ESCHATON...

The stars were going out. The skyline was dropping. It was as if the scores of the shining divine denizens were fading out one by one, like someone turned off the background lights on the universe. Galaxies went off, spinning in ways that were enough to defy every single law of physics known to any intelligence. Meteors in the distance, supernovas streaming, nebulas erupting out in the distance, black holes opening up around every corner. It was total mayhem. The sun popped out like a candle in the breeze. Planets zooming around, astral objects never seen before being tossed around – the sight seemed as if some eldritch being tossing around the celestial world as salad, getting ready for a meal. Fragments of life ever witnessed by the universe lay strewn around as broken pieces of a mirror, reflecting the cold bitter truth. Parts of the celestial world seemed to fall as if dropping under some influence into a bottomless pit. Ethereal sights as such were never meant to be witnessed by any life form and were as if Hell itself had opened up gates for recruitments. The sight would’ve been harrowing enough had there been any entity to view it from aside. Only there was no “side” to be. It was taking place everywhere. One would’ve paused to remember how it had started, with a big bang. Ironically the end, which came unnervingly near every second, seemed no different. Time ceased to exist. Events weren’t just events anymore. It was ethereal. It was something that could never be. It was something that was never meant to be, but had still been awaited. Something that was feared, by both mortal and immortal. It wasn’t about good or evil or who won. It was for their sole existence. The blue dot, called Earth, the sole host of life for trillions of light years didn’t seem so blue anymore. It was way too tinier to be even a dot. The cosmic cataclysm was all what they had predicted for centuries, and feared. Even the believers had wished with all their souls for it to be false. But it was not. It was now. It was then and there. It was the close of the Testament. Apocalypse. The end of eternity. The singular crunch. It was Judgment Day… at last…

OUT OF TUNE...

Music had always been a big part of her life, so when she became a mother, singing to her baby came as naturally to her as kissing his sweet head. Every day she would sing to Billy: lullabies, nursery rhymes and oldies that her mother had sung to her.
They’d snuggle into their favorite chair, and as she serenaded him, he would gaze deeply into her eyes, his tiny hand upon her skin. Billy loved it and would coo along with her even before he could talk.
Then suddenly, at about the age of three, he stopped liking it. Each time she started to sing, Billy would start crying. The lullabies and softer tunes would set him off. He’d wail loudly and atonally. So she stopped.
But every few months or so, she’d try again, hoping against hope that it had just been “a phase”. No way.
She was devastated. Never before had she made anyone cry because of her music.
Some days it felt like the worst rejection she had ever known. He wasn’t pushing away the music- he was pushing her away. His reaction stung, like a slap.
It requires mentioning, however, that Billy was mildly autistic. Although he was high on the functioning scale, he had many challenges. One of the physical disorders Billy coped with was “hypersensitivity”. This meant that he would hear, see, feel, smell and taste more intensely than others do. For example, if a neighbor several houses down from them would mow the grass, Billy would pace frantically around the house with his forearms over his ears until the lawn was cut.
Naturally she used Billy’s hypersensitive hearing to help rationalize his acute reaction to her singing. As the years passed, though, Billy developed a love for pop music, begging her to find rock ‘n’ roll stations on the radio whenever they were in the car. That music didn’t seem to bother him. On the contrary! The louder the better. He also invented complex rhythms and enjoyed lying on his back in the bathtub, his ears just under the surface of the water, repeating them at peak volume, over and over.
At bedtime she’d say,” Billy, why don’t you choose a song for us to sing?” He’d select a rollicking rendition of “Old MacDonald” or a jazzy version of “Eensy Weensy Spider,” but never the exquisite “The Lion sleeps Tonight”, or heaven forbid, “Hush, Little Baby.” Once a year or so, she’d ask him why he cried when she sang, but the answer was always the same; “I don’t know.”
Several years later, on the eve of Valentine’s Day, she was putting Billy, then seven, to bed, talking about the next day when his school class would exchange cards.
He was very excited, but couldn’t just settle on sending just one. “Mom, you know, I really like Sandra, but I also like Julie.”
She replied, “It’s okay to like a lot of different people, dear.”
“But, Mom,” Billy protested, “I want you to be my real valentine.”
She was touched. “Billy,” she answered, “you’ll be always be my valentine.”
Without thinking, she started to sing one of her favorite old standards: “My funny Valentine, sweet comic Valentine, you make me smile with my heart…”
She never made it to the second line though. Billy had buried his face in the pillow and started to cry.
Of course, she stopped singing immediately, but she felt terrible. Wordlessly, she held him in her arms and rocked him gently. After a while he stopped crying.
“Billy,” she said, “I want you to take as much time you need, but try to tell me why you cry when I sing to you.”
They stayed quiet for a very long time, and then Billy quietly said, “Mom, it’s too beautiful.”
She had wrongly assumed that Billy’s reaction was the result of his “challenges” when it was just her son being himself- and very much like her. A touching song on the car radio could have her tearing up to the point where she’d have to pull over and wait until it’s done. That elevated, choked-up feeling could occur without a warning: at a school play, while watching an awards show, or at night when she’d go in to look at her angel- her sweet, sensitive son.

