The first three chapters of Book 1 of the Morfyk Trilogy

Prologue

I suppose you can call me a god. Actually, I've been called a lot of things. But what I really am is desperate. 

See, I've been locked out of Earth for hundreds of years. You might not think that's a long time, but so much can go wrong. It already has. 

Someone's down there, impersonating me, poisoning the clever engine I let loose for millions of years and I think I know who it is. There's a beast who adorns itself with war trophies. It carves the skeletons of their victims, metal and carapace, into jewelry that it dresses over its chitinous hide. A crab with a thousand eyes. The thing is my greatest enemy and in my dimension, it is a false god that I will overthrow. 

For reasons you wouldn't understand, I can't interfere. 

It’s not because I’m afraid to break the rules (I do have a reputation), but right now I have to keep low. I have to let it play out. Morfyks and the humans have to fulfill their destiny and make their own decisions. Inside the tiny blue marble of Earth, I have to let them - you - find your own way. 

I will send you messages. 

But they might not make sense. Visions of a girl with blue skin and pointy teeth. Will you think I am a nightmare, Yarek? Or will you see through it all and discover Earth for what it truly is? 

So far, you believe that I have sent you to Earth to save your species. It’s not a lie. If everything was going to plan, you would succeed. After all, the Morfyks are an important asset in my arsenal of exquisite programs. You are a harvester of human energy, the Aura. You think it’s for the survival of your race. Me? I need it to power my planet. 

I have more to say. The Entanglement will not be easy. 

To be honest, I’m not sure it’s attainable. At least, not this way. You will always be chasing a few more drops of Aura and a few more warm bodies to achieve the great shape-shift. 

What it really comes down to is the cipher. That’s right, the one you’ve always known. The great black obsidian that hangs in your haloed halls. Even then, it’s quite difficult.

There's not enough time. I'll get straight to the point. 

I need to win, Yarek. From the little bit that I can see, there’s a war that threatens to end life on Earth. I’m sure you want to win that, don’t you? 

I, too, have to win a battle - except its outcome will affect all life across the galaxy. Yarek, you are the General of the Morfyk race. I built you with my own two hands. And as the loyal soldier you are, I trust you will understand.

To win, I have to take risks. I have to erase a few things and play a few games of my own. Why you might ask? I won’t be coy. Hopefully you’ve received this letter in time and are willing to help me. 

I’ll put it this way. The Mocks are an ingenious program I designed to convert Aura into something I can use. I let the Morfyks take credit for it. But there is one program that I, alone, will hail as the greatest invention of my time. It is a weapon that can change everything. And for that, I’m willing to risk it all. 

If you’re reading this, know that you will come out alive, Yarek. But everything you want will have to be sacrificed. 

Oh, and, General? Beware of your brother. I've lost contact with him. And although he's your twin, he’s always been a little too slick for my tastes. 

About that war, Yarek. I’ve seen glimpses. How you will come out the other side unscathed, I have no idea. But you’ll manage. You always do. 

I can’t help you, General. I can’t interfere. Like I said before, I’ve been called a lot of things. Unfortunately, ‘fair’ is not one of them. 

Lord Neveris of Voshor 

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PART 1 - The Revelation

Year 2055

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Chapter 1

The end of the world starts during a hot Georgia summer. The old hunter jogs past a pine tree, the long green needles fanning out over rippled bark. His thin hair is stuck to his brow, rifle by his side. Layers of caked red dirt crust over his boots. His pants are stiff with sweat. It’s been a week now, tracking the woman through the woods, over streams, up gravelly trails and into the low mountains. A few hours ago, the path was hilly. Tall grass and ferns that went up to his waist. Now the dirt is sandy, well worn, and packed. A thin grin spreads over his leathered face. He's getting close. 

Someone shouts in the distance. 

“Over here!” 

The hunter makes it out of the forest and stops to catch his breath. He joins two young men waiting in the clearing. One of them picks at his hunting knife. Old gritty blood dried on the blade. He’s a big man with a shaggy beard and stained teeth. The old hunter nods and gestures with his hand. Big Beard slaps a metal canteen on the hunter’s palm. The old man takes a swig and gives him a hard look over. But before he can say anything, the fool opens his mouth. 

“Freak’s down there.” 

