5. The 12Bn-yo Virgin

I turn around to see who’s talking. Nothing but the huge horizontal platform of stone
which, far enough to my three o’clock, turns into a wall of the same composition.
Raising my head to find where the wall ends, I can’t distinguish but darkness. Is that a
black ceiling or a black sky? Still, where is the one who addressed the welcoming
message to us? I turn in the direction of my nine o’clock but I cross my stare with Don’s
(who is situated at my twelve o’clock, in front of me), and I see his eyes, not looking at
me. He fixed something behind me, this is (according to the only orientation system I’ve
got at hand) to my seven o’clock. I twist my body so I can see what he sees.
The immense smiling face of a golden haired giant studies us with the curiosity of a
ten-year old boy. Can’t see his entire head yet, because of the platform we are on, but I
assume that each of his eyes should be almost half a meter wide, that’s over one foot
wide if you’re an American. The irises of these immense eyes are white and furrowed by
broken gray lines. A brighter white coming equally from each crystalline betrays a
possible source of light inside his eyes. Very interesting. Still wondering if I am dead or
not…
“Hey ho! If you can hear me, if you understand what I tell you, please wave your
hands.” We execute ourselves waving both our hands, like during a hold up.
“Hah… No need to surrender. I won’t harm you. I am not a bad guy. My name is
Kronos, but you should know about this already. Am I right?”
Indeed he is right. We know who he is. I quit my dead or alive check list and look
for a pragmatic approach to the giant, to our condition as guests of his. But Don breaks
the ice before allowing my mind to finish the planning of the mission.
“Hi, Mr. Kronos. Nice to meet you in person, after so many years of online
conversation. How are you?”
“Mr. Kronos, eh? Your siblings, millennia ago, used to call me god.” I fear his irony.
“God, eh? Sorry, Mr. Kronos, but I have only One God, Who happens to be a ‘human
Sibling’ somewhere in my ancestry. In all truth, as you should know it, even better than
me, that you’re a wannabe god, at best. Anyone can call himself a god and have others
call him that way because he likes the sound of it. For instance, my wife calls me a sex
god. That alone doesn’t make me the absolute sex god.” More than the daemon’s irony, I
fear my husband’s big mouth.
“You are a funny man, son of Adam, and a smart one. What you said is true. I know
more about your Lord than many of your siblings want to hear. This is exactly why I like
to play the god number: because they are easily gullible and, with my size, I always
impress them. Hah hah…”
“Now, Mr. Kronos, I assume that you didn’t call us to visit your bunker in order to
harm us, with your size or otherwise. Am I right assuming this?”
“You are my guests and I want to be the best host ever. Well, I can’t be the best host
but I’ll do my best.”
Surprised a bit, I intervene in their dialog. “Why can’t you be the best host?”
“Because Christ God is the best Host, Milady.” Oh, oh… When he said “Milady” to
me, fixing my eyes with his white crystal look, all the memories of that charming Cron –
that athletic male who descended to my garden last summer – stampeded into my mind.
“Your stare makes my soul melt and my pussy wet, Mr. Kronos. Please don’t look at
me this way any longer.” I like it when I find the guts to say “no” to an intruder, kindly
returning his politeness.
“I can’t promise, Milady. You are such a peach. Only knowing that you are my guest,
here in my den, already makes my conversation hard, if not impossible, considering that
you ordered me to stop complimenting you.” He sounds genuine to me.
“Mr. Kronos,” intervenes my Don, “we might find a common ground on how far you
may go with complimenting my wife. I don’t mind your nice words but I can tell you
that we would both mind your deceiving thoughts and intentions. Is that a case to be
considered?” I sometimes consider that my man is too effeminate (this because of his
friendship with me), but today I fear (yes, again that fear) for him not to take his male
rudeness to the extremes. As guests of a giant alien, we must measure our words. Not to
provoke the host with our egocentric pride. I start considering ways to make myself
pleasant for the daemon, in the hope that this may balance my man’s verbal brutalities.
Let not mention the forgotten detail that Kronos is taller than a water-tank tower, that he
can store us in a matchbox if he wishes to.
“Please allow me to interrupt your line of thoughts, Milady.” Surprised, I stop my
mind again, it turns off much faster than time before, and I’m all ears. “As you may
remember, the Cron that I used to communicate with you, when you were naked in your
garden (yum, yum), had the ability to read your thoughts. All of them. So do I. Even
more so because I am the head of those drones, including that Cron visiting you. This
said, I have to remind you that you are headed on the path of deception with me and you
try adopting this attitude out of fear. A terrible insecurity about the life of your loved
one, first, and yours, second. Wishing to protect him, you find yourself digging with
desperation for a charm or a subtlety that may buy you time for an unknown solution,
for an escape or a run to a safe place. Milady!, you are wrong and I beg you to stop
doing this.”
