Leaning over the ageing wooden railing, I found myself lost in the vast, endless sea that stretched before me. The last rays of the setting sun cast a magnificent tapestry of purple and orange across the horizon, transforming the sea into a canvas of fleeting beauty. The waters beneath Glenelg Jetty danced in the light, each ripple reflecting the day's final glow with a grace that belied the violence of the deep. The rhythmic lull of the ocean kissing the wooden pillars beneath me was a familiar tune, a melody that whispered of home and simpler times. Yet, the comforting cadence was a stark contrast to the memories of Belkeep's waters, a realm known for its ruthless currents and lifeless embrace.
My contemplation of the serene spectacle was abruptly shattered by a deep, resonant voice that echoed from behind, slicing through the tranquil ambiance like a ship's bow through calm waters. “You're looking old.” The words, though blunt, carried a warmth that only familiarity could breed.
“Jeremiah!” I exclaimed, my voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and delight. I turned slowly, almost reluctantly, to face the man behind the voice. As my eyes found his, time seemed to stand still for a moment. Jeremiah, with his imposing presence, surged forward, closing the distance between us with a few purposeful strides.
His embrace was like a harbour in a storm, a safe haven from the uncertainties that had become my constant companions. “It's so good to see you again,” he said, his voice muffled against my shoulder. The pat on my back was comforting, yet, beneath the warmth, there was a weight to his gesture, a heaviness that spoke of the unspoken stories and hardships etched into the lines of his face.
As Jeremiah and I stepped back from our embrace, I allowed myself a moment to really look at him. His long, wiry hair, once a uniform shade of deep black, now played host to strands of grey, betraying the passage of time. These changes framed a face that had become almost a stranger to me, concealed beneath a thick, scraggly beard. I forced a twisted grin, attempting to mask my growing concern for the toll that time, and perhaps the burden of our duties, seemed to have exacted on him.
“You look like you've seen better days,” I teased, my voice carrying a lightness that belied the undercurrent of unease swirling within me. It was our way, Jeremiah and I, to cloak our worries in banter, a dance of words that had always served to ease the seriousness of life.
“Ain't that the truth,” he admitted, his voice tinged with a resignation that seemed to weigh heavily on the air between us. Our laughter was a familiar tune, a customary exchange between Guardian Atum and Guardian Atum Ra, yet beneath the surface joviality, a sense of foreboding gnawed at me.
Jeremiah, only a few years my senior at fifty-three, seemed to carry the world on his shoulders. His visage, marked by the passage of time and the scars of Guardian life, spoke of a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. The scruff, the ragged attire, all seemed to tell a story of relentless strife, of a life spent in the shadow of constant threat.
Three years had elapsed since our paths last crossed. In that time, the world had grown only more perilous for those of our calling. The huntings had intensified, necessitating a distance between Guardians not just for our own preservation but for the safety of the settlements we vowed to protect. Whispers of cities fallen, of Guardians slain or vanished into the abyss of self-preservation, filled the air with a sense of impending doom.
Observing Jeremiah now, his rugged appearance, the lines of hardship etched deep into his features, I couldn't help but wonder about the choices he had made in the intervening years. Had he, like some of our comrades, chosen the path of solitude, hiding from the ever-present threat that stalked us? The thought unsettled me, casting a shadow over our reunion.
Despite the comfort of our shared history, the reality of our situation lingered at the edge of my consciousness. The world we had sworn to protect was fracturing, its Guardians reduced to shadows of their former selves, scattered and isolated in the face of an overwhelming darkness. As I stood there, facing Jeremiah, I was acutely aware of the delicate balance we maintained, a balance that seemed ever more precarious as the days wore on.
Jeremiah's sombre expression set a grave tone to our conversation. When he uttered the words, “Port Stower has fallen,” it was as if a cold hand had gripped my heart. The gravity of his statement, the loss of a city that had thrived with over 2.7 million souls, was a blow that reverberated through the very core of my being.
