Paradox by Ian Whates

Author:Ian Whates [Whates, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: NewCon Press
Published: 2014-08-03T21:00:00+00:00

We named the world Omega. Not the most original name maybe, but fitting. Here was where the Creator would meet His end, and where all sentients would be forever more liberated from His endlessly insulting packaging of intelligence into more and more bizarre containers, as if He were a cookie factory stamping out a million differently shaped cookie slabs with the same dull invariant frosting sandwiched between.

Now, ideally, we would have hung in orbit and just dropped a couple of planet busters down on him. But this tactic was impossible for several reasons. First, planetbusting armaments were closely interdicted by all galactic authorities and cost umpty-ump billion SVUs apiece even if you could lay your mitts on one in a terrorist bazaar. Second, until we went down we had no certainty, despite Mewborn’s insistence, that the Creator was even present on Omega. And third, most importantly, we all wanted to off the immortal bastard personally, face to face, to get our hands bloody and see Him grovel and beg and suffer for His sins. To that end I had stocked various portable instruments of extreme lethality which we now broke out from the formerly locked armoury and familiarised ourselves with.

“If only Drumgoole could have been with us on this glorious day,” mused Corinthia.

“He ish here in spirit,” said Maxwell.

“Creator dead, Drumgoole kick his ass in hell,” contributed Jagello.

Mewborn made no comment, but just drummed his fingers nervously on the barrel containing his Galatea.

We had pinpointed what we believed to be the Creator’s presence on a vast open plain so large as to be discernible from orbit.

“Hold on to your guts,” I said, “we’re gonna drop in fast.”

At the controls, I sent the Final Theophany down like a missile-bird from Hell.

Grounded, the four of us barrelled out of the ship before our sound waves even caught up with us. We raced to preset strategic positions, but then came to inconclusive stops.

The Creator was so huge, we might as well have been trying to cordon off a mountain.

The best thing I could compare Him to was an alabaster Sphinx conjoined with a veined and marbled slug.

From his ground-level ‘waist’ up, the Creator looked vaguely ‘human’, with a skyward straining muscled torso and two arms. A neck broad as a four-lane highway supported a head whose like no one had ever seen. Multiple faces beyond count existed in a ring around the entire surface of the skull. These face were in constant flickering phase-change, flashing through split-second recognisable representations of all the races that populated our galaxy. But above the main head was a fractally smaller head, exhibiting the same flickering conformation. And above that another, and another, and another…

I was reminded of certain images from Terra, the gods of a land named Tibet.

So much for the half of the Creator that rose vertically from the dirt of the plain. The recumbent portion of His body was an unadorned fleshy tube tapering from the size of a major undersea transportation tunnel down to a tip as big as me.

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