Quantum nightmares, p.40
Quantum Nightmares, page 40
An acute throbbing suddenly pulsated in the middle of Michael’s forehead, where his third eye chakra was located. His empathic abilities stretched the gamut to intuition as well. The old man reached over and siphoned off the negative energy distilled by the haunting probability that 9/11 was an inside job.
Michael’s chakra went from deep black to vibrant indigo and the dark energy distributed into the old man’s aura. The sensation tingled and then went numb before returning to homeostasis.
“They wouldn’t have been able to convince the masses if not for the media regurgitating the diabolical script on repeat, effectively brainwashing the lot of them and filling them with a patriotic vengeance,” Michael said. “And it’s right there in the official report for everyone to see … or not see.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man said with a grimace. “The infamous third tower.”
“The third tower that didn’t get hit by a plane and fell nine hours in the same exact fashion as the other two. Yeah, the infamous, phantom third tower that’s not even mentioned in the 9/11 commission report.”
The old man shared in Michael’s shock. “Yes, I didn’t think they’d get away with it,” he said, nodding his head, “but, alas, you are right, Michael.” He paused. “A monopoly on the media is paramount in swaying public opinion and a vital asset to those who wish to keep the masses in bondage—perhaps their most valued asset.”
He clapped his hands loud and clasped them tightly. “So, no government, then, eh,” he said, “no government, no media, no economy, no religion, no jobs? Everyone will just be sitting in their caves, doing nothing then, am I to presume?”
Michael knew the old man’s wit and stifled a laugh. “Well, not exactly, sir,” he said, “I’ll do the Atlantean model—but the whole planet.”
“Ah yes,” the old man said firmly, “the Atlanteans—our finest hour.” “Yes sir,” Michael agreed.
Of all the other cycles and all the other civilizations, the Atlanteans were the only ones who evolved high enough to reach ascension. Legion had poached them and put them on another planet to see how they would fare independently.
The old man laughed. “It’s funny,” he said, “all the legends speak of Atlantis being struck with fire and smoke and sinking into the ocean in one night. Yet nobody considered that perhaps they didn’t sink at all but took off into the cosmos.” The old man paused for a moment, contemplating a world where the Atlantean way of life stretched far and wide. “What a pity.”
The liquid mercury activated, and suddenly, Michael and the old man were on earth circa 10,000 BC. Torrential rains melted the snow and ice that blanketed the landscape, and swaths of water drowned the lands. Thousands of spaceships ascended into the sky on the ceiling screen until they looked like distant stars. On the walls, hundreds of spaceships loaded the last of the Atlanteans for their exodus to Zeta Reticula.
“Yes sir, indeed, it was a tragic loss,” Michael said with his arms extended, “but, if you recall, that was my idea.”
“It wassss?” the old man said. But the dumbfounded way he said it seemed off to Michael. He suspected the old man was feigning the lapse in memory for some reason. But why?
“Yes sir. Following the fall of the souls Lucifer recruited, I had the foresight to predict we were going to have to step in with the flood and, wanting to save the best asset we’ve ever created, we allowed them to ascend in isolation.”
The old man seemed perplexed. “Highly unorthodox, indeed,” he said incredulously. But Michael sensed the old man remembered more than he was letting on.
“Yes sir. But it worked,” Michael said proudly. He just then realized the last time he checked their progression was before his previous incarnation, twenty-five years ago. The AI interface recognized this realization and displayed a live feed of people living in harmony on a foreign planet.
“AAR module,” Michael said, “what’s the population of Zeta Reticula?”
The live feed continued, and a robotic voice said, “Zeta Reticula has eight billion souls, sir.”
That sounds about right, Michael thought. “And how have they fared since my last progress report?”
“They’ve flourished impeccably, sir,” AI said. “Their ascended master hasn’t had to lift a finger thus far. They are what Legion has declared an unprecedented anomaly.”
Michael brimmed with organic pride.
“No country?’ the old man asked.
“They are by and large community-oriented,” said AI, “but there is no sovereignty as there is no need for such a construct.”
A world without borders and flags, Michael thought, is the only route to achieve true peace. A world where anyone anywhere is considered your countrymen—the country of humanity.
“No government?” Michael asked.
“It is how it was twenty-five years ago, sir. They have UBUNTU communities run independently based on the individual needs of the community.”
A world without governments waging wars and extending their ideologies to an unwitting populace, Michael thought, is the only route to true freedom.
“No commerce?” the old man asked.
“No industry?” Michael asked.
“See for yourself,” AI said.
The mercury pixels rippled and then on each screen displayed a world where cooperation was the prevailing model, not competition. A world where abundance was so rampant, possession and envy were foreign concepts. A world where there were no socioeconomic class divisions because there was no money, and thus, there was no strife, no crime, no poverty, no hunger, no suffering.
When money is subtracted from the equation of life, Michael thought, so is greed, pain, and all other fear-based models derived from competition.
“No wars?” the old man asked.
“No sir,” AI said.
Of course, there aren’t any wars, Michael thought, without money, religion, and the bravado of patriotism fanning the flames of indignation, there is no need for war.
“How have they come along technologically?” Michael asked.
