Feeble light from the gray London sky managed to make its way through the jewel-colored panels, illuminating a face of infinite melancholy. She seemed to be looking directly at Lamont, and in her gaze was a question: Do you remember?
Lamont turned in that evening with the weird melody of the alien music still playing in the back of his mind. He didn’t envy the crew members who may have been awakened from sleep by the sound. True to Doctor Faust’s prediction, the transmission had become the sole topic of conversation for the dozen or so crew members he had passed on the short trip from the command deck to his quarters.
Closing the door behind him, he checked his wristwatch in the receding sliver of light from the hallway, not bothering to turn on the lights of his suite. It was nearly 9:00 PM, and by Lazarus’ calculation, Westward would achieve orbit of the nightbound moon in less than five hours. He adjusted the alarm clock next to his bunk accordingly. Removing his shoes, necktie and suspenders, he lay on his back, hoping at best to rest his eyes in the darkness for a while.
He found himself standing inch-deep in the dust and rubble that covered the floor of a cathedral in old London. The beam of his handheld electric torch struggled to cut a swath through the thick gloom, beset by the nebulae of swirling particles that it drew from the shadows. The light fell on ash-softened outlines of wooden pews, extending before and behind him into murky indistinction. Not far from him, several rows had been crushed into splinters by the ornately carved stone of a fallen column. He should not be here, he knew, but places like this had a magnetic quality for him. In the march of time, this cathedral would be found in the path of the slow and steady reclaiming of the city. It would be leveled, torn from the earth to serve as a foundation for some pristine expression of architectural amnesia.
His eyes were drawn to a hazy glow high overhead. Emerging indistinctly from the veil of grime, like a pastel sketch on black paper, was a portion of stained glass window. Feeble light from the gray London sky managed to make its way through the jewel-colored panels, illuminating a face of infinite melancholy. She seemed to be looking directly at Lamont, and in her gaze was a question. Do you remember? She seemed to ask.
“Hail, Mary…” Lamont began hesitantly, whispering. He coughed, licked his dusty lips. “Hail, Mary, full of grace. Blessed...blessed…”
He stopped. Something in the portrait’s aspect had taken on a disapproving quality. What was he forgetting? There was a strange suggestion of movement, a hint of animation in the glow of her features. And there was a sound: A buzzing, a tapping.
“Hail, Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou among women…” Lamont tried again.
Suddenly, the left eye of the picture fell away, replaced momentarily by a comparatively bright point of light, and then by thick, viscous darkness. The features were obscured by a growing swarm of insects that were flooding through the broken glass, buzzing angrily. Lamont wanted to run, but was paralized. The swarm grew larger and louder. Its sound became a steady, atonal drone, undercut by melodic strains of other sounds—chaotic piping, incessant chittering, and the sound of a thousand voices mumbling in supplication. Lamont found his own lips trembling to join them.
“Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee…”
Then, a new sound began to overwhelm the buzzing of the swarm. A loud, persistent ringing.
Lamont sat up with a start, struggling to gain his bearings. To his right was the glazed door of the suite’s small toilet niche. To his left was the screen that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the cabin. His alarm clock had vibrated its way off the small shelf beside his bunk and now rested face-down on his pillow, still ringing.
Next: Medical Intervention
Why, to me, is the most jarring bit of information here the fact that Lamont wears a TIE!??!?