Gulp. He said it to me. I’m mute. All ears. Don stands attentive while his fingers
sneak to meet mine, encouraging me. He’s here for me. As always. While the white alien
continues.
“Eve, the peach of all peaches in this universe, tried to seduce Chaos for her petty
plans but it was too late before she realized that a woman can’t seduce a deceiving
daemon. Such a feat goes out of her league. Ensued the human tragedy, which your
siblings have proudly named history. I am not about to seduce you, even if you were
planning to seduce me in order to protect your man from his big mouth. Let him speak
because he said it right: he has among his siblings, like so many of your kind have, One
that is God and Sibling of yours at the same time. With only this saying, about which I
knew that it is fact long before you were born, he told me who calls the game. Not me
and not you either, because your condition has been downgraded, courtesy of Eve’s wits.
But your ancestry stands above mine. Actually you have a noble ancestry while I have
none. To sum it up, your man, this son of Adam, is a welcomed guest to visit my prison,
and same applies to you, daughter of Eve. I don’t wish to play cat and mouse with you. I
have other plans to discuss, for our mutual benefit.” After he wrapped up his short
speech, I can feel a saline breeze all over my face. I turn to Don. He seems to have faced
a mild blizzard of tiny white crystals that stack to his pores. Considering the way he
looks back at me, I realize that my face must look the same.
“Don’t fret, my human friends. These are the salts of my breath. You had me speak
much so I vented my lungs a bit. The salts are doing good to your health. I have read on
your web about antibiotic properties. Now, there you go, my salts are among the best
antibiotics from planet Saturn. Well, if I sit and think, they are the best and the worst
because I am the only one living on Saturn. Hah, hah hah hah.” His speech like his
speech, but when he laughs then it’s like a hurricane. Anyway, we can’t complain. We
answer nothing because we are still hit, in the middle of our brows, by his externalized
honesty. After all, why should we talk as far as he reads our thoughts immediately as
they come to tickle the top of our neurons on the cortex. He can hear our chatter directly
from the source, from the inside of our skulls.
“You are a funny lady, Milady. Did I tell you that already? And what a peach you
are. Even your fur suit is orange. Would you mind taking it off? I wish to admire you in
your birthday suit. I know that your man never minds about this. Not that I forgot the
input from my Cron, from your garden, but as my guest, I would be so much pleased to
admire you in all your beauty. Why did you opt for these fancy colored suits? Why didn’t
you come naked, as you often travel when playing with your triad of modules?”
“Hm, hm,” says Don, “it is not only my triad of modules, you have contributed a
great deal of key factors to making it work, Mr. Kronos.” Hearing my man giving credit
to our giant host, I feel relieved because he behaves. No need to protect him from
himself. At least until now. But aren’t we bored by all this exchange of pleasantries? My
readers wish more suspense, more drama and more action. They may have expected for
us to fall in a trap after traveling through the gravity-free cool core of the Sun and
landing inside Saturn to face a huge alien. Where are the bad guys? I can hear my
readers yelling and moaning in desperation and distrust.
“Your readers will eventually fall in love with the movie, Milady. Books they don’t
read anymore, because they get tired to work out their minds and develop the concepts
with their own imagination, only from reading and compiling the symbols in a book.
Your people are getting lazy, too bad, but good for the bad guys. Oh yes, plenty of bad
guys are living on Earth, Milady. Here in space, as you colloquially call it, we have just
a couple of bad guys.” So little?, why?, I wonder. “Because of our follies being proven
and judged before your history commenced. Look around the Solar system to see the
desert landscapes and chunks of pulverized planets left after we had our wars. Our hearts
were full of pride and our minds copious in felonious thinking. We were given to rule
over the universe, which we did to some extent, but the false teaching of conquering the
Absolute beyond it has brought our society to ruin and devastation. I followed the
crowd, still don’t know why I had to do that, only to be confronted with horrors and
abominations instead of the Golden Age and the glory I wished to establish. When I
finally understood what I was doing, where I was heading with my despicable deeds,
then it was too late. It was me choosing to incarcerate myself. Anyway I would have
been brought here, to serve time, even if against my will, as my fate had been sealed
before my awakening.” The doleful daemon wails and wails like an old wimp. All this
theater seems to us like a cheap cartoon against his majestic appearance. Now that we
dare to walk closer to the edge of this granite platform (or whatever mineral this may
be), we are given a panorama that one cannot easily forget.