The screens displayed machines working tirelessly around the clock and how technology had freed up the time the vast majority would be working.
“If you’re looking for a planet that uses technology for the betterment of every sentient species on that planet,” AI said, “then you would be hard-pressed to find another in all the cosmos better suited than Zeta Reticula.”
The old man threw his hands up in defeat and uncharacteristically stammered: “But, I thought, well, I mean, that’s to say,” he said clumsily, “didn’t we leak these technologies to humanity, years ago? Didn’t you attach to Tesla?” But the old man said this in such a way that Michael knew he was putting him on.
The walls left Zeta Reticula and the individual screens melted into the six-screen, 4D format, thrusting the room into 1940s decorum. They suddenly found themselves on the thirty-third floor of the Hotel New Yorker as a team of G-men clad in black suits broke into room 3327 and ransacked it. They had arrived empty-handed but left with totes of boxes filled with all manner of innovative genius.
A lifetime spent fighting big business, Michael thought, didn’t do my attachment to Tesla any justice—they just waited for him to die and then stole his life’s work.
“We did, indeed, sir,” Michael said, “but governments and big businesses suppressed our efforts at every … single … turn.” He enunciated the last words slowly for effect. “The common theme of this conversation, if one were seeking one, would be humanity’s proclivity for greed.”
The Hotel New Yorker disintegrated back into the twelve-screen format, and on every screen was the same news report. Although Michael could stomach no more negativity and tuned it out, he could still read the flashing headlines—CEO OF GM RECEIVES $22 MILLION BONUS WHILE CUTTING 15,000 EMPLOYEES.
The old man agreed with a subtle nod. “AAR module,” he said, “is there any manner in which the Atlanteans fare worse than humanity?”
“Negative, sir,” AI said. “They are a family of one.”
“As it should be,” said Michael and the old man in unison.
“Activate AAR shadow mode,” Michael said, activating the ship’s modality to display a live feed on what they were talking about. Michael continued:
“They meditate en masse, exercise regularly, and their diet consists of natural, unaltered food.” The walls mirrored exactly what Michael spoke of. “So, disease is at a minimum, and there are no created ailments for the profit of pharmaceutical companies because there is no money. And they have so much culture, sir, which—”
“Ahah,” the old man exclaimed. “I have found the weak link in your alleged utopia.”
The AI’s after-action review module communicated with the old man’s psyche and went back to the multi-screen format where angry mobs held signs that read George Floyd was human too, Black Lives Matter, and such. They screamed at Michael and the old man from the news broadcasts. Michael’s stomach churned as absolute negativity leaked from thousands of news reports that propagated seeds of division and negativity in a systematic agenda to divide the masses.
“If you’re going to say there’s no racism because there’s only one race,” Michael said, “we poached the Mayans, a tribe from Israel, a small community from Roanoke Island, North Carolina, and other peoples from all corners of the earth.” Michael paused. “They are color blind, sir, and without blinders of hate and bigotry, they see only the intrinsic beauty in every man, woman, and child—as racism is largely a learned behavior.”
“I see,” the old man said. “So, what do they do for recreation?”
“Return to AAR shadow mode,” Michael said. “They listen to orators and watch plays. They conduct ceremonies and rituals to commemorate nature on the equinoxes and solstices. They talk and laugh and read and play. They make love, paint, and write.”
Michael took in the utter love and positivity emanating from the live feeds. He was so happy and proud, and he realized it was the first time he’d ever felt like the old man. Angels aren’t wired to consider the species they have been assigned as children, whereas all ascended masters assume the role as mother and father of the species they champion.
For the first time, Michael felt a connection he had never felt and considered that perhaps humanity wasn’t innately bad; they just needed better guidance.
Maybe, just maybe, he could be the one to conjure their latent potential forward and help them finally ascend.
The old man saw the wheels of hope percolating in Michael’s mind and cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Michael said, “I was just thinking.”
“Would you like to share with the rest of the class,” the old man said with a knowing smirk.
Michael nodded and thought aloud. “By no stretch are they perfect, and on occasion, they disagree and squabble, but they always find amicable ways to resolve their issues and very rarely does it result in violence—as violence is largely a learned behavior.”
The walls precisely mirrored this.
“They stare at the stars and wonder what their purpose for creation is,” Michael said in prideful awe, “not knowing they are the living embodiment of it. And the family unit is impeccable, sir. They are so very tight, which makes for a tight community, which in turn makes for a tight planet. There’s never been such an overwhelmingly positive display of micro to macro consequences. It’s staggering, sir.”
The live feeds flickered, and then an algorithm rebooted the screens. When they turned back on, holographic images of eight billion Zeta Reticulins projected into the room. Families spent quality time in phantom images, which bled over billions of other families doing the same thing. Not one family stood alone, and Michael thought it appropriate as they were all connected by an invisible force. It seemed as if one family’s closeness and happiness leaked to the next family and, therefore, the furthest family away, for they were all tethered together as one unit.
“Return to default mode,” the old man said resolutely. The translucent walls returned. The old man rose slowly from the cloud couch and put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. He gave it a light squeeze. “You are ready, Michael,” he said with finality.