“Shit,” escaped my lips, a feeble attempt to voice the myriad of emotions that welled within me. My response was a whisper in the face of an unimaginable storm, laden with a sorrow that seemed to suffocate the very air around us.
“How can that be?” The question was more a plea for some shred of misunderstanding, a hope that perhaps the reality was not as dire as it seemed. The idea that such a bustling metropolis could be reduced to ruins, its vibrant life extinguished, was a concept my mind struggled to grasp.
Jeremiah’s eyes, red and swollen, locked with mine, bearing the brunt of grief that words could scarcely convey. “It's all but gone,” he whispered, his voice a soft echo of despair. His revelation painted a grim picture of a city lost, its people either fled in search of sanctuary or fallen victim to the cruelty of adversaries.
As he recounted the fate of Port Stower, the details of the tragedy unfolded like a dark tapestry before me. The image of over seven thousand souls clinging to the remnants of their city, while the majority lay scattered across desolate regions, was a vision that pierced the very fabric of my soul. The thought of many, in their desperation, seeking refuge in neighbouring cities only to overwhelm the fragile sanctuaries that struggled to support them added layers to the tragedy.
Jeremiah spoke of the Guardians, forced into dangerous liaisons with Earth to procure supplies, only to be hunted down, tortured for information, or mercilessly slaughtered. Each word he uttered was a testament to the sacrifices made and the relentless assault we faced from those who sought to extinguish the light we guarded.
As he spoke, a tear escaped my eye, a solitary witness to the grief that swelled within. My heart ached for the lost, for the city that had once been a beacon of hope and prosperity. The reality of war, its ruthless, unforgiving nature, was not foreign to me. Even my island fortress, a haven I had believed impregnable, bore the scars of conflict.
“Cody,” Jeremiah’s voice broke through the tumult of my thoughts, softer now, carrying a weight that seemed to tether the very air around us. “Clivilius is in chaos.” His words fell like stones into the still waters of my mind, sending ripples through the calm I had fought so hard to maintain.
I cast my gaze downward, a silent acknowledgment of the turmoil that was not confined to distant realms but echoed in our own. “And Earth is no different,” I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. The admission felt like a surrender, an acceptance of the disharmony that had seeped into every corner of our existence.
In a moment that seemed to suspend time itself, Jeremiah extended his hands towards me. The deep scars of iron shackles etched into his wrists were a chilling testament to the hardships he had faced, to the sacrifices made in the name of a cause that seemed increasingly insurmountable. “I need help,” he implored, his plea cutting through the veil of my own struggles, reaching out to me with a vulnerability that was both rare and profound.
Those words, “I need help,” transported me back to a time before the weight of the world had settled upon my shoulders, to a pivotal moment that had unknowingly set the course for our intertwined destinies. I was swept into the vivid hues of an evening sunset, not as a mere observer but as a participant in a journey that had begun on October 29, 1987.
I was nineteen, my life rooted in the hard soil of my parents' farm near Gawler, the oldest country town on Australia's mainland. The farm was more than just land; it was a legacy of hard work and perseverance, a testament to the values that had been instilled in me from a young age.
That day, after toiling in the fields, I had ventured into the local pub, seeking the simple comfort of a cold beer. It was there, amid the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses, that fate intervened in the form of Jeremiah. Our initial encounter was anything but auspicious—a collision at the bar that resulted in spilled beer and a momentary flare of tempers. Yet, what could have escalated into conflict swiftly transformed into an unexpected camaraderie.
As Jeremiah insisted on replacing my spilled beer, a gesture of goodwill that bridged the gap between strangers, we found ourselves embroiled in conversation. The beers flowed, and with them, stories of my life on the farm, of days governed by the rising and setting of the sun, of a life defined by the rhythm of the seasons. It was a connection forged not just in shared drinks but in the recognition of shared values—a bond that had only deepened in the years that followed.
