Human Contact: The Drake Project

Lady Liberty glowed bright, her copper skin vaporizing into the night. A mushroom cloud shot high above its expanding dome of energy, and New York City stripped down to its skeletal scaffolding before whisked away in a hurricane of debris. War, climate change, and one man had ended the world. Racing from this wave of destruction, the man fled a mob bent on revenge. As pigeon carcasses rained from heaven and sulfur rose from concrete fissures, he sprinted for the safety of a starry sky. A moment of clarity, and he skidded to a stop. Teetering on the precipice of a broken Brooklyn Bridge, his feet could go no farther. Forearms raised, he slowly turned to face the crowd.

Light– that space separating universe from dreamscape– tore open the sleeper’s eyes. At the center of a tiny room, muggy like a zoo’s reptile habitat, a stiff bed rolled Mason Drake onto his side. Raising his significant mass, he anchored his feet to the floor, nightmare-soaked head landing in his hands. Wheezing, he suddenly recoiled. Covered in a skintight fiber like shark skin, his legs felt wet. The once world famous celebrity, now tiptoeing along the edge of notoriety, searched to replace the singlet. There was nothing but teasing memories of a distant world, filled with chauffeurs, bellhops, and breakfast-in-bed.

He massaged his temples, thinking, Did I… fall asleep? God, everything hurts.

A cylindrical pillow and thin sheets sat bunched beneath a soaring black headboard. At the center perched a looming white pyramid. Encircled by sun rays, the all-seeing eye hovered in place of the capstone. Carved into the wall behind this image was the Celtic Tree of Life, its texture in motion like a living river.

Opposite this restless shrine, digital screens crowded with floods, wildfires, and skeletal deserts. A soundless banner declared, “Earth hits net zero!” Billowing geysers from towering smokestacks faded into livestreams of packed streets, beaches, and far-off village hideaways. Across the world, the breaking news rocketed humanity into wild celebrations. The catastrophe of global warming no longer cast its inevitable shadow. Although the milestone was hopeful, the man in bed lamented the decades of suffering already baked into Earth’s climate. The planet’s struggle was not over yet.

A metallic sound drew him to the only door, where stood a statuesque blonde with brilliant eyes. The woman smiled. Her hair, a golden deluge across square shoulders, swirled around a plunging v-neck. She had no insignia, no jewelry or cosmetics of any kind. Unlike Mason, she wore no tacky blue shirt, while her sleek bodysuit, gray like his, left no room for imagination.

With a hand on the door frame, she casually leaned towards him. Before a proper introduction, the man yanked the shirt as far from his chest as he could. Baby-blue thread shimmered as his words wove a fraying knot.

“These clothes… this bed… how’d I get here? What’d you do to me, and why’s it so goddamn hot? I can’t breathe!” Releasing his grip, the cloth poured like sand onto his belly.

She approached, her feet swaying in gentle arcs, her words dousing his flame in a rainy drizzle. “Senator Drake, we’ll address your concerns. But first, I have a proposal, and would only ask that you keep an open mind.”