Quin, suffering from total amnesia, slowly discovers himself possessed of inexplicable abilities as his world expands...

Quin's Abduction


Part VII - The Man Who Wasn't from Earth

IT WAS, FOR LACK OF A BETTER TERM, EVENING IN THE LEISURE ROOM, and Dagmar was conducting one of her experiments on the whole group.


‘Okay, Quin,’ my Norwegian lover smiled at me warmly. ‘Describe a house.’


‘What’s the point of this?’ Marion objected sourly, swinging her legs restlessly off the arm of the comfy chair she sat in on top of Baz.


‘You’re the only one who remembers anything about Earth, Marion – ’ Dagmar began patiently.


‘Yeah, and don’t I wish I didn’t!’


Dagmar inclined her flaxen-haired head, acknowledging the other woman’s point. ‘But the rest of us are still clueless about our origins. I’ve been here a year now, Baz three, and Quin nearly five. I’m trying to find a way to circumvent our amnesia. Quin, a house, if you please.’


‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up,’ I sighed. ‘Trudie remembered hardly anything in over a hundred years.’ Then I described, as asked, the image that appeared in my mind’s eye when I heard the word house.


Dagmar scribbled down some notes. ‘Thanks, dear. Now you please, Baz.’


The big man sucked in his breath, but before he could begin, Dagmar frowned and shook her head furiously. ‘No, this isn’t right,’ she muttered to herself, holding up her hand to signal for Baz to stop. ‘Confirmation bias...Quin’s answer may have influenced you.’


‘That loser?’ Baz said lightly. ‘No way.’


‘Go count your biceps,’ I retorted, ‘if you can count that far.’


‘Tell you what we’ll do,’ said Dagmar, ignoring us both. ‘Baz, you go into the nature room, out of earshot. We’ll choose another word.’ She frowned for a moment, then she scribbled something down, and when she had finished, she asked me to describe exactly what I imagined when she said the word car.


I found myself describing a sleek yellow sports car, possibly a Lotus Esprit.


‘Hmmm...interesting,’ Dagmar mused, noting it down. ‘Call Baz back in here, would you please, Marion?’ Dagmar never seemed to want to raise her voice.


‘Baz,’ Marion hollered with zero enthusiasm. As always, Baz came running obediently as soon as she called, that look of vapid adoration on his face. ‘Dagmar wants you to describe a car now,’ she added in a voice that was scarcely more than a mumble.


Baz described what sounded like an old Volvo Estate. All of us had chosen different colours.


‘Okay, my hypothesis is, the image in your mind’s eye is the most significant car from your life on Earth. Quin pictures a yellow sports car, Baz sees a...a practical family saloon vehicle, mauve in colour...’

‘Not exactly the big time, was it, Bazzer?’ I quipped.


‘Kiss my stone hard ass, punk.’


‘What about you, Dagmar?’ I asked her curiously.


‘A green mini,’ Dagmar shrugged. ‘Looks like you might have been the one with all the cash, Caruso,’ she added playfully.


‘I could have told you that myself,’ Marion said darkly.


‘Marion, please,’ I groaned. ‘Don’t start all that up again. It can’t have been me you...met...that time on Earth. How many times?’


‘It was you,’ insisted the former Hollywood starlet. ‘And I can think of at least five reasons to think so...Quin.’


‘Will you ever let that go? The quins were a coincidence, for god’s sake!’


‘You still believe in coincidence, do you...H?’ Marion shook her head in disgust.


‘Babe, this never leads anywhere,’ said Baz quietly. Incredibly, I had always thought since they had got together a few dozen sleeps after the quins had been abducted, Baz was sympathetic to my position and had remained oddly neutral throughout all Marion’s early, nightmarish stages of rage, bitterness and blame.


‘Why don’t I get the guitar out?’ I said into the uncomfortable silence that followed.