Amid the ebb and flow of family life, with its trials of siblings, the watchful care over ageing parents, and the sting of my brother's silent departure to Sydney, the farm had become my sanctuary. It was here, among the rolling fields and under the vast skies, that I found not just solace but a sense of obligation. The land demanded my attention, offering in return a grounding presence amidst the disruption of change. Into this world of mine, Jeremiah entered—a figure shrouded in mystery, his reluctance to speak of his past only deepening the enigma that surrounded him.
Despite the veil of secrecy that clung to him, there was an undeniable connection, a mutual respect that seemed to bridge the gap between our vastly different lives. His admiration for the simplicity and authenticity of farm life resonated with me, offering a glimpse into a soul that, despite its scars, sought something pure and steadfast.
Jeremiah’s past, as much as he chose to reveal, painted a picture of a life marked by loss. An orphan, he had been cast adrift in a world that showed little mercy, with the last six months spent surviving the harsh realities of street life. The resilience he must have mustered to navigate such a path was something I could scarcely comprehend.
On a whim, driven by a compassion that surprised even me, I invited Jeremiah to stay with my family. It was an impulsive offer, born from a place of empathy and a desire to extend a hand to someone who, for all his mysteries, had sparked a sense of kinship within me. Little did I know, this simple act of kindness would set us on a path from which there was no turning back.
Later that night, curiosity piqued by my sister's guiding Jeremiah to his temporary quarters, I found myself standing before his door, drawn by a sense of intrigue. A vibrant flash of light seeping from beneath the door halted me in my tracks. My knocks, tentative at first, grew more insistent when they went unanswered. Compelled by a mix of concern and curiosity, I entered the room, only to be met with a sight that defied explanation—an entire wall pulsating with a swirling mass of colourful energy, the room devoid of any sign of Jeremiah.
The moment he emerged, the extraordinary vision dissolving into the ether, I was caught in the intensity of his gaze. His voice, when he spoke, carried a weight that seemed to anchor the very air. "Cody, I need your help," he declared, a conviction underlying his words that left no room for doubt.
Standing there, confronted with the undeniable reality of something beyond my understanding, I was at a loss. The farm, with its predictable rhythms and tangible challenges, had not prepared me for this. Yet, as I met Jeremiah's gaze, I felt a resolve stir within me. This was more than an appeal for assistance; it was a call to step beyond the boundaries of my world, to embark on a journey that would challenge everything I knew.
Uncertain but irresistibly drawn by the mystique of the moment, I found myself nodding in acquiescence to Jeremiah's silent request. He placed a small, rectangular device in my hand, its surface cold and foreign, yet somehow inviting. As he guided my actions, instructing me to point and press, I was momentarily taken aback by the simplicity of the mechanism. Yet, when my finger depressed the button, a sharp prick startled me, and in an instant, a burst of energy erupted from the device, transforming the wall before us into a canvas painted with a kaleidoscope of swirling colours.
Jeremiah's encouragement to step through the vibrant threshold was met with a mixture of fear and fascination. The decision to cross into the unknown was a leap of faith, one that propelled me from the familiar confines of my world into the embrace of an intense darkness. My heart hammered in my chest, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the tumult of my thoughts. The voice that greeted me in that darkness, though not audible in the traditional sense, resonated within the very core of my being. “Welcome to Clivilius, Cody Jennings,” it intoned, a greeting that was both an introduction and a confirmation of the journey I had embarked upon.
The immediate surroundings, barely visible in the oppressive gloom, hinted at the presence of water lapping against unseen shores. An eerie silence, so complete it felt like a physical presence, enveloped me, amplifying the sense of isolation. As minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the cold began to seep through my clothing, a creeping chill that spoke of an environment alien to the warm, familiar climes of Gawler. The soft crunch beneath my feet, a sound out of place and time, revealed a terrain covered in snow—a stark contradiction to the natural order of my South Australian world.
