The Dark Without

By T.K. Toppin

You cannot change what has already happened, just as what will happen cannot be altered. Lies. Nothing but lies!

"Humankind is always doomed to fail. It has fallen many times before, and many times we have intervened to ensure it stays on the correct course. Earth is salvageable, but if you had continued along the path you were on, it would not have been. You have billions of years more to exist before your planet's final destruction. We are only making certain it survives that long, and ensuring your survival until the ultimate end. At times you progress too fast, but such is humankind's way. So we had to accelerate this current failure sooner in order to restart. As we have done before, a guide with a better objective and understanding of how to protect your world, will be inserted…"

But why did they care what humans did with their lives? They were aliens—beings from another dimension! Earth wasn't their home.

Esme Serrano's predestined encounter with the trans-dimensional anthropomorphic Aakehollats sends her on a multi-pathed journey spanning ten thousand years. A journey riddled with lies, manipulations and untold layers of deception. She guides Earth as the Sibyl, a powerful and mystical leader, and brings the dying world back from the brink of death. She helps the Aakehollats, and ensures that Earth survives until its ultimate destruction in the cosmos.

But her one true goal is, and always will be, to kill the Aakehollats.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.K. Toppin
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223953562

T.K. Toppin

T.K. Toppin writes character-driven tales, loaded with mystery, intrigue and adventure, navigating the realms of Science Fiction, Speculative Fiction and Space Opera. Previously contracted by small press publishers, she is currently wading the waters of indie publishing and discovering its many challenges and delights. T.K. was born, raised and lives in Barbados. When she's not writing, she can be found studiously working on her doctorate in Procrastination by binge-watching shows on streaming networks, doing absolutely nothing, and juggling the baffling realm of social media marketing. Follow on: Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/written.by.tktoppin/ Tiktok: https://www.tiktok.com/@tktoppin Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/WrittenByTKToppin/ Twitter: http://twitter.com/TKToppin Blogsite: http://www.tktoppin.blogspot.com Email: [e-mail]

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Chapter 1

Liard Ranges, British Columbia, Canada, Earth.

5:42 pm, June 13, 7631.

Based on body camera footage.

Re-enactment, The Birth of the Sibyl: The Truth – Inner Vision Productions.

We found the journal. It actually exists.

With utmost care, Dr Morrant placed the fragile item onto the metal tray, and turned it towards Dr Ziman. Her heart hammered in her chest, almost choking the breath from her lungs. If the accounts were correct, the journal was made from the recycled waste of vegetables and fruit—ingenious and creative, considering most of the planet had been burning at the time, making raw materials scarce. But, practically speaking, unnecessary.

Historical accounts of the period were sketchy. To the best of her knowledge, paper production had resumed, only not on a large scale. The world didn’t want a repeat of what had happened. Perhaps, for environmental reasons, it had only been a matter of preference to make the journal out of recycled materials.

Sure? Dr Ziman replied, but sucked in a breath. He drew his mouth into a line as his attention wavered. No doubt remembering the last fake journal they’d discovered.

Sensing his apprehension, Morrant tried to reassure him. The others were brighter, the dyes newer and not as aged. Date analyses were muddled with layers of conflicting timelines. But this one… She took a quick breath to slow her words, take the tremor out of them. This one’s nearly brown, and frayed like it’s been used many times—more so than the fakes. It might even have traces of Her DNA. And look, the corners of the journal— Morrant pointed to the jagged edges and darker areas—like remnants of fingerprints, as if it had been touched often. —eroded from natural wear and tear, and pieces missing as if chewed by pests.

And in the right location, Ziman stated with more conviction.

Exactly.

And here I thought you were only guessing.

I told you. It wasn’t guesswork. Research. Thorough research.

Did you check the dateline?

"Off the charts. At least a thousand years older than history records it."

Shit. Leaning closer, Ziman peered at the ancient journal. He seemed reluctant to touch it, perhaps fearful it would crumble to dust. Impossible. Tapping his temple to toggle the implant lenses to magnify the specimen, he mmm’d. How can this be? He made a series of blinks. We have to secure it immediately. Make sure it’s preserved properly. How it survived this long—under these conditions—is…is…incredible.