A five hundred meter-wide canyon with no visible ending to the left, nor to the right,
stretching between two black and parallel walls carved in stone. Staring above, we see a
black sky, somehow like on that Valentine’s Day when Don took me to the Moon, but
this sky has no stars to shine on it, so it’s really depressing to look above. The real
amazement is, however, when you gaze downwards. Kronos, the giant alien, stands bare
foot on the bottom of the canyon which seems to be made of glass. I can’t tell if this
glass is transparent or mat white but I feel the warm light radiating from the “coreshine.”
We are trapped under a tens-of-thousands-kilometers deep sandwich of solid rock, an
ocean of metallic hydrogen and a Jupiter-like tumultuous atmosphere. You may have a
distant look at the Sun only if navigating upwards throughout all these layers. Not even
the daemon credited with “creating” time won’t stand such an ordeal, or won’t dare stand
it. The only given source of light under this rock is the molten iron core of Saturn. This
is why I had to invent this new word: coreshine, to replace the sunshine with it.
Illuminated from down under, Mr. Kronos offers the athletic construct of his Cron
alter-ego that visited me last summer. At a closer analyze, guess that I won’t be in error if
saying that their bodies are identical. With a tiny, yet not negligible, detail: Mr. Kronos
in person measures thirty-six meters high. That should be eighteen times the height of
the Charming Cron from my garden. And, as expected, the original has no notion of
garments. Like the drones he sends out, Mr. Kronos walks and talks totally naked. What
about his dick? For a woman like me, or for any woman that I know, seeing a four-meter
long dick stirs no sexual interest. At all. Believe me, it looks rather like the back of a
cistern truck, or like a tank car. Too industrial to give me naughty thoughts. This may
eventually help me think straight. Let me pray for this, with intensity, because the last
thing I wish would be fantasizing about tank cars, or trucks, whatever.
What really impresses me at this alien is his head. His moderately elongated skull
surrounded by that golden wavy hair, long enough to cover his ears before stopping
short from touching his shoulders. His perfect face, with features that remind me of
Michelangelo’s David. His eyes with the crystallines like two headlights surrounded by
the white and gray irises. Oh my God, he changed the colors in the left eye, the iris took
all the visible specter, rotating in a similar manner to a kaleidoscope, for us to see the
colors, then hastily returning to its white color with grayish strands.
“You can hear what I write here. The description of your eyes. Right?” Say I
addressing one of those foolish female questions.
“Yes, Milady. I can. It feels nice to study you, so close to my eyes. Let me tell you
how happy I am to have you here. Why don’t you wish to give up that orange suit of
yours?”
I don’t even bother answering in speech. Instead I think at his cool breeze of talking
and the hurricane of laughing. I demand an environment with a constant temperature of
twenty-four degrees, Celsius, not Kelvin, mind you.
“Oh, Milady. How stupid can I be. Of course that the chill of this high shelf is not at
all optimal for you to get naked. Please allow me to move you both to a lower level,
where the shelves are warmer. Twenty-four Celsius, as I have read your thought, that
makes 297 Kelvin. I have a niche with exactly this temperature, it will suit you perfectly.
Please step on my hand and let me take you there.”
Don, a bit reluctant, is the first one to jump. He has to because he is the man. My
protector and my lover. I then follow him pressing my winter boots against the skin on
Mr. Kronos’ finger. Good adherence, I may say. With us holding our hands on the bottom
of his palm, the giant steps to the right, then half a step backwards, and gently squats,
very attentive not to harm us during the move. As we descend towards the lower levels,
we notice a pattern of niches in the wall. This we didn’t notice on the opposite wall,
which is plain. To our amazement, the consistent black color turns to shades of gray. The
closer we get to the glass bottom of the canyon, the brighter the niches on the wall. Our
palm journey ends no sooner and no later than at the last niche level, which coincides
with the white bottom of the canyon.
“Here. 297 Kelvin. You can measure it if you want.”
We check our thermometers on the suits. Yes. Twenty-four Celsius degrees. Perfect
for a nude walk. I look at Don with a suggestive smile. “Shall I?” I whisper. “Go on, my
bunny. He watched you naked last year. I even gave him access to your adult sites. He
would have hacked inside even if I wouldn’t let him in willingly. So why bother?” My
silly man still can’t get it. “You crazy man, can you fathom, just for a second, that I have
never been naked in the presence of an alien? This is something that I never did!” My
man tries to sympathize with my emotional moment, although I get the feeling that he is
doing it just to comfort me. Not answering my question, the husband of mine fixes Mr.