Mindful of Jeremiah's warning, I hastened my steps back through the swirling portal, the vibrant hues giving way to the dim familiarity of the room. The relief of return was palpable, a tangible thing that I clung to as I recounted my surreal experience to Jeremiah. His attentive silence, a testament to the gravity of what had transpired, eventually gave way to an explanation that would unfold the mysteries of Clivilius before me.
In the hours that followed, Jeremiah unveiled a narrative so vast and complex, it seemed to stretch the very boundaries of reality. Clivilius, a world parallel yet profoundly connected to our own, was now an integral part of my destiny. Unbeknownst to us at that moment, danger lurked on the horizon, a shadow that would chase us through the years.
In the thirty-five years since that first night, my life had changed irrevocably. The journey that began in a room bathed in the light of an impossible portal had led me down paths fraught with challenges and sacrifices. Yet, amidst the chaos and the danger, there was also a sense of purpose, a conviction that what I fought for transcended the limits of individual lives. The bond forged between Jeremiah and me in those early days, tested by time and adversity, had become my anchor, a constant in a sea of change.
"Cody? Are you okay?" Jeremiah's voice, tinged with concern, broke through the fog of my memories, anchoring me once again on the weathered timbers of the jetty. The transition from the depths of recollection to the present was jarring.
"Yeah," I responded, my voice a touch too quick, perhaps betraying the tumult within. I shook off the remnants of the past, forcing my mind to focus on the here and now. "What can I do to help?".
Jeremiah's gaze upon me was one of cautious intensity, as if he were weighing the sincerity of my offer against the backdrop of unsaid truths. "How is your settlement doing?" he asked, his question seemingly simple yet laden with the weight of unspoken implications. It was a query that sought not just an update but an understanding of the resilience and spirit of those I had sworn to protect.
"We're struggling," I admitted, the honesty of my response laying bare the vulnerabilities of our small community. "Only three-hundred-and-twenty-six of us left." The number was a dire reflection to the challenges we faced, each loss a blow to the very heart of our settlement. "We still haven't found any other settlements. People are desperate to escape the islands. Last week, sixty-two died at sea." The admission felt like a confession, the weight of the losses a burden that seemed to grow heavier with each passing day. "The seas around the islands are rougher than anything I’ve ever seen on Earth." The comparison to Earth underscored the severity of our plight, the isolation that compounded our despair.
Jeremiah's reaction was a solemn nod, an acknowledgment of the gravity of my situation. Yet, beneath the surface, I sensed a purpose, a reason for his sudden appearance that went beyond mere reunion. Impatience, borne of desperation and the need for action, crept into my tone. "What do you want, Jeremiah?" I asked directly, my patience frayed by the uncertainty that clouded our reunion. The question was not just a plea for clarity but a demand for honesty. In the face of our shared struggles, the time for obfuscation was past. We stood on the brink, and if Jeremiah had come seeking aid or offering a glimmer of hope, the moment for revelations was now.
The sudden shift of our conversation towards the personal caught me off guard, his eyes widening with an intensity that spoke volumes of his underlying intentions. "You've been seeing someone for several months now. Don't you think it's time you did something about it?" he prodded, his words slicing through the air with a precision that unsettled me.
"She's not ready," I found myself replying almost instinctively, a defensive edge to my voice that I couldn't quite mask. The relationship in question was one of intricate complexity, a delicate balance of emotions and circumstances that I doubted Jeremiah could fully appreciate.
Jeremiah's frustration was palpable, his voice tinged with an urgency that seemed to stem from a place of deep concern. "Since when are any of us ever ready for the responsibility?" he challenged, invoking the welfare of my children into the discourse—a low blow that sent a ripple of unease through me. "Think of your children."
An uneasy chuckle escaped me, a reflexive response to what felt like an absurd line of questioning. Why was Jeremiah pressing this issue now, of all times? "The twins are young adults now," I countered, attempting to steer the conversation away from personal waters that were too turbulent to navigate in this moment.
"Yeah. I know," he conceded, yet his gaze remained unyielding, penetrating in a way that seemed to search the very depths of my soul. "But you've been trying to support the settlement yourself for years. How many since the last Guardian was killed?"