We were all seated in a semicircle facing the varnished, wooden coffee table with the strange, white sphere in the centre. As the hundreds of sleeps had rolled by and we had adjusted to our insular lives and our tiny world, ‘song time’ had become a regular and important feature in all our lives. It was usually me who did the singing, invariably accompanied by the shabby old guitar which I had resurrected and which I had grown quite proficient on. More recently, Dagmar had started joining in and had revealed an impressive talent for vocal harmony and counterpoints; it had been the very catalyst for our physical intimacy.


We tended to dress up for these social evenings – it would have been a waste never to use some of the sumptuous clothes which the cage provided. Marion always looked stunning no matter what she was wearing, and when she put on one of her favourite velvety evening gowns that seemed to fit her perfectly, she seemed to transform from California beach babe into medieval regality (until she opened her mouth, of course). Baz always looked sharp in one of the three or four tuxedos which were the only things available that fit his bulky frame comfortably, but together it made him and Marion look like an almost comically mismatched couple. Dagmar, although she spoke and behaved like a scientist, all cool-headed logic and rationality, dressed somewhat like a slightly aging hippy chick in sarongs and kaftans, and she tended to wear her long blonde hair braided elaborately around her head. My own tastes ran to check-patterned shirts and trousers – often black-and-white, but sometimes prime colours too, depending on my mood. Marion caustically liked to inform me from quite early on that my choice of clothing was strikingly reminiscent of when she had encountered me back on Earth. For a while, I had avoided such styles as a result of this, but that hadn’t lasted long. Now I wore such clothes almost constantly as a badge of my unspoken defiance. I was who I was, and was not prepared to be emotionally manipulated by The Girl Who Didn’t Forget any longer.


That role had (rather conveniently) fallen to Baz.


So, there we were on that evening, all resplendently garbed in our ‘Sunday’ best, so to speak, and I was again exploring my strangely extensive musical repertoire with a particularly feel-good rendition of David Bowie’s ‘Starman’ in which I had managed to get everyone singing along to the chorus, when the white sphere suddenly started glowing brightly.


We all stopped singing and playing and stared at the mysterious globe in astonishment. No-one had ever shown the slightest bit of interest in my tales of what I had managed to get the sphere to do in my earliest days here, they hadn’t even been skeptical as such, it was more like getting anyone to pay any attention to it at all seemed impossible; they just weren’t interested.


I approached the sphere cautiously, as wary of its intense, bone-jarring cold as I had been the day I last dared to touch it some fifteen hundred sleeps ago. Dagmar reached out with a curious finger, but I slapped it away. ‘You don’t want to touch it,’ I assured everyone. ‘It’s really, really cold.’


‘Weird,’ Marion frowned. ‘You’ve mentioned this thing before, haven’t you, Quin? What was it you said...?’


The Girl Who Didn’t Forget has forgotten, I said to myself. How intriguing.


The white sphere flared into incandescence for a brief moment. As it shone, a rich and mellifluous voice said as if it was in the room with us, ‘I’m in the quarantine room.’ Then the luminescence flickered and went out.


The four of us exchanged brief glances of astonishment, then bolted for the quarantine room.


What we saw when we got there was not what any of us expected.

There was a man in the quarantine room, but that was not what surprised us. It was the fact that he was fully clothed, dressed in a plain brown suede jacket and brown corduroy trousers, a neat little leather briefcase at his side. Furthermore, he did not seem to be in any distress at all. Instead, he was just sat in the centre of the room on what appeared to be a small fold-up stool. He was a stocky man, perhaps in his mid forties, with thinning hair in a widow’s peak and a neat, dark beard strikingly contrasted by a silvery-white moustache that extended down to his chin. Even from out in the corridor, it was clear to see how his eyes seemed to glitter with a deep inner light as he watched up approach.


The others tended to defer to me in matters concerning our incarceration, because I had been here the longest, and so it was I who stepped up to the translucent wall and faced the strange man.


‘Apologies for interrupting your very creditable cover of Starman,’ the man said in an oddly-accented voice before I could speak. ‘You’re wasted cooped up in here, sir,’ he added.