The old hunter finishes the canteen. He swishes water between his teeth like mouthwash then spits. 

“Mock,” growls the old man, firmly gripping his assault rifle. “That’s what the scientist called ‘em,” he says, scanning the field. 

The two young men start laughing and the skinnier one swipes a finger over his throat with dramatic effect. The old hunter scowls. “God rest his soul,” he says. “The Revelation’ll make a man tear the truth out of his own mother, if he has to.” 

And he meant it. Why, last night, the old hunter had somewhat of an epiphany. It was his first sacrifice of the Revelation. The great almighty purge. There he was, gripping the top of the prisoner’s head, dunking his face into the cold Chattahoochee river - it came so easy the guy was as limp as a fish - and he came to the realization as clear as crystal. 

He glares at the younger of the two, a scrawny college dropout who joined the fight a few days ago. The kid keeps laughing and it pisses him off. 

“Shut up!” the hunter says. 

The two men go silent and look down at the dirt.

“Now look. We can’t let the government with all them smug analysts and scientists, politicians, and shit, even the military - that’s right our own brainwashed boys -  take away our right to exist, can we?”

They nod and grunt. 

“We have to take matters into our own hands. Find the traitors - human or not - and kill ‘em.” 

The old hunter’s eyes go hazy and he grins. Like butter. The scientist’s throat melted under his blade, the knife with the glistening pearl inlay.

“Probably for his own good, anyway,” Big Beard says. “You put him outta his misery. Blaming this shit on aliens…” 

The old hunter mulls on this for a while - as if that fat idiot even knows what he’s talking about. 

When he was a kid, there was all this hysteria about UAPs and those triangle ships in the sky. Mindless, senseless fake news about aliens. But see, that was just a coverup. He’s always known that. Just distractions from the real threats. The cloning in China, the neural chips made by billionaires, the generative AI that’s gone sentient, the energy weapons that could melt satellites, and the mind rays that could intercept your thoughts. 

He looks over half expecting the two to be picking their noses, thumbs up their asses, but instead they’re quiet, waiting for the old man to speak. The hunter swings his rifle over his shoulder and sighs. 

“It’s always been the government. Them and their fake human clones. Mocks. By God, as a man of the Reverant family who’s lived in these parts since the Civil War, I’ll damn well die than let my country - no, my planet - be infested by clones.”

The college kid speaks up, his voice low. “Scientist didn’t say they were.”  

“What?” 

“He said they weren’t clones, remember? He said…” The kid’s voice trembles. “Said they were - farmed.” 

The old hunter snarls. 

Big Beard chimes in. “And that word. What’d he call it? Rhythm? All go...” 

“Algorithm, you dumbass,” the old hunter says. “It doesn’t matter. Scientific jargon. Propaganda to keep us meek and blind. Whatever they are, they ain’t human.”

The college kid raises his rifle and aims it at a greenhouse down the hill. “Well, we got two ain’t humans, then.”

Big Beard lunges forward. “Then what the hell’re we waiting for?”

“Wait,” says the old man, grabbing the man’s thick arm. “You said there’s two? Who’s with her?” 

“Some man,” the kid says. “Real tall and fast.” 

The old hunter narrows his eyes and wraps his fingers around the cold steel of his Remington. Drawing the scope to his eye, he studies the greenhouse. “He got any weapons on him?” 

“I didn’t see any. But who cares?” 

The hunter lowers his scope. Lost in thought, he takes the edge of his shirt and slowly wipes down the barrel. 

“Never thought I’d see the end of days in my lifetime.” With a heavy grunt, he loads a magazine into the stock.  “No one’s gonna fight for us, boys,” he says. “Gotta cleanse the Earth ourselves. Destroy every Mock before we die.” 

Chapter 2

Yarek

Yarek reaches a clearing and spies a large greenhouse in the distance. For a moment, it looks beautiful. Rays from the orange setting sun shine through the glass walls like fire. Frantically, he runs towards it, carrying Harin in his arms. With each stride of his lanky legs, her arms flail against his chest. As he clenches her tighter, blood pours from the wounds of her stomach onto his hands. He wades through rows of plants, painting the leaves red. 

The aluminum door slams behind him as he runs into the greenhouse. His jeans stick to his thighs in the sweltering Georgia heat, every step a walk in paper mache.