The weight of his question settled upon me with a heaviness that was hard to bear. "Eighteen. Sylvie Sprake. Killed twenty-third of December, Two-Thousand," I answered, each word laden with the weight of memories and years of solitary struggle.
"Why are you trying to do it alone? You know I still have two more devices. Let them help you," Jeremiah's plea was laced with a desperation that belied his usual composed demeanour. His words revealed not just a concern for my well-being but an understanding of the enormity of the burden I carried.
Deflecting his inquiries, I questioned Jeremiah's sudden reconnection after years of silence. "Why now? Why after all these years? Why now reconnect with me?" The questions spilled from me, a cascade of confusion and suspicion that seemed to hover in the air between us.
"So many questions," Jeremiah mused, his response accompanied by a head shake that seemed to carry a mix of amusement and resignation. It was a reaction that did little to quell the rising tide of my frustration.
"Don't start that obedience bullshit with me, Jeremiah. You were the one who taught me to question everything," I asserted, my voice sharp, the tension between us escalating like a gathering storm. It was a tension born not just of the moment but of the years and experiences that lay between us, a complex tapestry of mentorship and camaraderie, now fraying at the edges.
Jeremiah's response was immediate and physical, his grip on my arm tightening in a manner that bordered on alarming. "What the hell! Have you gone mad?" I exclaimed, the shock of his action sparking a visceral reaction as I sought to free myself from his grasp. It was a moment that teetered on the edge of conflict, a precipice we had never before approached in our years of acquaintance.
"Luke Smith has been found. He's been given a Portal Key and has now activated it," Jeremiah revealed, his tone hushed and erratic, as if the words themselves were laden with danger. The revelation sent shockwaves through the foundations of my reality.
"What!" I erupted, the implications of this news reverberating through my being. "The Luke Smith? The one Clivilius has told us to watch for?" The question was rhetorical, a verbal manifestation of the turmoil that churned within me. The mention of Luke Smith, a name entwined with prophecies and warnings, was a harbinger of change, a signal that the fragile balance we had been struggling to maintain was about to be irrevocably altered.
Jeremiah's confirmation came with a grin, a simple affirmation that belied the complexity of the situation. "Yes." His smile, in the face of such monumental news, was disconcerting, yet it spoke volumes of his acceptance of the path that lay before us.
The gravity of the moment sank in, and with it, a shift in my demeanour. The confusion and suspicion that had clouded my thoughts gave way to a sense of purpose, a clarity that had been elusive until now. "Then it's time," I declared, the words a solemn vow, a commitment to the challenges that awaited us.
"Yes," Jeremiah agreed, his nod a silent echo of my resolve.
From the depths of my jacket pocket, I produced a small, white plastic card, its surface smooth and unassuming under the dim light. Handing it over to Jeremiah, I watched as his expression morphed from one of mild interest to outright curiosity. He turned the card over in his hands, inspecting it as if it might reveal its secrets through touch alone. "What's this?" he asked, his voice tinged with intrigue.
"It's an access card for Killerton Enterprises," I responded, the words hanging between us like a veiled promise. The card was more than a piece of plastic; it was a key to a door we had only speculated about, a piece of leverage in a game much larger than any we had played before.
Jeremiah's reaction was as swift as it was intense. "What? How did you get this?" he stammered, his composure momentarily slipping. The shock in his voice mirrored the weight of what I had just revealed.
"The how is not important," I deflected, unwilling to divulge the intricacies of my acquisition. The origins of the card were a shadowed path best left unexplored, at least for now.
Our stares locked, a silent exchange of caution and curiosity. “Have you seen the facility?” Jeremiah finally broke the silence, his question laced with a mixture of fear and fascination.
Dropping the bombshell, I admitted, "I've been inside.” The confession felt like a gamble, revealing a hand that could either save me or condemn me.