We all just stared at him, too stunned to voice the questions we all had in our minds.


‘But I was getting a tad bored, you see. I had to get your attention somehow. Don’t you people ever come up here?’


I looked over my shoulder and pointed in the direction of the leisure room. ‘Did you do that?’ I asked him in a stunned voice.


‘Well, can you blame me? I’ve been sat here for the past two days waiting for one of you to swing by and notice I was here.’ He stood up and folded his little stool, putting it back in his briefcase.


How did you do that?’ I almost shouted.


‘That explanation wouldn’t make much sense to you right now,’ the man explained. ‘Now, I imagine you’re wondering why I don’t quite fit the profile of people who end up here.’


‘Well, you’re dressed, for a start,’ Baz put in. Beside him, Marion was staring wide-eyed at the newcomer. She tugged at Baz’s sleeve. ‘I think I’ve seen him before,’ she hissed.


‘You think you’ve seen everyone before,’ I shot back at her irritably. ‘Funny how no-one recognises you though, even though you’re supposed to be famous.’


Marion glared at me, but said nothing.


‘Marion Tent!’ the man exclaimed then in surprise, peering through the transparent wall at the young woman. ‘Well, well, well. So this is where you ended up. I had my suspicions, mind you. The usual media monkeys made a terrible hash of covering your supposed overdose. Holes in the story a mile wide. Terribly unprofessional. Not that anyone except the usual socially challenged keyboard warriors noticed, of course...’


Marion’s eyes widened, but still she kept her mouth shut, almost as if she was afraid to say what she was thinking.


His movements were indescribably graceful as he rambled on, gliding serenely around the cage, his steps smooth and unhurried, untainted by even the slightest impression of malaise. It was almost as if he had been born and raised in this blank, featureless room.


He stopped pacing and looked up. ‘Clothes. Yes, I’m wearing them. Well spotted, that man.’


‘Quin,’ Dagmar breathed quietly beside me. ‘He seems to be messing with us. He is clothed, he remembers things, he’s not afraid. He could be one of the ones responsible for us being here. Be careful.’


The man turned slowly to face her. ‘What? Oh,’ he exclaimed. ‘No, no, no. That isn’t it at all. You should have heard me when I got here. Bloody furious with myself, I was. Sheer carelessness on my part, that’s why I’m here.’ He shrugged. Opening up his briefcase, pulled out his stool, unfolded it, and sat on it again. ‘Okay. You have every reason to be wary, but I got here the same way as you did. I’ve been abducted.’ His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘I hope the lads never find out about this, I’ll never live it down,’ he added under his breath.


‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.


‘My name is Gabriel,’ the man introduced himself. Then he took a deep breath, and said, ‘I’m here all clothed and clued up because...I’m not from Earth.’


Gabriel’s proclamation was met with looks and exclamations of extreme skepticism and even scorn from Baz and Dagmar. But my breath caught in my throat. ‘You’re a non-Earth human?’ I said, somewhere between a question and a statement.


‘A good voice and an open mind,’ Gabriel beamed at me. ‘My kind of guy. Room for improvement on the guitar though.’


‘Quin, come on,’ Dagmar urged through clenched teeth. ‘He appears in the middle of Starman and then he says he’s not from Earth. Suspicious much?’


I ignored her, something which I very rarely did. ‘You’re not the first non-earth human I’ve met,’ I said slowly to Gabriel.


‘Why does that not surprise me,’ he replied. ‘There has to be a reason why the Program isn’t working on you.’


‘What Program?’


‘The Program that requires Earth humans to view any talk of extraterrestrials with profound doubt and even ridicule. It’s one of the effects of the AMD. The Archontic Morphic Distortion, that is.’


‘Who is this guy? What is he talking about?’ Dagmar exclaimed, her face uncharacteristically twisted in displeasure.


