Perpetual Recollection

Art by Mackenzie von Pingel - 2021

Pulled from a deep slumber, exiting his dreams of eternity, the man awakens.

The cot he lays on is small, uncomfortable, and unfitting for such a momentous occasion. His surroundings are bleak, grey, and chilling. The man shivers, realizing that he’s no longer wearing a coat. Sitting up, he looks at the walls to his left and right, examining the small room he finds himself in. The man knows nothing of who he is, possesses no memories, no direction, no purpose.

He is simply a man.

There’s a hiss. A door opens, parallel to the cot and hidden in the unmarked wall, and a man steps inside, dressed in clothes as grey and bleak as the structure they both find themselves in. The newcomer looks at the man and takes a moment to examine his features.

He’s the one.

“I’m happy to see you,” the newcomer says.

“Why might that be?” the man asks.

The man isn’t sure if he should trust the newcomer.

The newcomer smiles, “I am Hanson. You are Benevolent.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Benevolent. That is your name,” the newcomer, Hanson, explains. “You are here because you were destined to be. You are a great hero of the past, preserved in an endless slumber until the day when we need you. We believe that day is now.”

“Who is this ‘we’?” Benevolent asks.

“The Revolution.”

The walls lower around the two men, disappearing into notches in the floor. Their true surroundings are revealed. They are surrounded. Hundreds--thousands, perhaps--men and women stand around the two men, arms crossed as they watch the man on the cot. Each is dressed in identical clothing, creating an endless sea of drab, grey fabric.

They all stare at Benevolent. He is their hope, the one who they have been waiting for.

“It’s time to fight,” Hanson takes Benevolent’s hand, helping him to his feet. “Come, we must prepare.”

They begin walking through the crowd. As the two men push through, the sea of grey parts, creating a path to a spiral staircase at the end of the large room. They begin to ascend, and Benevolent pauses. He’s had a sudden spell of déjà vu. For a brief moment, no more than a fragment of a second, Benevolent feels as if his memory has reentered his mind. Then, as quickly as it came, it leaves.

“Why can I not remember my past life?” he asks.

Hanson replies, “You are experiencing the side effects of the preservation process. Not to worry, it is natural. It will pass. Your mind is from another time. You’ll need to wait for it to catch up.”

“Then wouldn’t it be wise to wait?” Benevolent says. “Wouldn’t my memory prove to be useful in the battle ahead?”

Hanson stops on the step he is on, taking a moment to look Benevolent straight on. His gaze pierces into Benevolent, an intensity burning in his eyes.

“We have no time,” he says. “We must act now.”

Hanson turns back, continuing up the staircase. Benevolent pauses, looking out over the mass of people below as they all prepare for the battle ahead. Each of them gathers in loose formations, following orders from their superiors as they equip themselves with weapons, armor, and supplies. Benevolent takes it all in for a brief moment, unable to pinpoint the familiarity he felt before, then continues following Hanson to their destination above.

The staircase appears to lead to an office. Tables are set out on each side of the room and a large, circular window overlooks what Benevolent can only assume is the outside world. It looks bleak. Unnaturally dark clouds hang low in the air, buildings are all built from the same grey material, and the surface below is oddly deserted. No one is outside, despite a criss-cross of streets sectioning off the city into neatly formed squares.

“So, this is the future?” Benevolent gazes out the circular window.

“What’s left of it.”

Hanson gathers some belongings on the table: a coat, a book, and a strange looking, silver instrument. The small device catches Benevolent’s eye, it’s sheen glinting briefly in the dim light, and he watches as Hanson pockets it in a bag along with the other belongings.

“It’s not much,” Benevolent says.

Hanson nods, “That is why we fight. The Great One is in control, although he does not deserve his rule. The world is forced to meet his ideals, his demands. We have no freedom, no choices, no way of personal fulfillment. We fight to restore rule to the people, as it was once before.”

He points to the building in the center of the city, the one towering over the others.

“That is the Great One’s stronghold. It’s there where he lives, rules, and makes his demands. We are to attack it before nightfall.”

Hanson turns on a lamp set on the left-most table, then flips a switch integrated into its top. The wall behind the table collapses, revealing a set of projectile weapons stockpiled in a hidden compartment.

“Take what you need.”

