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The Aeolian Master - Book One - Revival


sound of a passing patrol car, she heard a distant hum, and then as it came closer she could hear a whirrrr of a
magnetic repulsion motor as it made its way through the night skies of Newusa. Instinctively she came to a
halt.
She listened. Her mind still hoped for the impossible. The spaceport was too far away for her to hear the
ships' engines. They didn't sound like this, anyway. It wouldn't be a private car. They weren't allowed out after
curfew. It could be the hum of a patrol car, but in the back of her mind she knew it wasn't. It was the hum of
the scent—the scream of death.
She looked up and then she saw it. Fear gripped her heart as she stared at the cold, metallic sphere. The
starlight glinted from its shiny surface—cold and foreboding. It would show no mercy, for machines have no
compassion.
Just then it scented her blood, and as she watched, its razor sharp blades began to whistle through the air,
rotating about its circumference thirty six hundred revolutions per minute—fast enough to butcher any living
thing in less than a split second.
It was the controlling device used by Hurd and his city council. (As on other planets, it was used to
discourage revolutionaries.) A half an hour after curfew they were expelled from the tower, and their only
purpose was to hunt, to track the scent of blood, to fall upon its prey in mutilating objectivity, and to kill.
Sweat broke out on her forehead. She ran to the front door of a clothing store. She started pushing the
button and pounding on the door hoping someone was still inside working late. But there was no answer and
the door was locked as they always were at night.
She had gambled and lost. She turned and looked up. She watched in desperation as the scent checked its
flight. She clasped her hands over her head as the scent dropped from the sky.
She screamed.
Oblivion.
Consciousness without awareness, limited to the confinements of thought. Looking, trying to make out an
object, any object, but darkness is everywhere, enshrouding, entombing—depressing the mind like the weight of
a grave. To reach out in the blackness, a mental grasp, is to feel nothingness slipping through the fingers of
thought. Where is the consciousness of yesterday, the foundation of knowledge?
Em made a mental turn. Oh God, where am I? What is this darkness all around? Obscurity was his answer.
Still, he probed. Still he found nothing.
Shake down the robe of blackness. Light out the siege of despair. Strike off the shackles of darkness. Look
out upon the relativity of existence.
The blackness lingered.
He concentrated harder. He searched in desperation. He felt fearful, helpless like a baby. He might never
be able to leave this world of darkness. Trapped in the world of the unknown. There might be beings in this
underworld who would want to do him harm.
He wanted to cry out, but knew not how.
And then came the grey. Fading blackness, the dark sea before the dawn, light spreading.
Rays beaming, a paradox; leaving the infinite. Becoming the relative, to observe, to experience the motion
of life, to know matter separates from space, to know energy, the infinite link between . . .
The first contact with relative awareness came from sound. A vibration in the air, voices. Yes, they were
voices. Low and soft, they spoke in a strange language, unknown to his scope of knowledge. Yet, he
understood what they were saying. The words conveyed pictures of computers, graphs, readouts, data. The
conversation was meaningless. It droned of boredom.
He willed himself to leave this world of computers, numbers, and unrest.
Suddenly there was the crashing of waves, falling upon jagged cliffs. They pounded. They rose two
hundred feet and fell upon the rocks. The ceaseless pounding. The sky was dark, totally enclosed by grey,
swirling clouds. Lightening shattered the night and thunder resounded and boomed upon the waves. Sympathy.
He felt sympathy with the wind. It was the symphony of life. It was the power of the worlds. The wind
blowing, raising the waves hundreds of feet into the air, towering above the horizon, then crashing down to boil
 
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