I held up my hand. ‘Wait!’ I said intensely. ‘I’ve heard this kind of stuff before. At the Humans’ Picnic - ’


‘Oh jeez, not that again,’ Baz sighed.


Gabriel was looking at me and frowning thoughtfully. ‘The Humans’ Picnic? Now that’s something I don’t know anything about. Tell me more.’


I told him about my few days running wild with other abductees. When I got to the part about the Festival and the Lizard Kinks, Gabriel gasped and nearly fell off his chair in surprise.


‘You saw that?’ he exclaimed. ‘How?’


My heart leapt. ‘You know about that?’


Know about it? I helped to organise it!’ Gabriel said excitedly. He stood up again and walked up to the wall, apparently wanting to get a closer look at me. ‘Where are you from, I wonder?’ he murmured at me curiously.


‘We’d better get you out of here,’ I said suddenly, stepping towards the release panel. Baz gripped my shoulder and pulled me back, gently but firmly. ‘Ah-ah-ah,’ he rumbled in his deep voice. ‘I reckon we need to get to the bottom of this first.’


‘You said you weren’t from Earth. So where are you from?’ I demanded.


Gabriel sighed. ‘I’m from a system called Alcyone, although I have been on Earth for a long time.’


‘You’re a Pleiadian,’ Marion piped up. ‘I knew it,’ she added under her breath.


‘Much of what you Californians think you know about the Pleiades is bunk, and the term these days is heavily laden with New Age baggage – by design, I might add – but yes, I suppose you could describe me as a Pleiadian.’


Dagmar’s grip on my arm tightened uncomfortably.


‘You know who I am,’ Marion added quietly. It wasn’t a question.

‘Yes, Mari, I know exactly who you are. Curious that you know who you are, though. But I have no intention of making a big deal about it.’


Marion’s face went deathly pale at the mention of the name Mari; a name she had mentioned before as one of her alter-egos.


‘What’s he talking about, Marion?’ said Baz.


‘None of your goddamn business!’ Marion flared.


Baz turned and slammed his fist into the wall. ‘This is totally weirding me out,’ he growled. ‘Keep your business, I’m out of here.’ And he stormed off.


‘So I take it you haven’t lost your memory either,’ I said to Gabriel.


‘Correct. As a Pleiadian with work to do on Earth, I am not subject to the Quarantine.’


‘If you’re not subject to the quarantine, why are you stuck in the quarantine room?’ Dagmar asked pointedly.


Gabriel looked around the blank cell that still incarcerated him, a little sheepishly. ‘I’m talking about a different quarantine,’ he explained. ‘This room is just the quarantine of the Macrobes that have abducted us. The Quarantine is something else. It’s a field that surrounds the Earth prohibiting unauthorised access to or from the planet.’


‘Aw, what nonsense!’ Dagmar retorted with heavy scorn.


‘And that,’ Gabriel smiled, ‘is an excellent example of the AMD Program doing its job.’


‘Wait a minute! You gave a name to the things that have abducted us...’ I said intensely.


‘The Macrobes? Yes, I’d rather not think about that. I must be the first Pleiadian to be abducted by a Macrobe for thousands of years. Really embarrassing.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘When we get out of here, if anyone asks, I came here specifically to rescue you. Okay?’


We stood in stunned silence for a long moment as the implications of his words sank in. ‘You can get us out of here?’ I asked, my voice shaking.


Gabriel shrugged and indicated his blank cell. ‘Sure. If you can get me out of here.



Several minutes later, Gabriel was with us in the leisure room, staring thoughtfully at the white sphere which has heralded his arrival.


‘So that’s why I ended up here instead of Merope,’ he murmured to himself. ‘But it still would have had to...’ he broke off and looked around at the three of us (Baz was still off sulking somewhere). ‘What is this place doing with an Omnisidian? What in the name of the Entelachy is it doing here? There’s something very strange about all this.’


‘You know what it is?’ My heart was beating at double speed with excitement. This man who claimed to be from the Pleiades seemed to have all the answers I had yearned for.