Benevolent takes one of the larger weapons, holding it like a rifle in his hand. A familiar feeling sets in, and he realizes that he’s done this before. He’s fought with similar weapons. Hanson shoulders the bag he’s packed, then grabs a smaller weapon from the compartment.

“The others should be ready,” Hanson gestures for Benevolent to follow him back down the staircase.

They both descend once more, finding themselves looking out over the masses of men and women, all equipped for the battle ahead.

“This is yours.”

Hanson takes a set of armor from one of the soldiers, handing it to Benevolent. The same familiar feeling washes over him as Benevolent fits the armor over his head, expertly strapping each of its pieces into place as if it was second nature.

Then, Benevolent and Hanson both take their place in front of the crowd, watching as they form a rough military formation.

“Now is our time!” Hanson shouts. “Too long have we squandered in the shadows, obeying the commands of the Great One who rules in his fortress of deception, greed, and tyranny! While he lives a life of extravagance and comfort, we are forced to operate the machinery of his well-oiled machine. We once fueled it with the sweat of our labors, and now we must fuel it with the blood of revolution! He must know that we will not surrender to his oppression and false wisdom.”

Hanson turns to Benevolent, resting his hand on his armored shoulder.

“We now have the one who is destined to aid us. We have the one who will end this fight, this war we have waged for so many years. The scales will be shifted, and the balance of power will once again be restored to its natural state!”

The crowd gives out a cheer, raising their hands in anger and agreement.

“For a New Age!” Hanson shouts.

The crowd echoes, “A New Age!”

The entire room breaks out into cheers, a mixture of joy, anxiety, and determination filling the cold, dry air.

Hanson turns to Benevolent, “You and I will be leading a small group towards a weak point in the stronghold’s structure. The rest of the fighters will be causing diversions around the larger entrances, drawing out the enemy forces. His bots will be scattered thin, allowing us time to break in.”

Benevolent nods.

“I need you to stay close to me,” Hanson continues. “You’re our key inside. It has to be you.”

“What do you mean--?” Benevolent begins to ask.

“Move out!” Hanson raises his weapon into the air, and their small group of soldiers begins to move to the other side of the room, running in a loose formation.

Benevolent brings up the rear, watching as their squad and dozens of others exit through various hidden doors in the large room’s walls. He takes a moment to absorb his surroundings, taking in the towering buildings, tangles of metal pipings, and thick, dark clouds that continuously hang low in the air. Despite the abundance of buildings, not a single person is in sight.

They round a corner, separating from the rest of the soldiers, and begin to move around the side of the stronghold. Hanson leads the group with expert ease, as if his entire life has led up to this moment. Benevolent, however, feels as if he is in a dream, following his thoughts through an endless maze of streets and memories. Flashes of moments return to him as they approach closer to their goal, though it all seems to fade as quickly as it arrives. These buildings, these streets, they seem so familiar yet so different.

For a moment it’s overwhelming, the disorienting flood of recognition that comes over him. Benevolent trails behind the rest of the group for a bit, slowing as his mind begins to race. Something isn’t right. He knows this place, or he knows he’s supposed to know this place.

They come across a dead end, and the squad takes a moment to regroup. Benevolent props himself up against a building, catching his breath. Hanson makes his way through the group, inspecting his troops.

“You alright?” Hanson stands over him.

Benevolent nods, although his head has begun to pound.

“You sure?” Hanson comes closer, examining his face.

“It’s coming back to me,” Benevolent winces in pain and rubs his temples.

Hanson’s face contorts into panic for a brief moment, then he straightens his composure.

“We’ll have a few moments to rest,” Hanson says. “ They should be starting the diversion soon.”

The next few minutes are spent in silence, each of the soldiers clutching their rifles in anticipation. Benevolent crouches down on the ground, his head in his hands, wincing as his surroundings seem to spin around him. They all wait, the dark clouds seemingly lowering as time continues to pass.

Then, Hanson sits up, eyes looking upwards towards the stronghold’s overbearing silhouette. He’s heard the sound. The other groups have begun their assault. Hanson signals for them to continue forward, and the other soldiers start to move.

Benevolent is still crouched down, leaning on the side of the building as if he’d tumble into eternity if it wasn’t for its support. Again, there’s something about this moment that doesn’t feel right.

