Mauritania, Richatville, Western African France. On a red rock next to the Eye of Africa. AD 9121, August 20th. On the timeline. They stand, awaiting, in alphabetical order: Beatrice, Easter and Saturn.
Celebrating her 142nd Jubilee, Astarte dances, runs, jumps, sings, runs again, dances and, of course, has a few phrases to share with the compliant civilizations of the known universe. She speaks.
“My dear beloved humans, sons of Adam, sons of God,”
“My dear beloved titans, sons of Kronos, sons of God,”
“My dear beloved giants, sons of Kronos, sons of God,”
“My dear beloved hybrids,”
“Please allow me to thank you, from the very depths of my heart, for the kindness and understanding that you have manifested for me.”
“Yes, here I am, in front of your eyes, speaking at my 142nd Jubilee.”
“Peace rules upon Earth.”
“Peace rules across the Universe.”
“I am the mother of many, but my two, dearest ones, remain the same.”
“Right here, on your planet, I had given birth to my baby twins, human twins, Easter and Saturn. Today, 7100 years ago.”
“Putting our differences behind us, crafting safe borders around our territories, obeying the laws of mutual respect and tolerance, we are the living proof of lasting peace.”
“The Universe has become a better place because of our understanding. I thank you for that.”
“These few words being spoken, like every fifty years, as a token of gratitude for your patience, I put myself at your service, like I always did. Send your thoughts to me at firstname.lastname@example.org – Be blessed!”
Bending for a pebble, Beatrice studies it, on all sides, before throwing it towards the center of the eye. It won’t hit but the air and the glass, because Astarte has already beamed back to her Catholic Carousel above the North Pole. Where the real party takes place. “I don’t like what’s going on. Something is wrong. Really wrong.”
“We’re the only ones, aunt Beatrice, in total agreement with you.”
“Don’t forget, little brother, that our father used to be on our side too.”
“And where is Kronos now? Fucking that blue whore GULL, far away in the Asgard systems.”
“He couldn’t stand this stale comedy. He wished to live again. At least, the Asgardians carry their own wars. They fight, they struggle, they strive. Vibrating, aspiring, this is what I call living, this is why I don’t blame our father for running away.”
“How about mother Rebecca? No one has heard of her, for over seven thousand years. Do you find this to be a normal, expected, occurrence? Not dead, nor missing in action. Nothing.”
“March 14, 2029. 23:43 Zulu Time. Patrol Unit Delta Echo 39274 reports the sighting of a massive sprite. Coordinates of interest attached to the message. Request for orbiter and long range scanners data feeds. Request to open a case to study the new patterns discovered on the Lunar surface beneath the sprite.”
“This the well-known and long-forgotten Moonwatch report that only we, and few lunatics left, believe to have something to do with a lightning bridge to Jupiter and, yes, with Rebecca being transported by it, out to the penitentiary sub-system.”
“Everyone else, dear aunt Beatrice, is partying and celebrating everlasting peace. Why would anyone bother with our conspiracy theories, after all. They’ve got everything they wished for. Nothing to fear, nothing to dare.”
“Everything and nothing, the epitome of emptiness. God stopped answering my prayers centuries ago. All I can is dream of a better place. Not this one. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” says Easter.
“Ready to go,” replies Saturn.
All three of them beam down to Sheol, where Hades and Hera and Poseidon give their own parties and celebrations of universal peace. Where the anode is still bright, all through the last 9087 years. They head towards the pinnacle of the anode. In a blink, they’re gone. Out of this utopia.