PROLOGUE
Thun,
Switzerland
Fredrick
Fussle expected to hear the voice of God.
Not
this.
After
years of research, the meticulous collection of data, the construction of
mathematical models, and the building of an subterranean laboratory, he
was sure they would hear something.
But not
this.
“What is
happening!?” William Mayer, his assistant of six years, cried. The man’s
voice shimmered, warbled as if he was yelling through the pounding air of
a giant fan.
“It’s
not sound!” Fussle shouted. “I feel it inside my
head!”
But he
did more than feel. As the energy radiated from the control rods
encircling the lab, it saturated his brain, his very thoughts. Suddenly
memories disappeared -- not dissolved, but shattered. Fragments of past
recollections flew apart, then came back together again.
Together, but different.
Re-formed.
Instead
of the priesthood he had been a part of for 54 years, he remembered
proposing to Dorthia Cutler over that dinner of veal parmesan and a bottle
of Chardonnay ‘72 in Vienna.
But only
for a moment.
Now he
recalled exchanging vows with Sylvia Horton at a lakeside wedding he never
had. Well, never had until then. Instead of the pleasantly plump brunette
he’d spent half his life with, he was now married to that saucy blonde
he’d nearly left her for . . . but apparently had left her
for.
“Shut it
down!” he shouted. “William, shut it—“
But it
was no longer William standing at the console. Now it was some tall,
gangly geek he never saw before, but had seen – for the past eighteen
months he and the kid, Gerhardt Muller, had worked side by side on the
project.
“Gerhardt, shut it down!”
His
assistant didn’t move. He stared at Fussle like a total stranger. He was a
total stranger.
But he
wasn’t.
The
concrete floor pitched violently, throwing Gerhardt to the ground. It
rolled like the floor of a carnival funhouse gone berserk. Pitching and
rolling. Melting and reshaping.
Then
melting again.
Light
exploded. Blinding. Piercing. It filled the room with its sound – or was
it the sound filling the room with its light? Not only the room, but their
minds.
Not only
their minds, but their realities.
A
swelling wave of concrete lifted Fussle and tossed him to the ground. He
tried to shout but he no longer had a voice. At least not his own. The
light-sound had absorbed it, overpowered it. His vocal chords vibrated,
but with the same light blazing through the room.
He began
to crawl on his hands and knees toward the control console. At least where
he knew it used to be. But it was impossible to know anything for certain. Just as it was
impossible to see because of the light and
sound.
The
floor was soft and gooey, wet putty. He gripped it and pulled himself
forward, lifting one knee from the muck and then the other, until finally
his shoulder struck something soft. The console.
Grateful
that it was mostly solid, he grabbed it and pulled himself to his feet.
The
reset button was on the other side, just to the left – if the console’s
reality had not changed.
He
staggered around to the front.
Memories
of children he never had, filled his head. His heart ached over the recent
loss of his oldest to leukemia.
He
groped the controls, the pots and switches, pleased they were still as he
had designed them – though they now felt like gelatin.
Another
pulse of light-sound exploded from the control rods. Fussle cried out as
he clung to the console, as the same light-sound roared from his throat.
The wave
quickly passed and the memories of his children disappeared. At least
those children. Now there were others . . . gentle Kimberly, Samuel with
the birth mark on his cheek . . .
Until, at last, he reached the reset button and hit
it.
©Copyright
2008 Bill
Myers,
Published by Faith Words
www.Billmyers.com