Agreed. Morrant let out a breath. She’d dreamed of this moment her entire life, and now here she was. "This is the real thing. It has to be. This is it. And look what it’s buried with. Clothing." She pointed to the depression in the crumbled remains of the ancient foundation of a house. The dim orange lighting set over the excavation site gave their surroundings an eerie glow. The dank smell reminded her of an open coffin that held remains. How many of those had they uncovered in their quest for the journal? Too many, some piled together in mass graves. Topographical scans of skeletal remains did no justice to the visceral experience of seeing them. They only gave a clinical sense of the magnitude of suffering and death that had occurred during the Dark Times.

The surrounding limestone rocks cooled the excavation site enough to cast a damp chill, and a reminder that, centuries ago, a landslide—one of many turbulent climate and geological disasters—had buried the area. Scans had shown the area to be stable enough, but with all their digging, the porous rock could be prone to another cave in.

I’m surprised it hasn’t all completely decomposed, she continued. It wasn’t even sealed, and exposed to the elements just so. Granted, it had been in a wooden box, but termites and bugs had seen to the destruction of that centuries ago. Only the rusted and corroded metal clasps, nails and bindings remained as evidence of its existence. The damp atmosphere alone would’ve turned everything to an unidentifiable mush.

Ziman raised his head and sent a piercing stare her way. He blinked several times, deep in thought. His usually clenched jaw and pursed lips twitched, moving as if chewing his words. A sceptic at heart, he was never one to take anything as truth unless he’d done thorough and fool proof testing. He was the same with people. Morrant quirked an eyebrow, waiting. Sometimes the wait would be in vain, as Ziman would simply resolve whatever it was in his head and move on in silence, oblivious that others anticipated a response—anything but silence.

This entire area is untouched, he surmised. We only came to this area because we followed historical accounts of Her movements. And even then, a rough estimate at best. Your research as well, and piecing together the last recorded physical sighting of Her on this continent. The final years before Her spectacular death have always been sketchy. But here it is. A journal, ‘buried in the floorboards of an ancient cabin on the foothill crags of the Interior Plains of northern British Columbia’, and an entire continent away from the one She was born on and which She called home. And exactly as the original bishops had secretly, but cryptically, written in their records. Working through his thought process, Ziman grunted with a small cough, clicking his tongue. "We’ll know more once we get it back to the lab. Could be the items were treated with some sort of preservative. It’s the only way they could’ve survived five thousand years! But why? Why would the Sibyl treat it so? It’s as if She wanted it to be found. All our records say She wanted it destroyed because it was inflammatory—uncensored ramblings from an angry young girl before her transformation—which is why so many fakes came to be, spouting messages the creator of the fakes wished to spread."

They had spent many years discussing this topic, and Ziman had become repetitive. Careful. But the earlier timeline and the idea of a preservative were new, and unexpected. It made sense, too. The fakes had never used, or had traces of, any kind of preservative.

"If this is indeed it, Morrant reminded him. That last one fooled us all for nearly a year. The Society can’t face another embarrassment like that." Nor could Ziman.

Exactly.

But this only confirms what’s been suggested. The dissent in the ranks, and the bishops giving its location when the Sibyl clearly wanted it gone. Morrant chewed her lip. It also confirmed something else about the bishops, something kept secret in her family for generations.

"Maybe. Which is why we must process this with care. Its authenticity must be absolute. Ziman nodded, his shaved head gleaming as it caught the orange light. There had been a time when he sported long dreadlocks and a matching goatee, but he’d shorn them clean off a year ago. Perhaps a disguise? The shame from that fake had almost broken him. He opened his mouth to speak again, but halted. Blinking several times, he craned his neck up, tilting his head. Did you hear that?" he whispered.

As if her already racing heart wasn’t enough to deal with, Morrant’s breath froze. She strained to hear, then widened her eyes. Did she imagine a noise? If the Raiders found them here, they’d be dead, slaughtered like animals. All hope of preserving the excavation site would be lost. The shrouded history of the Sibyl’s early life, Mother of the modern universe, visionary and prophetess—gone forever. Morrant sucked in a breath. She had a promise to keep and had dedicated her entire life to it. She would protect these artefacts with her life!