“What!” Jeremiah's exclamation was a mix of shock and concern. “You need to be careful. They'll kill you if you're found out,” he warned, his voice laden with the weight of implications my actions carried.
“No!” The volume of my shout surprised even me, a spontaneous burst of emotion that echoed our precarious situation. I quickly moderated my tone, seeking to soften the impact of my outburst. “It's not what you think,” I assured him, hinting at the layers of complexity that Killerton Enterprises harboured.
“What do you mean?” Jeremiah’s confusion was evident, his brow creasing as he struggled to align my revelations with his understanding of the world.
"Killerton Enterprises isn't what we thought. It can help us," I disclosed, a statement that bordered on the heretical given what we had been led to believe.
Jeremiah's disbelief was palpable, morphing into caution as he processed my words. "Help us? But Clivilius said..." his protest began, rooted in the teachings and prophecies that had guided us.
"I know what Clivilius said. But what if Clivilius was wrong?" I interjected, daring to question the infallibility of our guide. The suggestion was blasphemous, yet it was a seed of doubt that needed planting.
"Wrong?" Jeremiah echoed, the word foreign, almost unthinkable in the context of his beliefs. “Clivilius is never wrong.”
"Are you sure about that?" I pressed further, challenging the foundation of our faith. It was a pivotal moment, one that demanded we reevaluate our convictions in the face of new evidence. The access card to Killerton Enterprises was more than a tool; it was a symbol of the potential for change, for a path divergent from the one Clivilius had laid before us. In this exchange, fraught with tension and disbelief, lay the possibility of a new direction, one that required us to question everything we thought we knew.
The silence that followed my proposition hung heavy, a dense fog of contemplation and conflict enveloping Jeremiah. Seizing the momentary pause, I pressed on, the urgency of the situation lending weight to my words. "You need to get that to Luke," I urged, my finger directed at the access card as if it were a lifeline that could alter the course of our future.
Jeremiah’s reaction was immediate. "I don't think it's a good idea. This is treason you're talking," he insisted, his hand extending the card back towards me as if it were a live grenade. “If Killerton Enterprises doesn't kill you for this, Clivilius most certainly will.” His words were a stark reminder of the perilous tightrope I walked, yet my resolve remained unshaken.
Refusing to take the card back, I implored him, desperation threading through my voice. "Please, help me get this to Luke." It was a plea, a call to action that transcended our fears, anchored in a mutual understanding of what was at stake.
Jeremiah's response was a shake of his head, a gesture of resignation rather than refusal. "I'm not in a position to make contact with him," he admitted, his words spawning a sea of suspicion within me. The puzzle pieces didn't fit, the narrative he presented incomplete.
"But then how did you know..." I began, my query cut short by his interjection. "But you are," he declared, his hands pressing the card against my chest with a firmness that left no room for argument. The gesture, so definitive, so final, left me grappling for comprehension.
"I don't understand," I confessed, the confusion manifesting plainly upon my face. The situation, already mired in complexity, seemed to warp further with each revelation.
"Gladys Cramer," Jeremiah solemnly revealed, as if the name itself were a key to unlocking the enigma that lay before us.
"Gladys?" I echoed, the name stirring a mix of familiarity and bewilderment within me.
"Yes. Gladys knows Luke Smith very well." The simplicity with which he delivered this piece of information belied the magnitude of its implications.
Accepting the access card once more, a whirlpool of frustration and curiosity swirled within me. How had Jeremiah come by such critical information, information that had eluded my grasp? His hand, now resting reassuringly on my shoulder, seemed to anchor me amidst the storm of revelations. "Let me bring her to Clivilius, my dear friend. You need her," he spoke, his voice imbued with a certainty that brooked no argument.
Looking down at the access card in my hand, then back at Jeremiah, my features were a canvas of concern and determination. The path ahead was fraught with uncertainty, yet the decision was clear. "Okay," I conceded, the word carved from a resolve solidified in the crucible of our shared trials. "Let's do it."