He closed his eyes. They rolled into the back of his head and fluttered about curiously, but Michael had seen this happen one thousand and ninety-eight times before. He knew the old man had just set the wheels of his own demise into motion.
The old man opened his new eyes for the first time. He closed them slowly, acclimating, then gradually faster. He looked at planet earth, and his eyes swelled up. “It’s even more beautiful now,” he said in a whisper.
“Did you just do what I think you did, sir?” Michael asked. He looked at the old man’s eyes, static on his natural brown.
The old man nodded innocently as the distinct glow that surrounded him perceptibly dimmed. At the same time, Michael’s aura had gotten just a few shades brighter as he absorbed the powers acquainted with an ascended master.
Michael became dizzy and wobbly. His heart ached with a conflicting desire to scold the old man and embrace him all at once. Michael was hurt. He was sad. He was angry and confused. “But sir,” he said in a cracking voice, “you had so much more time.”
“Oh?” the old man said, still gazing upon the earth.
“At least another hundred years, sir.”
“That’s but a whisper in time, Michael,” the old man said playfully. He shifted his gaze from the earth and saw Michael’s puppy-dog eyes swelled in tears. The old man hated to see Michael just so, but he was on a mission—his last mission.
Knowing he didn’t have much time before he could no longer articulate his outgoing orders, the old man went to work. “Your orders, once I supernova,” he said, “are to initiate the total reset sequence protocol.”
It took Michael a second to shake off the orgy of emotions and contemplate the implications of the orders. “But sir,” he said, confused, “we’re not supposed to leave earth unless an unforeseen emergency presents itself.”
A similar occurrence had happened millions of years prior. Humanity was on Mars at the time, and they had discovered nuclear warfare there as well. It seemed in every cycle; humanity invested more energy creating newer and better ways to kill each other than anything else. If only they could channel that creativity into more productive methods, they wouldn’t have destroyed their atmosphere and had to flee to earth. It has been their home ever since.
“The whole point of me self-destructing this premature is to spare humanity from flagrant suffering,” the old man said. He shook his head. “It’s over, Mikey,” he continued in prideful defeat, “there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. These past few cycles of sheer negativity have thrown the earth into a great imbalance. She must heal herself.” He paused. “When I supernova, I want you to compound the destruction with the total reset protocol. Do you understand me? Humanity mustn’t suffer for more than a few hours. We must rip their tooth out, root and stem, lest they suffer intolerably.”
Michael considered the logistics behind such an order. It was possible, of course, albeit highly unorthodox. “But, sir,” he argued, “we’re not supposed to—”
“Never mind what you’re supposed to do, son,” the old man said sternly. “As an ascended master of Legion, I have full autonomy, and these are your orders.”
Michael couldn’t fathom why the old man would give such an order.
The old man saw Michael’s suspicious looks, and he knew Michael thought this was the desperate act of a deteriorating mind. Although the old man was currently in command of his wits, he knew his coherence was slipping away with every passing second.
“This was a thoroughly calculated decision, Michael,” the old man assured. “I’ve already conferred with engineering, and their scans indicate Mars’s negative energy has long been purged, and humanity has a better chance at attaining ascension there than on earth—which they have made incredibly sick,” the old man said. “Now promise me.”
Michael conceded to a dying man’s wish: “I promise, sir,” he said in a low whisper.
The old man clapped and clasped his hands tightly. “Splendid. Now, you must also promise me you will achieve these events that you spoke of on Zeta Reticula, on Mars. Let not another angel or ascended master deter you from the path of which you have just laid before me.”
Michael nodded slowly, but as he contemplated the probability of breaking such a promise, he resented the old man for putting him in such a position.
This is a lose-lose, he thought.
The old man wasn’t satisfied with Michael’s unsure nod. “That’s not enough, Michael,” he said definitively, “you must promise me.”
But again, Michael answered only with a conspicuous nod.
The old man unclasped his hands and put them on Michael’s shoulders.” “Say it, Michael,” he said with deliberate sternness, “you must say you promise.”
Michael shrugged the old man’s hands away and paced about nervously. He felt resentment, anger, and sadness build up in his chest before erupting from his mouth. “Who am I to promise such results I know not of,” he said. “You’re an ascended master, and you couldn’t do it, nor could any before you, and you ask this of me?”
“I have every faith in you, Michael,” the old man said. “Now, promise me.”
“I cannot do as you please, sir,” Michael said defiantly. “I will not.”
“Promise me, Michael.”
Michael was astounded by the old man’s presumptuous stance. He personally had no faith that he could achieve the mission because humanity would invariably self-sabotage his efforts. He sensed the old man was delusional to put so much trust in him.
“Is it not enough you have destined me to be a failure,” he said, “will you not be pleased until I have become a liar, as well?”
The old man was getting dizzy and wobbly. He knew he only had a few more moments to make Michael believe in himself—to make Michael see what he saw in him.
“You and you alone have had the answers all along, son,” the old man said. He grabbed Michael’s hands and led him to the middle of the room. “Activate AAR shadow mode,” he said. The walls went blank and then back to default mode, waiting on words to shadow.