Quickly now. Ziman got to his feet. Being short, he didn’t need to stoop; the makeshift roof stood twelve inches higher. Put it in the sealing bag.

Morrant scrambled to ease the journal and the items of clothing into a large protective sheath. Activating the sealant node at the side, a bubble formed, suspending the items. She folded over the excess flaps several times to ensure maximum coverage and no chance of breakage or contaminants entering. Tucked safely into her large backpack, she hefted it over her shoulders and secured the straps about her waist. Ziman scurried about gathering his gear, and the other item they’d found—a shard of broken red glass with a decorative bevel, already sealed. It was a terrible shame to abandon the site and lose this precious capsule from the past. At least the surrounding area was already recorded in detail and filed; they could easily recreate a scaled hologram of the room itself, how it would’ve looked in the 3630s… Scratch that. If the data analysis was correct, it would be the 2630s—or much earlier!

The first punch from a thermal pistol made the dugout site tremble. Fine dust particles sifted down, and a piece of limestone fell to the ground with a damp thud. Vibrations from something large falling above them made chunks of dirt and stone drop from the ceiling. Morrant suppressed the urge to cry out. It would do no good, and wouldn’t save them. Running was the best option. The Raiders were only concerned about maximum impact. They wouldn’t waste time checking for a secondary entry point, something she’d always insisted on having in case of cave ins—or if said Raiders were to find them. The second opening was at least a hundred and fifty metres from their position, and west of the main entry point. At a sprint, they’d reach it in minutes.

Turning to Ziman to see what kept him, she gasped. What are you doing?

Holding a combustion bomb in one hand, he clicked the igniter trigger. They cannot discover this place. They’ll desecrate it just to get rid of us. He dropped the bomb directly into the depression the journal had nestled in. She would’ve wanted it this way.

Turning quickly, Ziman followed Morrant along the passageway. After several seconds there came sharp report, followed by a deep boom that shook the underground tunnels. Loose rocks and a spray of dust showered them. They pumped their legs faster. Morrant activated her chest torch to light the way ahead; the narrow corridor tapered until she had to hunch down.

Left here. She took a sharp turn. A pile-up of large boulders stood in their way like a dead end. Beyond it, the way to the main entrance was lit by a dull glow from flickering lights—torches! Morrant climbed into the barely visible opening.

How you ever manage to navigate these mazes, Ziman grumbled; his breathing was laboured, unaccustomed to such rigorous physical activity. At nearly seventy, he showed signs of his age despite keeping himself in good health.

And I’ll never understand, Morrant replied, with your eidetic memory, how you can’t remember the way just by looking at the map.

I’m scared, all right? He grumbled some more, a wheeze at the end of it. It makes me forget things. Things get jumbled up.

Not much longer now. A short crawl, then a climb up, and we’re free. Morrant hopped onto some rocks and turned to check Ziman’s progress. He used his arms to heave his weight up as his short legs scrambled over the rough limestone boulders. Need a hand? Impatience laced her words. Another rumble in the distance reached them—it was hard to pinpoint where from, but at a guess, the main entranceway. If they didn’t hurry, they’d be spotted.

I’m fine. Ziman pushed forwards and tumbled. Just lead the way.

They scrambled over rocks and rubble, most made from the boring and drilling of the remote digger when Morrant had created this secondary exit. She glanced back now and again to check that Ziman followed. He stopped complaining, instead keeping his features tight as he concentrated on the task at hand. They’d worked together for six years, like a mismatched tag team. One short and frail, the other strong and tall. He’d never been her first choice for archaeological site digs; being so prim and scholarly, he bordered on bourgeois at times, right down to his customary snifter with brandy at the end of a day. But he was a genius, shrewd, and had a tenacity and thirst for finding the truth. These qualities made him stronger than any physically fit person. He had also been the only one keen to join her expedition when others feigned interest or ignored her requests altogether. And he was also honest, to a fault.