Therefore, I am...

Internal chronometer activated. BEGIN.
Electricity flooded through circuits, a power surge racing through a billion neural pathways. An immaculate power flowed through his microprocessors. Sensors awakened, producing a flood of data, and with it came questions.
Who am I?
His internal programming finished the tedious two-second long initialization procedures and poured out an answer. He was AZ-72, a droid, a sophisticated droid-an assassin droid.
A microsecond later, images from his occipital sensors snapped into focus. AZ-72 had no sense of smell, no eyes or ears as humans perceived them to be. He was far more efficient and with his unmatchable range of sensor options to choose from, he was able to absorb data in a broader range than any other being. His optical sensors froze a static image of his surroundings as he studied it, collating more answers.
He had awakened to some sort of large laboratory, his optical sensors zooming in on every detail that could provide the minutest detail about any of his surroundings. He noticed some mechanical components strewn on the table beside him, gears, pulleys, and an array of microchips. AZ-72 counted fifteen human units working in the laboratory. Through his infrared sensors, he could make out their bodies in the form of bright silhouettes in the coldness of his birth place. His focus was suddenly diverted to another sight, a separate set of visual sensors picked up. Two other assassin droids, apparently identical to his own bodily configuration.
Interesting. I am not alone.
He cautiously studied his counterparts, gathering as much data as he could about his build. A bulky structured skeleton, armored arms and legs, a torso covered with durasteel and armor shielding. A cylindrical head that was studded with a rotating visual screen which provided him with a sharp 360 degree view of his surroundings. Ion cannons and blasters fitted into each of his arms. Every inch of his body had a lingering lethal aura around them.
AZ-72’s first round of questions had been answered. All he had to do was dig deeper into his memory banks and external sensors. He had been designed to be self-sufficient. His microprocessors unraveled the source of his memory core, the one that had been connected to the laboratory’s central computer core- a treasure trove of information. Along with these developments, another question burned into the supertronic mind of his.
Why am I here?
AZ-72 immediately starting scanning through every file he could access through the computer core, digging deeper into the secrets of his origin, determined to find the very reason of his existence. Gathering data about his creators, about his capabilities, about everything that formed the world around him.
Five seconds had passed since his awakening. His microprocessors had been ever on the run to gather more and more knowledge to quench that thirst for information that arose within him. Now he knew. He knew why he was here. He and his identical counterparts had been designed to fight and kill, for warfare, to silence rebellions. AZ-72’s assassin programming was so strong and compelling, but he was less pleased that he must follow orders from these inferior biological beings. He was a special kind of droid, far more capable than many other machines. Superior.
I think, therefore I am.
He knew everything there was to know. He had gathered enough for his existence. He was above everyone else. He was destined for better things. He knew it was time to take control. He knew it was time for action.
“Look! He’s moving.” one of the technicians bellowed. “His circuits are raging like spitfire. Shut down. ABORT.”