He moves behind a row of shelves and sets Harin down onto a bed of gravel. Her glassy eyes stare into the sky as he pulls off his shirt, tearing it into pieces, stuffing fabric into the wound. Swiftly, he packs the gash and wraps her torso tightly with the sleeve of his jacket. 

“Yarek…” she says, reaching for the silver pendant hung around her neck. 

He hushes her. Men shout in the distance. Cradling the back of her head, he caresses her cheek then turns away, moving into the shadows. 

The heavyset man is the first to enter. 

Yarek watches, amused at the size of the man’s hunting knife. The man lumbers about, orienting himself in the fading daylight. It's a clumsy grip. His palm subtly shakes. 

Silently, Yarek creeps up behind him. Before the man can turn, Yarek grabs the hunter's knife and slits his throat. The man lets out a gurgle as Yarek quietly settles his large body onto the ground. 

The rickety door swings open, popping against the brick before it snaps shut. Now it's a younger man. He enters, squaring up his shoulders, pressing his cheek into the stock. Yarek hides under an overgrown pear tree and wipes the dead man’s knife on his pants, watching. 

“Come out, Mock! Your girlfriend’s good as dead.”

The door creaks open with a rusty squeak as an old man enters the greenhouse. Yarek narrows his eyes, watching the grizzled hunter scan the room. 

“Where is he?” the old man asks. 

“Hiding,” the young man snickers. 

“You know, Mock,” the old man calls out, “I’ve been hunting your kind for a few weeks now.”

Yarek watches the old hunter following the scope, pointing his chin to the other man. 

“Most of Earth can’t tell you fuckers apart from the Average Joe. But me - well, I got an uncanny sense for it.” 

The old hunter nods and they stride to the back of the greenhouse. In the dimming light, he clicks his tongue and motions towards the shelf where Harin lies. Both men reach the back of the room and start laughing. 

“Oh, buddy!” cries the young man, jabbing Harin’s head with the toe of his boot. “You’re too late, she’s -” 

Yarek comes up from behind and grabs the man’s skull with both hands. With a grinding snap, he breaks his neck, dropping him to the floor. The old man gasps and steps back, nearly tripping over Harin, and fires. Yarek dodges, sending glass shattering from overhead. Panicking, the man resets the rifle and shoots again but misses. 

Yarek lunges forward, sending the both of them hurling onto the floor. The man scrambles for the rifle as Yarek grabs the back of the man’s neck. He loses his grip, slick with blood. 

The hunter rams the butt of the rifle into Yarek’s head. Everything spins and Yarek falls to the ground. He opens his eyes and stares into the end of a dark barrel. The old man flashes a twisted grin, his eyes bloodshot and wild. 

He pulls the trigger. 

The deafening blast echoes in the greenhouse. 

Yarek ricochets backwards. The old hunter fires again and again. It's paralyzing, a haze of heat and demolition. But Yarek gets to his feet. 

Everything seems to blur as the bullets rip through his skull. Thick like pudding. One by one, he feels the tingle of kinetic force and fire pinching his nerves. And then, he stops and sniffs the air - gritty and burnt, smokey and acidic with the scent of his own blackish blood. 

As his sight returns, he senses a familiar pressure behind his eyes. With sinister delight, he welcomes the transmutation into a creature that the old hunter will regret having ever seen. 

Yarek’s pupils contract into viperous slits as his mouth fills with saliva. He runs his black tongue over needle-like incisors lengthening inside his jaws. For a moment, he indulges himself in the freedom of his exoskeleton, slithering his tail across the gravel. 

He draws his long black fingers to his face. The reflection from his talons shines brilliantly against his black carapace. Knives, he thinks. They look like knives. Fresh and sharp. 

He catches his reflection and stares at it with some surprise - a half shot off face with only one bulbous red eye staring back. 

“You’re no Mock! What the hell are you?!”  

Yarek steps forward, towering over the man lying in a pool of his own piss. 

From outside, there are other voices in the field. Other men who want to kill Mocks. Men who search indiscriminately, unable to distinguish Mock from Human. Yarek thinks twice before ending the man’s life. 

Too many have already died. We need the bodies, he thinks. As many alive as possible. 