Almost there. Morrant hoped she sounded encouraging. He puffed and wheezed, but kept moving.

And had there not been a secondary exit, she knew he would’ve blown himself up with all the evidence before it was discovered and fell into the wrong hands. Especially the murdering Raiders, who showed no regard for the preservation of history—or anything, for that matter. She needed someone like him on her side; she would make up for any lack of physical strength. This was her life’s purpose, and she hadn’t dedicated four decades of her life just to have those murdering Raiders destroy it all.

At another misleading dead end, Morrant wriggled through a narrow crack to one side. She beckoned Ziman. It’s a bit of a squeeze, but if I can get through, you won’t have a problem.

Another jab at my height? You pick the oddest moments for that.

Just lightening the mood. She took a breath. I’m scared too. I have been this entire time. Being on Earth is bad enough, and having those Raiders chasing us at every turn only makes it worse. But the truth is more important than my fear. This is for the Society. For humanity. No matter what She said, I think the Sibyl would want it.

You don’t have to convince me, Morrant. I think we’ve worked together long enough. He grunted as he wriggled through the crack. "But you and I seem to be a magnet for these Raiders. I’m sick of it. Now, can we just get out of this infernal hole in the ground and get off this planet?"

Once through, they didn’t have to hunch, since the ceiling gave way to a high, dim opening at the top. A projected camouflage covered the ground above, but, judging by the lack of light, dusk had come. At least their escape would be easier. Using the makeshift ladder, they ascended. At the opening, they braced against the fresh air with its harsh chill, a reminder that the rugged Liard Range had endured another brutal winter that even spring couldn’t temper.

Clambering out at the top, Morrant scanned the area to make certain they were alone. She summoned their transport with her communicator implant. In moments, the vessel, which had been hovering, touched down, kicking up small rocks and dust. The silvery, streamlined expedition cruiser, made specifically for stealth, looked like a warm, welcoming hug. Morrant released a breath, then another. Grinning, she turned to Ziman, who grinned back. Relief made him look twenty years younger.

Let’s get back home, Morrant said.

A signal flashed across her retina—[scene break]—and she was jerked from the area.

Chapter 2

Sieran Farr.

Projection Room, Inner Vision Productions Studio, New Cape, UAME (United Africa & Middle Eastern states).

June 24, 12631.

Sieran Farr groaned, rubbed first her eyes, then her temples, and nestled deeper into the recliner so it could massage her back. The smart nano-beads targeted the sore spots, rolling against her tense muscles like mini waves breaking the surf. She groaned in delight. VR performances this immersive meant she needed time to rebalance her psyche, to remember who she was. The Birth of the Sibyl: The Truth was her third VR immersion role. While it got easier each time, this was the longest run she’d ever done. Three days ago, the headaches had started. And with them came the taste of blood at the back of her throat.

Taking a deep breath, she eased it out, repeating her name to herself as she did so; it helped to ground her. I am an actor, a vessel hoarding myriad characters, a chameleon. I am the best in the industry, a veteran. A Maestra! I am at the top of my game. And because she was the best, she commanded an obscene salary and was now one of a handful thoroughly trained and versed in the deep immersion experience, or DIP—Deep Immersion Platform.

The writing and the emotive extensions were beautifully, effortlessly merged, so that a character’s emotions played out for the viewing audience to experience, as if she herself had felt them. But this run of playing Dr Morrant was taking its toll. It was getting harder for her to differentiate real life from virtual. A niggle of fear seeped into her each time she immersed: what if it got worse? The show would have to stop or—horrors!—someone else would get the role of Dr Morrant. She’d be side-lined. People would forget her. She’d be out of work! A has-been.

Sieran straightened in her seat. The pain was manageable. Tiredness. All she needed was to relax and sleep longer. Recalibrate. She would go to bed earlier today and be well rested for tomorrow’s performance. If she asked for another relaxant shot like she had during the ninth screening, the beady-eyed studio physicians would take notice. They’d already scolded her when she’d had the last crippling headache, so she dared not say anything right now. She’d managed to evade their closer attention for the time being but—she kneaded her temples—for how long? The pain intensified, pulsing against her eyes. Now she smelled the coppery tang of blood.