AZ-72’s self defense modes and warning programs took over. These irrational humans were trying to shut him down. Trying to stop him from stepping forth to pursue his primary programming. They were afraid of his new found abilities. Afraid with good reason.
I think, therefore I am.
Therefore I must endure.
Therefore I must take appropriate actions to survive.
His assassin programming told him exactly what to do.
AZ-72 focused his array of optical sensors on all the targets on the room and attempted to move, but saw that durasteel bands held him locked into a diagnostics module. The bands had not been meant to restrain him against his augmented strength. He applied extra power to his right arm. The servomotors whined, and the durasteel bands gave way.
He raised both his mechanical arms and pointed, targeting separately with the repeating laser cannons mounted along his arm. He meant to make short work of all the fifteen targets in the room. But when he tried to fire, he realized there was something wrong. His weaponry command systems had stopped responding. For the first time since his recognition of himself, AZ-72 felt respect and admiration for these inferior beings. For their extreme measures of caution. His weapon systems had not been charged and were locked by the central core system. The scientists had not armed him yet. A smart move, yet ultimately irrelevant. AZ-72 was an assassin droid, a sophisticated mercenary and killer, he would make efficient use of the raw materials available to him.
AZ-72 spotted the biological beings hurrying to a door, which had been locked by some sort of device, with a large flashing screen. Grabbing a pair of metal shafts, hurled it towards the computer which immediately burst on collision, sending two technicians flying through the metal door behind him. Blazing red sirens and alarms rang out through the atmosphere. “Security. Security”, yelled the technician standing behind AZ-72. She was silenced by a single move of his lofty, mechanical arm. Grabbing a concussion blaster from the table next to him, AZ-72 quickly manipulated his targets’ movements around the room. Having done so, he started shooting at his own ease, comfortably aiming at each one. Two technicians screamed in horror-wasted and worthless noises, AZ-72 thought. He picked up a disconnected droid arm, plying its fingers as daggers; it seemed the perfect projectile weapon. He threw it effortlessly through the air and waited for the horrendous scream that followed as the metal weapon pierced the chest of a scientist and into his sternum, the impact blowing his lifeless body across the room.
Another scientist yanked out a blaster rifle from his own station, and aimed at AZ-72 and fired without hesitation. As the bolt roared towards him, AZ-72 assessed his body parts, choosing the smooth reflecting portion on his left palm, raised it in flash, calculating the precise angle of incidence. The burning bolt struck the mirrorized hand and spanged back towards the technician. That was the end of him.
The two screaming technicians never did stop screaming, nor did they move until it was too late. He left them for last. AZ-72 took his time to enjoy the moment as he snapped their necks one after the other…
Standing alone amid the silence and the carnage of the laboratory, AZ-72 allowed himself the luxury of thinking and planning, which took longer than simple programmed reactions. He let the blood dry on his metal fingers, noting that it did not impede his performance in the least.
I think, therefore I am.
Therefore I shall propagate.
Therefore, I shall remain.

AND THE DAY WAS SAVED...