‘Of course I do. It’s an Omnisidian. Pleiadian technology. And it’s a long way from where it should be...’ he reached out and stroked the white sphere gently, his expression deeply thoughtful. ‘Some sort of time distortion maybe...’ he looked up again. ‘You Earthlings shouldn’t have even noticed it was here. The Macrobes obviously haven’t. Unless...have any of you touched it?’


‘I did, a couple of times,’ I admitted. ‘But it must have been a few years ago now, soon after I got here.’


Gabriel’s eyes seemed to bore into me. ‘It should have snatched away any Earthling’s mind completely. Yet it clearly didn’t. Who are you, Quin?’

Dagmar and Marion both cocked their ears to one side as if they had heard something odd.


‘It did hurt. A lot,’ I admitted. ‘That’s why I never touched it again after the second time. As to who I am, I’m hoping you might be able to help me there.’


Gabriel grew very still. ‘I just asked that last question in an ancient Alcyone tongue, and you answered me perfectly. How curious.’ He took a step closer to me, seeming to scrutinise the air around my head. ‘You’re not lying, at least,’ he breathed. ‘It’s like you’re...’ he broke off and flung himself into a comfy chair.


‘I got sick in here a while back, and They – the Macrobes, as you call them – did something to me to make me better. After that I seemed to be able to understand other languages. I still can’t speak them, though.’


Gabriel slapped the arm of the chair. ‘Of course! DNA reconfiguration! That actually makes sense. Well done, Quin.’


‘Could somebody please explain to me what is going on here?’ Dagmar said sharply. ‘Instead of all this pseudo-scientific gobbledegook?’


‘Well, there are a few things I can’t be sure of,’ said Gabriel. ‘But here is my working hypothesis. I was on my way from Earth to a conference in Merope when my usual method of transportation became...how can I put it? Garbled by this very out-of-place Omnisidian here. The Macrobes, cheap opportunists that they are, abducted me in the confusion and so here I am. Quin here must have been really sick at one point, because he has been subjected to some of their radical healing techniques, a side-effect of which is often a phenomenon known as DNA reconfiguration. You see, you Earth humans only have about three percent of your DNA configured into any semblance of structure – your double helix. The other ninety-seven percent is such an incoherent jumble your scientists until recently referred to it as junk DNA or, as some prefer, non-coding DNA. It’s starting to look like Quin has had some of his “junk” reorganised into additional helixes. Which might explain why he was able to notice and touch the Omnisidian without turning into a drooling vegetable, why he was able to see and hear the Lizard Kinks gig and why he could understand a Pleiadian dialect just then.’


‘Whoa! Whoa! Hold on a minute!’ Dagmar protested, holding out the palms of her hands. ‘Suppose – just suppose – you’re right about this DNA thing. How in god’s name did you manage to make the connection between that and understanding other languages?


‘DNA has many functions. One of its functions is as a receiver-transmitter of consciousness.’


‘Now wait a minute,’ said Dagmar. ‘I don’t exactly remember who I was back on Earth, but I came here with what seems like a good understanding of science. Good enough to know that what you are saying is...just nonsense!’


Gabriel laughed then. ‘You are a woman without a memory in a human goldfish bowl after having been abducted by inter-dimensional Macrobes, and are engaging in a scientific debate with an Alcyonian Pleiadian. What does your séance have to say about that?’


Dagmar made an irritated sound. ‘All those other things have evidence to back them up. Even your Pleiadian claim, seeing as how you retained your memory and appeared here clothed, and made that...Omnisidi-whatever...thing speak. Where is the evidence that “DNA is a receiver-transmitter of consciousness”?’


‘Right here,’ Gabriel grinned, grabbing me by the arms and steering me between them. ‘Dagmar, speak to him in Norwegian. That’s your native language, is it not?’


Dagmar frowned. ‘You guessed that from my accent,’ she surmised. Then she turned to me, and said in her native tongue, ‘Quin, be careful of this man. I think he may be a charlatan. He knows about our abductors! How can we be sure he isn’t one of the ones responsible for us being here?’