Hanson starts to move before noticing Benevolent hasn’t stood up.

He approaches him, “Benevolent.”

Benevolent looks up at Hanson, examining his concerned expression carefully.

“I’m beginning to remember,” he says, rubbing his temples.

“We need to keep moving,” Hanson says. Then, when he doesn't respond, “Benevolent!”

The two men look at each other, both of their faces taut with distress.

“We need you,” Hanson says, a desperation building up in his voice.

Benevolent picks back up his weapon and begins to stand, “Alright.”

Hanson turns back to the rest of the squad, signals for them to push ahead, and they continue making their way through the streets. Benevolent barely manages to keep up with the rest of the group, still struggling to process the continuous flood of revelations.

But there's no time to deliberate.

Sparks of energy erupt from the end of a dead end street, sending the squad scattering for cover. Hovering machines encased in sleek, grey metal approach, guns mounted on their armored bodies. They spray another round of fire, drawing the soldiers back once again.

Hanson rolls out of cover, firing at the central android, “Keep moving!”

The machine bursts in flames, sputtering out of control as Hanson continues to fire, piercing through its hardened exterior. The other drones stop converging for a moment, weaving out of the line of fire.

The other soldiers, emboldened by the leader’s heroism, begin to push forward. Sparks and projectiles fly through the air, the darkened, quiet streets now alive with the lights and sounds of battle.

Benevolent slowly follows their lead. His head pounds. His ears ring. He fires, sending an android to the ground. He ducks into the alcove of a building before firing at another machine just as it manages to take down a soldier charging forward.

“We’re at the entrance!” Hanson shouts. “Don’t let them stop you now!”

The soldiers give out a battle cry. The ragtag group’s lack of organization clashes with the androids' preprogrammed coordination. Benevolent realizes that, at its core, this is a battle of chaos and order. The revolution seeks to take down the system that has oppressed them. They believe in their fight, they depend on it.

But is it the right fight?

Benevolent’s thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an explosion. His head erupts in more pain, and he’s knocked off his feet as the wall beside him combusts in a spectacle of heat and debris. He hesitates for a moment, disoriented by the blast. The world seems to slow around him, ash sprinkling the ground like snowfall. Then, he picks himself back up. He stumbles over the body of a soldier, his wounds rendering him unrecognizable. Benevolent continues to limp forward, coughing from the rising smoke.

Benevolent raises his weapon and fires at the opposite wall. Another explosion erupts, and smoke fills the already murky air. More androids swarm forward, and Benevolent begins to take them down. He only needs to fire at each one once, executing them one by one with relative ease. The blazing energy of each bolt lights up Benevolent’s eyes. He locks into a trance, the rush of each kill controlling his each and every move.

Then, the drones stop coming. Benevolent keeps his weapon raised, still anticipating a coming threat. The smoke and dust begin to clear, and the only sounds of battle are the ones heard in the distance.

“Benevolent.”

He whips around to the voice, his weapon aimed at the figure standing just behind him.

Hanson backs away with a start, his hands in the air, “Calm down, calm down. It’s me.”

Benevolent suddenly realizes he’s breathing heavily. His heart races. His head continues to throb in pain. He lowers his weapon and takes another moment to look at Hanson through the aftermath of smoke and ash.

“You’ve exposed the entrance,” Hanson notes.

Benevolent looks, and he sees that he’s right. He can barely make out what’s left of the interior of the Great One’s stronghold.

“Why have the drones stopped?” Benevolent asks.

Hanson hesitates, unsure how to answer, “The Great One must know that we have won this fight. But he’ll be ready for another.”

Benevolent surveys the area. He and Hanson are the only ones left alive. He looks towards their opening. The interior appears to be dimly lit, covered in ash and obscured by the wafts of smoke still emanating from the fires blazing up and down the street.

“You and I will have to continue the mission,” Hanson says. “You’re still our key inside.”

Benevolent pauses, then says, “I still don’t know what that means.”

“Sorry?” Hanson asks.

“How am I your only hope?” Benevolent says. “At first, I believed it must be my skill, but I’d require my memory to recall my abilities. Then, I believed it was my identity. That, in some way, I am the only one who can cross the threshold of this stronghold. However, I’ve realized the impossibility of that idea. Why bring the rest of the troops here only to have me continue the fight alone? So again, I ask, what makes me so important?”

