An Archivist of Notable Planetary Events

"Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say."

The sentence was the fourth or fifth of its kind that I'd received and archived within a few weeks' time -- indirect or roundabout references to old science fiction classics. It was delivered to me by a startling old woman who'd sat herself down on the bench I occupied while waiting for the afternoon express into the old city. She was carrying a large sea green snakeskin handbag that had an over-the-top clasp of golden entwined serpents. A big silvery hairstyle that surrounded her face like an elaborate wire nest. Bulging wrap-around sunglasses that seemed too large for her face. 

If the old girl was fishing for conversation, this seemed a risky opening line for the majority of bench-sitters in this conservative, old-fashioned neighborhood. She would've fared better with the young transient crowd that frequented the pubs near the port. The woman's hairdo alone would've deterred most people around here. But I was not like most people, not by a long shot to the local moon and back. And I was well into my element, my work, by the time she arrived. I knew this streak of kindred sci-fi references was possibly preparing me for some minor close encounter or synchronistic confirmation. I was here to document all such occurrences. Though rare, I looked forward to them breaking up my generously tedious daily routine.

While I considered my response to the stranger's curious (and vaguely threatening) remark, I went through the other related word trinkets I'd recently collected. If I strung them all together like a necklace, maybe a message or story would materialize in my brain and I'd have an idea about the next avenue of observation to take, at least in terms of record-keeping or insights.

At the training center, they teach us to be 'conduits of coincidence' and 'masters of minutiae' -- the primary trollers of the currents of subliminal information that course through the sentient webs of the cosmos. A million years ago, when I was a recruit, our own phrase for such characterizations was 'puffing up the plebes.' But it was important work, nonetheless, hunting and gathering down in the tangled, weedy trenches of the universe.

It all goes toward waging that eternal battle between the angels of light and the demons of darkness, and I often reminded myself that I was lucky enough to have a purpose. Those from my stratum often become aimless and troublesome to others. In my current life, no matter the build-up of drudgery and slog, I know I fight the good fight. And I might find a concretion of elements, a vein of striking particulars that help turn the tide of war.

Anyway, we lower-level operatives aren't really supposed to spend time on deep reflection or divining the bigger picture, but they don't give you much direction, feedback or support once you've passed all the testing to be a meta-chronicler of the outer systems. You're given the customary starter pack of supplies and devices, concluding seminars on how to keep a low profile, then it's the farewell festival and blast-off to the boonies. 

Since I've been basically stranded on this backward, hostile and unpredictable planet for many decades now, my mind often wanders off into the more eccentric alleyways of investigation and association, looking for any obscure signposts or subtle maps that might lead to a grand revelation or eventual escape route. Or, at the very least, the whereabouts of other conscripted castaways searching for like-minded companions in this strange land. I'd only found one of those in my time here, and sad to say, I am responsible for her death.

Anyway, the first instance of a potential train of meta-communication had been just two words -- 'jelly babies'. I didn't think much of it at the time. A customer ahead of me in a sweet shop asked the clerk (in a hushed voice, as if they were asking about illicit drugs) if they carried that particular confection. And I probably should add that the clerk was wearing a bright purple fedora which didn't quite suit his head, which is why the otherwise forgettable incident most likely got stuck inside of my head.

The next one came a day later, on a dark and humid Sunday afternoon. I'd ducked into the royal science museum to get out of a sudden downpour from a thunderstorm that had been tailing me with its noisy, threatening rumbling since I'd left the farmers market. 

Just off the museum's lobby past the ticket counter, a docent (whose dress, hairstyle and choice of eyeglasses hailed from a century earlier, and whose head would have been topped off perfectly by a brightly colored fedora) was spouting off to a group of distracted looking kids who were hanging out near the entrance to the planetarium.

"We feel like we're standing still. . . but the Earth is spinning at about 1,000 miles per hour at its equator. And if the planet suddenly stood still. . . does anyone know what would happen?"

Nobody in earshot seemed to care, except for myself, who filed the word string away to refer back to for future reference.

Two days later, a third sci-fi tidbit was so unsettling it woke me from a dream. I was playing an elaborate board game that used several miniature rocket ships as game pieces. I inspected the board and made a move that went through a restricted zone. My opponent (who was hidden in shadow of course) immediately said, "I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid you can't do that." His voice had a menacing and slightly artificial tone that filled me with an awful sense of dread. The pain of that emotion left me whimpering, awake and alone in the twilight of my sparsely furnished little bedroom. It also really bothered me that I'd been called 'Dave'. No one had called me by that name for many years, and it brought back a slew of nasty memories.

The fourth item is a bit tricky. I'd had a broadcast playing in the living room but was more focussed on a noisy family of crows outside the building. By the time the phrase registered in my mind -- Eloi & Morlock's Fine Food -- the show had moved on to something else. I might have only misheard that one.

You're likely thinking by now that I'm obviously some delusional looney tune because none of this makes the least bit of sense -- and that's perfectly okay. I've had my doubts as well over the past several years, toiling away in isolation, but I'm determined to see things through to my retirement or death. I continue sending my reports and unwanted speculations or conclusions (they are ignored and never commented on). Because when I look back at all my records and notes, I'm assured that something big is bearing down on this tiny concentration of consciousness. I know that's pretty obvious to most of the locals these days -- but it's definitely not one of the more popular versions of the apocalypse that a lot of folks worry about. Something much more insidious is unfolding here in the outports.

Anyway, back to the strange old lady on the bench. I wanted to clarify something, so I turned to her and asked, "Who is 'they'?"

"You know who," she said grumpily to the empty air in front of her. "The ones that run everything. THEM." She lifted her arms in front of her, palms upright. I looked around the small transit station where we sat. It was completely closed up and uninhabited except for the two of us. 

I considered letting her know that I was, in fact, one of those very individuals. Not exactly one of the Big Enchiladas who keep this hot mess spinning through the Universe, but certainly part of the important administrative staff. But I decided to be more indirect in my reply.

"Well, about the screaming part -- I might be able to help you there, as I'll be in outer space sometime next week." I wasn't going anywhere off-planet of course, but I suppose I was desperate for conversation. That was a mistake.

The old lady turned to me, pursed her lips, and opened the clasp on her handbag. I watched, curious about what would come next. Then she reached up and slowly pulled off her sunglasses, taking the wrinkly mask of her face along with them. She folded this part of her disguise into a neat packet and popped it into the snakeskin bag. Atmosphere began to roar into the black abyss that was left, that awful faceless space surrounded now by a twinkling portal woven from a thousand glowing silver hair strands.

I could feel the oxygen content rapidly dissipating around our bench. The air was pulled from my lungs before I had a chance to cry out in astonishment.

CHAPTER 2; Crypto shit

I wake up on a flat rooftop. I feel like total crap, like someone has dropped me there like those assholes who drop lit cigarettes and empty drink cans out the car window. What the actual fuck. Slowly I assess all my parts, see which ones are still working.