Kronos in the eye. I turn to see what he sees. And I notice a blink. Mr. Kronos blinked in
response to my man’s unspoken thought. This makes me angry. “What did you think-tell
him so that I can not hear?” The giant responds to me that Don said, thought actually,
this: “Women!”
To this they both start laughing. Mr. Kronos making some wind at the third floor, I
assume, which did no harm, and no chill whatsoever, to us.
I finally find a way to unzip and get myself out of this orange polar suit. Not after
meticulously arranging my boots near the entry to our new niche. Well, this niche is
quite impressive: four meters high, a hundred wide and another hundred deep into the
rock. The floor is white, irradiating the warm light. The walls are white and bright. The
ceiling, although slightly shadowed, because there is no light coming from above, is
nonetheless white. I take my time to explore this little enclosed territory, without
noticing that, behind my back, Mr. Kronos, laid down on his belly, puts his left cheek on
the bottom of the canyon so that he can keep his eyes on my bum as I walk, as I turn, as
I come, as I go. “Don, isn’t Mr. Kronos a bit tiring with his peeps on me?”
“I don’t think so, Doris. He is just being himself. The guy hasn’t seen a woman in
eons, in his presence, I mean. Just be kind to him.”
“I tried to and he has cut me off…”
“Of course he did, because you were slipping on the seduction slope. Unlike typical
men, this alien can read your mind. A helluva tips and advantages for him. All he asks,
and I agree to it, is for you to behave naturally. It is the divine grace that the Creator
seeded in our kind of woman that he craves to admire. Not the shrewd thinking taught
by the deceiver. Is it simple and doable what I’m asking of you?, and what the alien guy
is asking too?” I feel ashamed and mostly dumb like a goose. Turning to Mr. Kronos, I
blush and I ask him, in my thought, when was the last time he had sex.
“Never, my dear Doris. I am a twelve billion year-old virgin.”
“Twelve billion, in Earth-years?” Interrupts Don with his queries of theoretical
physics.
“There was no Earth at the center of this universe when I was produced. And yes, I
used the present Earth-year unit of measurement, which is flawed. You are right
questioning me about this, son of Adam. A year on Earth today is not the same as a year
on Earth a billion years ago. I can tell that from personal experience not from
estimations.”
“Guys, guys! I asked Mr. Kronos when was the last time he made love to a woman.
Please, guys! Let us stay on topic. It’s a serious matter. Who cares about validating
scientific theories when you carry a dialog with a deity, sort of, who is imprisoned under
a rock at the core of planet Saturn, where you arrived after a stopover in the frigid core
of the Sun? Can’t you see that these facts alone make a laugh out of all the scholars and
their papers? Now, let’s talk about sex!” Mr. Kronos laughs out spreading the salts out
of his lungs directly on my skin. I shiver and bent to face the chill. He reads my mind
and excuses himself with a cough.
“Milady, would you mind coming out of your niche so I can see your beauty without
having to lay on the ground?”
“My pleasure, Mr. Kronos.” Don follows me for a walk out on the bottom of this
white canyon. “Is this really glass, Mr. Kronos?” Asks the curiosity in my hubby.
“I have an idea, Mr. Dawn.” He jumps on his feet, creating a mild earthquake (well,
Saturn-quake), and we can see how his hands are digging through the shelves above.
“Here! I give you this small tablet.” An iPad, I think. “No, Doris, we are no idolaters
here. I carved this tablet out of the material in the walls. It was before your arrival,
shortly after your husband has found a way to communicate with me. What a
providential moment to get a human talking to me. Actually to be allowed to.”
The device appears like a flea on the hand of the giant. This is why he stuck it under
a thumbnail, approaching my man with it. Don takes the tablet from the monstrous
finger and thanks the alien for his gift. “It is a square stone, Doris. No circuitry, no retina
screen. Just a stone. But who knows…” Mr. Kronos positions himself in lotus and speaks
softly. “You know, Mr. Dawn, how to program your tablet in order to obtain objective
answers to your theoretical questions. Use it as a direct interface to my servers, to the
memory of this universe. It is all yours. Play with it as much as you wish, so I can talk in
peace to your Doris about my life, about my personal issues.”