Hanson grits his teeth. “Benevolent, you are simply meant to help us. It’s destiny.”

“How do I know if it’s destiny,” Benevolent says, “or deception?”

“What are you implying?”

“What I’m saying,” Benevolent continues, “is that I woke up with no memory and only had a few seconds to process my surroundings. And there you were, the one to greet me. You were the one who explained all this, the one who insisted that I aid in your rebellion. And now I stand here, at the base of this stronghold facing the heat of an uprising, the heat of a coming war, balancing on nothing but this trust.”

Benevolent is mere inches away from Hanson now.

“And now,” Benevolent says, “I have reason to believe this trust doesn’t exist.”

“Fine,” Hanson says. “Fine. Just know that if you step through that opening, you will have an opportunity to finish what needs to be done--you’ll have the opportunity to finish what I helped start. This revolution was not built on falsehoods. I can assure you that I did not put my brothers and sisters through hell just to lead them to a false heaven!”

Hanson’s face contorts into that of rage. His hands are shaking in anger.

“They are dead!” Hanson then lowers his voice to nothing more than a whisper, “And I would hope that they did not die for nothing.”

Benevolent examines Hanson’s face, searching for traces of truth and glimpses of lies. The memories continue to flood in, and while he does not possess the bigger picture, he begins to realize that Hanson is right. Benevolent is important, he knows that for certain. The stronghold holds knowledge--truth.

It’s then that Benevolent realizes what needs to be done. He can’t be distracted by Hanson. He still believes in his ideas, he still knows that revolution needs to take place. Yet, Hanson’s ideas of revolution may not align with Benevolent’s.

“I believe,” Benevolent raises his weapon, “that this is where we part.”

He pulls the trigger, and Hanson has no time to react before the blast hits him in the chest. He’s knocked off his feet, sent tumbling to the ground like a pile of rocks.

“He must…” Hanson coughs up some blood, spitting it towards Benevolent’s feet. “He must… fall…”

He goes limp, his eyes staring lifelessly at the sky as the sounds of the revolution he’d carefully built thunder in the distance. Benevolent takes one last look at the man, then shoulders his weapon.

Bending down, he reaches into Hanson’s bag, taking out the book, coat, and silver instrument he’d taken from the spiral staircase office. He examines them for a moment, then pockets the book and instrument, leaving the coat to cover Hanson’s lifeless body.

He faces the exposed entrance to the stronghold. He knows it’s time for the truth.

The room he steps into is barely recognizable. The ash and smoke have consumed the interior, making it their new home. A door sits on the opposite side of the room. Taking one last look at the street, Benevolent turns the door’s handle and steps inside.

The next room is enormous. An entire block of buildings could be moved into its space, and there would still be room for more. The walls are lined floor to ceiling with shelves of books. Some are physical copies, the old paper versions used by the ancestors of the past, but most are digital tapes, stored in neat orderly lines and pulsing with an odd, hypnotic energy. The room is separated into two different stories, a balcony wrapping around the shelves on the second floor. Ladders and spiraling staircases lead up to the knowledge held on the upper level and allow one to precariously access the books on the higher shelves. Chandeliers and neatly placed lamps illuminate the walls and arched ceiling, their light reflecting on the shine of the ornate, wooden shelves.

However, the magnificence and grandeur of the room is nothing compared to the shock Benevolent feels in this moment. For another, more prominent feature of the room has captured his unfaltering attention: A statue.

The statue dominates the center of the enormous hall. It’s a man, standing in an authoritative pose overlooking the endless rows of books and tapes that seemingly stretch towards infinity.

It’s him. It’s Benevolent.

“An impressive collection. Wouldn’t you agree?”

A man steps out from the shadows, clothed in elegant robes, clutching an elegantly crafted cane.

Benevolent is overcome by a sheer amount of shock as he realizes that this man, like the statue, is him. His hair is a bit more grey, his eyes a bit more tired, and his face stretched with wrinkles, but Benevolent knows it’s him.

The man smiles, “I’ve waited for this day you know. Not in anticipation, but with existential dread.”

“Who are you?”