‘You have a point, Dagmar,’ I replied in English. ‘He could be a charlatan. But he’s our only chance of getting out of here. And I do not want to spend another hundred years stuck here like poor Trudie.’


Dagmar stared at me in astonishment, then walked over to a chair and sat down, burying her head in her hands.


‘She’s afraid,’ Gabriel said quietly. ‘The effect of the Archontic Morphic Distortion is very strong on her.’


‘This is the sort of thing I mean!’ Dagmar lashed back, and I was astonished to see there were tears in her eyes. ‘Just gobbledegook! Fancy words with no basis in fact. Don’t listen to him, Quin.’


‘Why don’t you try to convince us, then? What is this Quarantine around Earth for? What is this thingy morphic distortion?’ I asked Gabriel.


‘You’d better all sit down,’ said Gabriel, opening his little briefcase and drawing out two large bottles of clear liquid and a couple of limes. ‘G and T, anyone?’



‘I sympathise with Dagmar’s skepticism,’ Gabriel began once we were all sat down with our first alcoholic beverages in years. ‘What I’m about to tell you is far outside the accepted narrative of most of Earth’s surviving cultures and history. Indeed, I’m forbidden to talk about it on Earth, and the Archontic Morphic Distortion keeps most people from finding any of it out even though in recent years, such knowledge has been starting to resurface on your internet. The AMD and the Quarantine are not easy things to explain, and to do so we have to go back very far into Earth’s history.


‘Some twelve thousand years ago in Earth’s timeline, there was a global civilisation like there is today. Well, quite different actually...in some ways more advanced, but their technology was not so mechanical in nature, which is why such technology is almost impossible for your archaeologists to find. And even when they do find it, they seldom recognise it for what it truly is. Those few that do are invariably ridiculed, marginalised for reasons that will hopefully soon become clearer. Hmmm ... how to introduce this culturally ... you know the Atlantic Ocean?’


We all nodded and assured him that we did indeed know the Atlantic Ocean.


‘Ever wondered where it got its name from?’


‘Hell, no,’ said Baz.


‘Well, there’s that myth about the lost civilisation of Atlantis, isn’t there?’ said Marion.


‘Exactly. Atlantis was one of those ancient civilisations.’


‘Atlantis is just a fairytale, surely,’ said Dagmar in a subdued voice. ‘Or it’s been proved to be that Greek island, Santorini, or something.’


‘Plato didn’t think so, and he lived in Greece twenty-five centuries closer to that time than you guys. He described Atlantis as having been beyond the Pillars of Hercules – the Gibraltar Straights in modern terms. The Atlantic Ocean, in other words. Anyway, to cut a long story short, there was a nasty world war between the Atlanteans and the Lemurians - ’


‘The what?’ Dagmar cut in.


'The Southern Hemisphere has an equivalent to the Atlantean mythology, a civilisation known as Lemuria. Quin,’ the Pleiadian said then, ‘you seem to be the musical one around here, and you sound British. Does the name KLF ring any bells to you? They had a few hits in the early nineties.’


Again, I had no trouble recognising the name from who-knew-where. Several songs sprang into my mind. ‘What Time Is Love? 3 a.m. Eternal? Justified and Ancient?’


Gabriel snapped his fingers. ‘Exactly! And do you know what else this group called themselves?’


I frowned. ‘Also known as the Justified Ancients of Mu-Mu...furthermore known as the Jamms...’ I sang from somewhere deep in the vaults of my mind.


‘Wow, you’re good. I wonder why you remembered all this and not your identity? Now then. The Justified Ancients of Mu-Mu is a reference to the ancient civilisation of Lemuria – “Mu” for short – a kind of Southern Hemisphere mythological variation of Atlantis.'


‘What the fuck are you guys talking about?’ Baz protested.