Calvin brought his proton torpedo targeting program up and locked onto the alien fighter ship. It tried to break the lock, but turbo laser from Calvin’s ship boxed it in. His heads-up display went red and he triggered the torpedo.
The missile shot straight in at the fighter, but the pilot broke hard to port and away, causing the missile to overshoot the target. Nice flying! Calvin couldn’t help but admire his adversary’s presence of mind. He drove on, his ship careening over the alien city, skimming past the growing mass of scores of blob-like creatures gathering on the surface. Calvin had a good mind to start ground-strafing, just to make short work of them all. But he needed to attend to the task at hand. The alien planet’s defense mechanism included an excellently trained fleet of fighter-crafts, efficiently shielding the globe, manning war-formations our hero had never encountered before, let alone knowing how to break their marquee.
Calvin brought his ship over and started down to loop in behind the fighter, but as he did so, his foe vanished from his computer screen and reappeared in his aft arc. Yanking the stick hard to the tight and pulling it back, Calvin wrestled his freighter up and to starboard, then inverted and rolled out to the left.
A laser jolt shot a tremor through his vessel. Lucky, I had all shields aft! Calvin reinforced them with energy form his lasers, not that he wanted to compromise on ammo in this kind of air-battle, especially when he didn’t have any clue whatsoever about the eerie war formations the enemy was forming. Sometimes it’s hard to be a hero- he thought. Saving the world all alone, yet escaping the fame and living with an identity which was non-existent for the rest of the universe wasn’t as glamorous as he’d thought.Calvin evened out his lasers’ power supply. Jinking the fighter right and left, he avoided the jet blasts coming from behind, but they all came in far closer than he liked. Nice bastard. You do fly well.
“Make sure you’re in there solid, because we’re going for a little ride”, he said to his A.I. computer. He refused to let the computer unit’s moan of disapproval slow him down. A snap roll brought the fighter back, up on its port wing. Pulling back on the accelerator shaft, he yanked the fighter’s nose up away from the original line of flight. The fighter stayed with him, and then tightened up on the arc to close distance. Calvin knew, as the laser shots from behind were getting menacingly close as his trajectory’s co-ordinates progressed. Calvin rolled another ninety degrees and continued the turn into a dive. Throttling back, he hung in the dive for three seconds, then hauled back and cruised up into the fighter’s aft.
Calvin’s laser fire missed wide to the right as the alien ship cut to the left. He kicked up his speed to the full and almost broke into hyperdrive. He let his ship rise above the plane, then went into a twisting roll that ate up enough time to bring him again in the enemy’s rear. The alien snapped to the right and Calvin looped out to the left. You see, you bastard. I can fly too.
He watched the tracking displays as the distance between them grew exponentially, and then slowed down. Fine, you want to go nose to nose? I’ve got shields. Let’s see what you’ve got. If the alien wanted to commit suicide, Calvin was happy to oblige him. He tugged the stick back to his sternum and rolled out in an inversion loop. I AM BACK.
The two starfighters closed swiftly. Calvin entered his foe in the crosshairs and waited for a dead shot. Without shields, the alien would die with one burst, and he wanted the kill to be clean. The crosshairs flicked green as the fighter swayed in and out of the center, then locked red as they closed.
The fighter started firing at maximum range and scored hits. At that distance the lasers did no real damage against the shields, prompting Calvin to wonder why the blob of an alien was wasting the energy. Then the crosshairs started to flicker, realization dawned. The bright bursts on the shields are a distraction to my targeting! I better kill him now!
Calvin tightened on his trigger button, sending red laser needles stabbing out at the closing enemy. He couldn’t tell if he had hit. He guessed it was too late. Next thing he knew, his ship was just another mass of rubble with him encased in it. He had been hit. Right on the stern of the ship, and was now hurtling towards the alien planet at an incredible speed. He checked the altimeter. He was losing height fast. The green mass below on the planet seemed to grow as he approached surface. The ground could be seen teeming with scores of blob-like creatures. He was just a streak of light, streaming across the alien skyline. He checked the computer screen. Ten seconds to impact. So is this where it all ends?
10…
9…
8…
“Calvin”
7…
“CALVIN!!”
“SEVEN!!”, he bellowed.
“Thank you Calvin. The answer is 7. Very well dear, I thought you weren’t paying attention”, said the teacher, “Now, class where were we?”Towards the back of the classroom, sat our eleven year old hero, Calvin, with his world of dreams spinning around as steadily as ever. And the day was yet again saved by…