“Well, Mr. Kronos?” I ask loud, for Don’s ears, so he won’t interrupt the dialog with
his universal problems.
“Well, well, Doris. How should I start? I am a virgin. There are no women of a size
to match mine. This is why I never had the chance to make love to one.”
“Greek mythology mentions you as fathering children, even eating some of them.
How comes?” I watch him straight in the eyes. There is no emotion, no remorse, no
hesitation at my question. All this time, Don’s fingers are playing on the surface of his
Saturn-made tablet, in a quest to unveil the secrets of the universe. The giant won’t give
me time for distractions.
“Greek myths are just that: myths, distortions of reality, misunderstandings,
erroneous interpretations, nonsense. The truth is that, shortly after Enoch has been taken
with God, our kind was given permission to descend on Earth and to know the daughters
of Adam. We all hurried up to know them because Chaos made sure to inform us about
Eve’s unequaled grace and beauty. The irony hid behind a tiny technicality: we are
thirty-six meters tall and the daughters of Adam are less than two meters tall. In spite of
our powers and supremacy over their men, we could not have them. Size matters after
all! The Creator gave us yet another lesson in humility. But did we listen? Did we make
the decisions that He expected from us? We had the chance to befriend the sons of
Adam, to share knowledge and to be kind to their women. But no! We squashed any
human that resisted our will, we sprayed their women with torrents of our sperm,
forcibly fecundating them. The outcome was horrible: gruesome mutants, cyclops
mostly, who were too big to be born. They literally pierced their mothers’ wombs after
gestating two or three months at best. The poor women died horrendous deaths. The
abortions, our offspring, were hideous, asymmetrical, underdeveloped and hopelessly
retards. A total fiasco, this was our plan to have the daughters of Adam as our wives and
to raise a new super race of demigods out of them. However, Ouranos and Zeus did not
want to hear about my Golden Age proposition, about moderation and reconciliation,
about stopping the madness. They had no ears to hear and no eyes to see the profound
harm that we were inflicting on the human race. All what mattered for them was ruling
the Earth, producing more mutant progeny in the hope that, after repeating the same
mistakes over and over, our offspring will improve and turn into balanced usable super
humans. I had to force Ouranos out of Earth…” By castrating him, say I in my thought.
To which Mr. Kronos continues the story with a minute diversion. “Yes, by severing
Ouranos’ testicles, I made him incapable to spray more women and thus ceased the sad
litany of his genetically engineered aberrations. Mutilated, he departed Earth to park his
body in the core of the next ice giant planet. On the other hand, by throwing the severed
testicles of Ouranos into the ocean, I provided Zeus with valuable genetic material for
his eventually successful experiments. Thus he managed to produce Aphrodite, which is
a complex biological morphing machine, and Hercules with a descending line of
supermen.” My multitasking hubby, sitting next to me with the tablet in his hands, has
an ear for everything flying around him, and he finds delight in interrupting our dialog.
“Mr. Kronos, if you will allow me. I never bought into those myths stating that
Ouranos is your father and Zeus your son. It’s too simplistic, let not speak about the
origins of Gaia… So, what’s the actual relationship, within your own kind, that you have
with Ouranos and Zeus?” The accommodating giant is happy to meet Don’s question
with a concise answer.
“Mr. Dawn, on our angelic (now daemonic) level, there is no father-son relationship
because there are no females of our kind. By design, we are not allowed to have
offspring. Before initiating the simulation that you call the universe, the Creator
assigned a core universal feature to me, that is to paint self-growing fractals. Upon this
process runs everything that you assume that is moving, or can move, in the universe. I
am a universal constant because the fractals have been initiated out of my mind. They
grow, inducing the illusion of movement and expansion, as long as my mind is awake, as
long as I live.” Intrigued, I intervene with a thought: are you a mortal or an immortal
being? Unfazed, he replies with a long sigh, good that he watches the black sky above
his head, blowing the winds of his lungs away from us. “Unlike you, I am a mortal, and
my time is nigh.”
“Wait, wait! What do you mean when saying that you are a mortal, unlike us?”
“I mean that you, sons and daughters of Adam, are immortals. Dying in this body,
you shall live within Christ, Who is The One God, our Creator. As relatives of His, your
death is nothing more than an upgrade, a new beginning. But, unlike you, I have no
guarantee, no promise, that my death will be an upgrade.” Mr. Kronos fixes Don for a
second. “Yes, Mr. Dawn, the universe is set to implode, I know the Scriptures as well as
you do, or even better. I shall disappear together with this universe. Time will be no
more. That will be my death.”