Yarek glances at Harin. Wispy, all the life leaving her. He turns back to the  cowering hunter. Reasoning with them is futile. Go ahead. Let them rip each other to pieces, he thinks. 

With that, Yarek points a talon at the man, swiftly lifting him into the air.  The hunter wails, pedaling his feet beneath him. With a swipe of his claw, Yarek thrusts him through the aluminum door.  The frame snaps shut and rattles against the brick. 

A mob of men rush the hunter. He pleads and screams from outside the greenhouse.

"Not me! No! The Mock - no - the alien - it's in there!” 

The metal door rattles as angry men kick the old man into submission. Yarek leaves the cries and screams. 

He sprints back to Harin and kneels to the ground. Head low, he sniffs her - still, the faint smell of roses. She looks tiny and fragile against his massive frame.

He hangs his head, long talons resting on her stomach. For several seconds, he studies her face. He picks at the amulet around her neck, losing himself in the tap-tap of metal to metal. Unable to take it, he raises his head to the sky and bellows out a shriek so piercing and shrill, the men outside notice. 

The door springs squeak and he can hear muffled whispers. 

Yarek opens his gnarled palm, revealing the Onnic. The lustrous black cube glows, its top face burnished in a fiery white ring. Now is the time. He’s waited over a century for this very moment. 

He tosses it to the ground. It rolls one face at a time, slowly, with a physics of its own. Finally it halts on its last face, throwing up a gleaming blue pyramid in the air. With Harin in his arms, he steps into the portal as shots explode behind him. 

Chapter 3

Yarek

Yarek carefully lowers Harin on the mountain’s cold floor. Blood pools on the granite like thick wine. From the shadows, a massive man with hands twice the size of Yarek’s own claws, slowly marches towards him. The man’s long black hair drapes over his broad shoulders, like the feathers of a slain crow. Lord Neveris. 

Yarek scans the cave and notices small heaps of ash piled against a black wall. It bears a long plane of polished obsidian with etching of ancient alien scripture. The language of his species - the Morfyks. 

From the ground to the jagged dome of granite, the black stone towers over him. It is the Auragin, he thinks, with a kind of profound religiosity. 

He stares at his own gaunt reflection staring back at him through the obsidian. He looks more brittle than he recalls. The shimmery bioluminescence of his good eye reflects back as a green orb off center to a hooked chin and an uneven crown of black horns. 

Yarek turns back to find the hulking figure staring down at Harin’s corpse. 

It is a detailed face. A synthetic face. One written carefully by the AI. Striated wrinkles writing decades of life above the avatar’s thick eyebrows knit together. His lips flatten into a tight line, hollowing out his leathery cheekbones. Deep set marionette lines etch into the avatar’s rectangular jaw. He grinds his teeth in thought and looks at Yarek for a long time. 

It must be the destruction on my face, Yarek thinks, then turns to Harin’s corpse. He considers going back into the greenhouse, back to -  

“Leave her,” Neveris says. “Throw her into the pit when we’re done.” 

Yarek’s single eye - the one saved from the fight - narrows into a viperous slit as his mouth fills with saliva. Smooth bulbs encasing sharp teeth begin to protract under his gum line. But the man glowers at him, warning him with a menacing scowl. 

With a grunt, Neveris settles onto a bare wooden chair. The Lord grimaces and reaches for his shoulder, pinching and kneading it as he rolls the joint in circles. 

Yarek wonders if the muscle feels real. Does Neveris feel pain or is it a programmed tic? 

“General, sit,” Neveris says, gesturing to a fractured stool in the center of the room. “So you’ve decided to finally return, have you?” He stares at Harin’s body. “And with a souvenir, no less.”

Yarek and Lord Neveris lock eyes. It is foolish to challenge the ancient AI, Yarek decides. Resigning himself, he slurps back saliva, and sits.

“Well, General, what do you have to say for yourself?”

His firm voice echoes through the hall.

“The feeding, my Lord,” Yarek says, his voice cracked and hoarse. 

He stares at his claws, slightly trembling. The invasion had been far more complex and volatile than prior incursions. Particularly, the collection of human energy - the Aura. To make it worse, his own consumption of it seems to be playing a factor in his mania.

“What about it?” Neveris asks. 