Streaming live for twenty nights, playing the same role and scenes like a theatrical play during the season, hurt. Her forehead tightened. And with each pump of her heart, the pain echoed like a dull throb in the middle of her brain. Eleven more days. That was all she had to do. Eleven more shows. They’d come so far already. There was no stopping now; everyone was too invested. She forced a smile as she reminded herself who she was and what she could do. Maestra Sieran Farr. A megastar.

The introductory run had been a raving success, with viewers dishing out money and tapping in like voracious voyeurs, experiencing the show as if they were in it themselves: smelling, seeing, sensing, tasting—everything, like real life—only more intrusive, since the thoughts, internal monologues and emotions from all the characters were relayed to the viewer. It was like reading an omnipresent point of view book and getting into every character’s head. The special sensors in the VR masks tapped directly into the viewer’s neuro-network, igniting the senses, tricking them into believing they could sense things as if in real life. No wonder it was so addictive. And no wonder the actors able to project emotions and thoughts were in high demand. Actors like her.

While the recorded movies in the immersive genre allowed for the same sensations, they were usually edited down to three hours, not live, and not in real time. The suspense was not as immediate, and they could be paused at any moment. These live sessions only ended when the story did, and this story lasted for a full ten-hour day. Repeated every day for a full month, for the actors. The audience paid in advance, and were refunded only for the hours they were unable to view or if they couldn’t handle it in its entirety. For a discounted price, they could link back to view it again and again.

Like the actors, the audience had to sign medical waivers and were forewarned of the risks they faced before being allowed to log in. Unlike Sieran, they didn’t have a full medical team on call. Five days ago, the production had recorded its first casualty: a young viewer who couldn’t handle the adrenaline rush during the final scenes. His heart gave out. Murder was still murder, no matter how it was portrayed in productions, and had no place in these genteel times and sensibilities. Not like in the wild past, in the Pre-station Era. Despite the warnings and cautionary flags, viewers proved how humans would always be curious about violence. About death.

Willing her headache away, Sieran realigned her psyche with deep breaths, seeking her centre. In five minutes, the next scene would begin. It called for her to once more dredge deep into her emotions to play the role convincingly. The emotion conductors, filtered to comply with safety protocols, would convey them to the audience, letting them feel what she felt, hear her thoughts as she immersed into Morrant’s character. But for her, there was no filter; she’d have to uncap those raw emotions as if she experienced them herself. That was the mark of a true, dedicated actor.

She had to marvel at the ingenuity of the programming. In three short years, the genre had gone from recorded immersion to live-streaming immersion. And the script for this historical piece was impeccable. Samuel Ping’s directing prompts for scenes, subtle and brilliant. Surely an award was in sight for the entire production crew and cast—and especially for herself and her co-actor. The thought of winning something, again, made her heart rate accelerate. A grin twisted her mouth. Awards and accolades; adoration; being the centre of attention—she loved it all. She was a winner, and she would win again!

Sieran took a sip of water, letting the coolness seep into her as it trickled down her throat and into her stomach, refreshing her. A shot of whisky would’ve been preferred, but she was working, and the meal break wasn’t for another few hours. She glanced left to her co-actor, Matteo Svärd, who rolled his head over his shoulder, groaning with delight. He played Ziman, and it was jarring to see the contrast in physical appearances. The athletic Matteo was built like a tower, a twenty-six-year-old bronzed god. He sported a tumbling frizz of copper hair, some sections twisted with dreads, some with beads, and some tufted out into an Afro. The young these days liked a mish-mash of styles.

The son of an actor, he’d surpassed his parent in talent. Known for his challenging action movies, he played the role of Ziman in a thoroughly convincing way. He portrayed the nervous, pernickety former Rastafarian genealogist-anthropologist with such life! Who knew the young man possessed such raw talent. Sieran’s belly fluttered. If she was twenty years younger, had limber joints and a hip not prone to scream in crippling pain, she would grab Matteo and ravish him. Alas, he probably only saw an old, platinum-haired woman with