‘Shush. Now then, the time of Mu and Atlantis was very much a Golden Age on Earth - picture Rivendell with a bit more partying and raunchy humour thrown in – but like any great civilisation, they grew decadent and vulnerable to infiltration and invasion from outside forces. To cut an incredibly long story incredibly short, a little bit of extremely clever shit-stirring here and there, and poof! The whole thing goes up in flames. Well, actually, there was a lot more to it than that and it was significantly more than a poof. An entire planet got destroyed and the fallout totally rearranged the Earth’s surface so that it is how we see it today. As I was saying, this all happened about twelve thousand years ago, give or take.’


‘What about these “outside forces”?’ Marion inquired curiously.


‘’I’m getting to that. They were the Archons – the ancient gods, as they saw themselves. They divided and conquered the Atlanteans and the Lemurians, and they have been dividing and conquering humanity ever since.


‘Where do you Pleiadians fit into all this?’ Marion pressed.


Gabriel’s voice grew even more grave. ‘We were the founders of the Atlantean and Lemurian civilisations. We feel...responsible for much of what has befallen Earth.’


‘So where are these Archons now?’ I asked.


‘Their descendents, the Elohim, annexed the Earth and made it into their Empire. They genetically altered you Earth humans, scattering your DNA so that you could only perceive a fraction of the universe that your Atlantean and Lemurian ancestors were able to. You must understand, these Archons and Elohim are highly toxic, their crimes among the galactic community are unspeakable. Yet we cannot destroy them and remain as we are. Instead, we chose to Quarantine the Earth – a peaceful option, that nevertheless consigned our human cousins on Earth to an eternity of tyranny and subjugation.’


Dagmar sprang to her feet. ‘Oh, come on, seriously? What tyranny and subjugation? I may not remember much about my own life, but I know about Earth, and I know of no such things. Why are we listening to you? Gabriel doesn’t even sound like an alien name!’


‘Of course it does,’ Gabriel said lightly. ‘Your ancestors – the dumber ones, the ones with the scrambled DNA – used to think of all aliens as gods or “Elohim”. Jesus on his cross said it in the singular – “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani” – “My god, my god, why have you forsaken me?” Your older biblical scriptures all refer to “God” or “Eloi” in the plural, “Elohim” did you know that? EL is everywhere on Earth as a prefix or suffix, in names too. How you Earth humans haven’t noticed that amazes me. Well, that’s the AMD at work again.’


‘Gabri-el?’ I said tentatively.


‘Gabriel, Michael, Rafael, Umbriel, Ariel, Daniel, Rachael, etcetera, etcetera.,' he confirmed softly. 'Who did your ancestors use to el-ect at the el-ection? Who taught them the secret of el-ectricity? Who el-evated your ancestors with their el-dritch el-egance? Inspired the gosp-els and the Book of Rev-el-ation? Who inspired folk tales of el-ves and el-ixirs of immortality and ang-els? What about all the discip-els, apost-els and temp-els of your Earthly religions? The greatest tragedy of the Earth humans is that most of you don’t live long enough anymore. Your bodies die before you’ve had the time and the space to learn anything more than superficially about the world you’re born out of. The Archons feed on negative human emotions. That's why the Earth is in such a mess. It is engineered to be so. The Earth is a farm, generating ambrosia for the Elohim, the gods.’


The Pleiadian’s deluge of prefixes and suffixes, and his explanation for all the Earth's woes, stunned us into absolute silence, and still he went on calmly.


‘Nowadays, your ruling el-ites are not so el-egant, they don’t have the el-oquence or the el-ocution of their el-ders. They care more about money and jew-els, and if you are a reb-el, they will el-iminate you.’ He knocked back the remainder of his gin and tonic.


‘Anyway,’ he shrugged. ‘That’s enough of a history lesson for the time being. Let’s see what we can do about getting out of this dreary place.’


And he rose and placed both his hands on the Omnisidian.

End of Part VII.

Click here for Part VIII, Moving Cage