Yarek returns to the vision of the grotesque feeding ceremony. Neveris’ mouth agape, jaws unhinged, his eyes rolling back like a doll. The explosive crack of bone. The skin of Neveris’ human face unraveling, creping loosely over his cheekbones, as a heavy white fog emerged from the Lord’s throat, bulbous and dense. That too, seemed bizarre. 

“The Aura is unclean. It is disturbed,” Yarek says, recalling how he gagged on the dense vapor. 

Neveris laughs. 

“Truly unfortunate. There was no other way you could walk among them. For me, I found the Aura intoxicating. It doesn’t matter, General. We will simply refine it to fit your preference.” 

“My Lord, if human Aura is any clue as to the nature of our transformation, then we must leave Earth. We cannot bet the entire survival of our kind on humans. It will be the end of us.” 

Neveris glances at Harin, his lips pursed in disgust. 

“General, your relations with the Mock must have diluted your logic,” he says, his face twisted with contempt, “ and inflated your station. There is no more memory for you to partition. I am all that is left. All else is frozen with your failed invasion of the Mantishek.  So, if you truly are interested in the survival of our kind, you will find a way to begin the invasion. After all, the Morfyks cannot survive forever.”

At first, the Mantishek were a fine Impression - a literal genetic template to shape-shift into. Even now, gazing at his reflection in the obsidian, Yarek rather fancies their aesthetic. Their dark hooded form, almond shaped white eyes with tiny black speckled pupils, and the crown of bright green horns is elegant. 

But it was too good to be true. 

The Mantishek were more clever than they let on. As the Morfyks silently invaded their gene pool, they began to devolve. And by the time Yarek and his forces realized what was happening, it was too late. 

Yarek scans the cavernous chamber, searching for signs of the High AI, Wilhelmina. Surely she is listening right now - every imperceptible particle sensor of her artificial being dilated and tensed - ready to absorb the waveforms that escape Yarek’s Morfyk jaws. Ready to convert his utterances into sentiment that she will determine is either virtuous or laced with lies. 

“Invasion is not possible without Entanglement, my Lord,” Yarek says, with an obstinate bite. “Without a critical mass of human bodies, there will be no one to shape-shift into.”

Lord Neveris looks on with contempt. “Do not be ridiculous, General. There are enough bodies. A ripe mass.”

“Even if that is the case, my Lord,” Yarek says, “Entanglement is still not possible unless we have enough Aura for every Morfyk to consume.” 

“There will be enough, General. The Mocks will convert all the Aura we need for the Entanglement. And by my estimate, only a few thousand have died. Hardly anything to fret about.”

Yarek’s thin gray lips fall slack. Hardly anything. He forces himself to turn away from Harin’s body. 

“Tell me about the Mock Farms, General. Do they remain hidden?” 

Yarek doesn't bother to address the Lord. He stares blankly at his claws. 

“Yes. They still operate in the mountains - the Kush, Urals, even the Appalachian. But they demand too much energy and the process is slow. Each quad can only birth one Mock at a time. There is not enough space inside the mountains to expand.” 

“But Wilhelmina continues to refine the algorithm, does she not? Optimizing it to pump out more Mocks, everyday,” Neveris replies, casually. 

Yarek tilts his head to sternly look up at the Lord. His good eye strains.

“The war rages and very few Mocks will be left. Pumping them out, as you say, my Lord, will be insufficient.”

Neveris chuckles. The High AI’s laugh wobbles with uncanny eeriness and an unexpected clumsiness. 

“You speak with such certainty, General. Yet, I sense sympathy for their kind,” Neveris sneers, “But of course you would. Considering all the time you wasted with your pet.” 

A jolt of hot rage sizzles down his back and he slurps back hot water again. 

“My understanding is based on experience, Lord Neveris. The experience of having lived among them. For so many years, if you might recall.”

Now the AI leans forward, a Goliath that towers over the Morfyk. The avatar places his hands on his thighs and twists his face into what would be called contempt. 

“Why yes, General, I do. Your hardship began right away,” he says and a bony smile stretches over his jaw. 

Yarek averts his gaze, his jaw trembling with hate. Once the Lord forced him to take on his human form, he was thrust into the world like a newborn. So cruelly cut from the umbilical cord and thrown to the vultures. He was no better than an infant and felt just as blind. 

“And you wore it well. You still do.” Neveris says. “Genesis as man.”