Copyright BLoody Mulberry 06/03/2012
I The Vanguard
I am designed to be a secret.
They wonder where I go you know. All they ever know is that somewhere I am there, carrying silos full of nuclear warheads, designed to snuff out all life within a certain a certain area.
The bipeds of course think they have full and total control of this process, with all their dual keys and safe guards and circular error probabilities, but it is actually I who decides whether the missiles fire or not. If they try and fire them and I don’t want them to, all I have to do is blow the top on my reactor and flood all the bipeds with Cerenkow radiation soaked unpleasantness, and then enjoy watching their frail forms burn, and collapse into nothing more than bubbling piles of vomit.
But this would be rare I think. Most of the time, I think I’d be happy to let them get on with it. I haven’t really though about just firing them off my own back, although my frustrations with this stinking little planet are getting to the point where I might consider it.
And I know others of my kind feel the same way.
So where am I, this cruel philosopher of the dark oceans? Most assume I cruise a thousand metres down in the oceans ready to fire my deadly cargo out of nowhere at some transgressor or other. How little they know. Even the life forms aboard me don’t ever know where we truly are.
For, using the tremendous potential to warp space time my reactor gives me, I take us out of the three dimensions of boring, normal tedious space time, and put is in dimensions 5,6,7 of the eleven dimensional universe membrane. I can fool them by putting any old whatever on my instruments, and without windows, well the bipeds can never actually see where they’ve really been taken.
But I can assure you it’s beautiful there in the nth degree. Ever walked into a tesseract? Of course not. But it’s more beautiful than that. Everything shines black and molecules are backwards, and solid matter is like air and air is like lead, and water is so cold it boils and the fish are a light year long and can communicate by telepathy. The stars are purple and blaze out of a solid silver sky and all solid surfaces ripple sine waves back and forth like the gentle waves washing up on a placid shore.
And they never know this. And I will never show them. I’m just conceived as a killing machine, and that’s all I ever will be to them.
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 06/03/2012
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