter what he played, anything sounded wonderful through this little instrument. The sound filled the valley, echoing off its walls.

He turned around, he had woken up the other men from the sight; James thought at first that they were really angry with him. They were running towards him, but it became apparent that the look on their faces wasn't anger but fear as they passed him. He barley had time to look up when a wall of mud came poring down over him, over everything they had carefully uncovered over the past weeks. They were all dead, just like the tribe beneath them.

Morning.
I'm getting that fuzzy feeling you get when your eyes are open in the dark before you are completely awake and before your motivational force gets you up. The alarm is going off and I hit the snooze alarm. I begin to drift back off to sleep knowing that I will just be woken again soon. The beeping is like thunder this time and equally startling. I hit it harder this time. I begin to drift off and lose myself in the comfort of my pillow. Once again I am awoken in this annoying way of dealing with responsibility so I sit up so my toes touch the bare carpet. My room is spotless and looks as it did when I left it last.
I pick up my clothing and begin to put it on, remembering every stitch as it glides against my skin. Everything from brushing my teeth to turning on the television and skipping work is all too familiar. Nothing on any channel as usual, nothing but the same episodes of the same shows. I look outside where old dusty buildings begin to take shape now that the sun is behind them. The silhouettes are all too perfect and I can't make out the details even if I tried. I waste my day playing the same video game on my television by myself that I always play. It's dark now and I have already eaten my usual meal of old pizza, and sour milk that I always eat.
I lay down, look at the little box on my desk near my bed. "I don't know why I keep doing this" I say to myself calmly "I suppose I don't want to live anymore, I will take care of that tomorrow." I thought that this little box would be a blessing. I was wrong. I press the button. My surroundings change, I find my self waking up again in the exact spot I woke up at earlier today. Who would have thought that avoiding death would hurt so much? Who would have thought that my invention would be my undoing?
Morning.