The man laughs, “I assume that question was rhetorical. You already know the answer.”

“But…” Benevolent stammers, “but how?”

The man smiles, “Long ago, I--we, I should say--discovered something that would change the course of history. In fact, it would be the key to changing the course of history.”

The man approaches closer, then produces a small, silver instrument from his pocket, the same one Benevolent took from Hanson’s bag.

“I assume you have one of your own,” the man says. “It holds the secrets of time. It allows its user to travel forwards or backwards with no effort at all. Oh, it was a marvelous invention--our best! It’s only side effect was the brief amnesia that overcame me after each jump. One’s brain is incapable of processing such a cosmic change, so it naturally takes time to adjust. But that was only a temporary setback. I began jotting down notes, keeping them in books that I’d read after I’d made a journey.”

The man turned over the instrument in his hand, “But it’s power corrupts. You see, with the force of time in the palm of my hands--our hands--I was able to accumulate all the knowledge of the universe. I could go to The Beginning, The End. We could write our own destiny, carefully creating the perfect timeline for our own personal gain.

“But that’s when I discovered my true purpose. I needed to use my knowledge of the universe for a greater good. I had to restore balance and peace to the world when it so often erupted into chaos. So, I did. With me as the benevolent ruler, the world became one of perfection. There was no more war, no more conflict, and no more governmental turmoil. There was only me--us.”

Benevolent stepped back from the man, overcome with a flood of memories. He knew that this man, this man that was really him, was correct. It hit him like the blast of an explosion, the realization erupting in his mind. He was learning the truth.

“So that makes me--”

“It makes you a past version of me,” the man finished. “Hanson was hoping to exploit you, use you to take me down with his rebellion. He took your instrument and book. He knew that if you were to enter this stronghold, you could kill me… but I could not kill you.”

“So you once stood where I stand now,” Benevolent says.

“I’m afraid so.”

“You’re afraid so?”

The old man’s face twists into a grim smile, “This is an important moment in our history. It’s the moment where a decision is made. I have tried to change this moment, to prevent the next series of events from unfolding and unraveling the carefully laid plan I have constructed, but no matter what I’ve tried, the same thing still remains.”

“And that is?”

“Hanson planted an idea,” the old man says. “He planted an idea in your head that has already dug its roots into your subconscious before you even arrived at this stronghold.”

Benevolent realizes, once again, he is right.

“You must die,” Benevolent says.

The old man nods slowly, “You have seen what Hanson sees. He sees the world I created as flawed, dull… unforgiving. I see it as a miracle of humanity. With one person holding power, one person with the knowledge of the universe, the course of humanity is bound only towards perfection.”

“But at what cost?” Benevolent asks. “It’s only perfection in your design.”

The old man smiles, “You may not see its benefit now, but when you live the life you are destined to live, the life I have lived, you will begin to see that all roads lead to my idea of perfection. You’ll see the war, the greed, the endless skirmishes that erupt when human beings are forced to share power.”

“I may not be able to prevent my own future,” Benevolent says, “but I can allow humanity to create its own.”

“I knew you’d say that,” the old man says fondly, as if recalling an old memory.

Benevolent raises his weapon, pointing it directly at the old man’s face--his face. The haunting image of his own eyes stare back at him from the opposite end of the weapon’s barrel.

“The irony is,” the old man laughs, tears forming in his aged eyes. “I can do nothing to stop you. If I kill you, I kill me as well. You are my past. We are linked. All possible outcomes lead to my death, the end of what I’ve built.”

“It’s what must be done,” Benevolent says.

“I suppose so,” the old man agrees. “What was it Hanson called you?”

“Benevolent.”

“Ah… yes…” he chuckles. “I suppose that’s fitting. Benevolent: kindness, charity, a gift… oh yes…Oh, a gift indeed.”

A single tear falls down the broken man’s face, “Enjoy being me.”

Those are the last words he utters as he falls to the floor. The sweet, grim smile is still on his face, his eyes looking above the statue towering over him.

The old man fades away, killed by a mere memory of himself.

“Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.” – George Orwell, 1984

“Civilization is in a race between education and catastrophe. Let us learn the truth and spread it as far and wide as our circumstances allow. For the truth is the greatest weapon we have.” - H.G. Wells