The relentless sun bore down upon us with an intensity that seemed to highlight the surreal transition from our world to Clivilius. As Charles and I emerged from the portal's kaleidoscope, the lingering hues of our passage—reds, blues, and greens—dissipated into the Clivilius air, like watercolour paints blending into the fabric of this new reality. The vibrant tableau that was Bixbus unfolded before us, its colours and sounds a stark contrast to the grey monotony of the chase we had just escaped.
A hive of activity enveloped the settlement, a bustling hub of life and motion that captured the essence of Clivilius’s spirit. Karen orchestrated the rhythmic dance of trolleys shuttling between the Drop Zone and the newly erected shed, her movements precise and commanding. The metallic resonance of barrels being hoisted onto a waiting ute reverberated through the air, a symphony of industry and cooperation that underscored the community’s unity and purpose.
In the heart of this orchestrated chaos, Paul, Jerome, and Dad saw to the loading operation with the focused intensity of a well-rehearsed team. Their figures, illuminated by the harsh sunlight, moved with a purpose that was both urgent and methodical. Adrian and Nial, who had momentarily abandoned their work on the second shed, lent their strength to the effort, their laughter and banter adding a layer of camaraderie.
The scene unfolded against the peculiar backdrop of grazing livestock—a goat and a handful of hens, blissfully oblivious to the extraterrestrial choreography around them. Their presence, so mundane and yet so incongruous, lent an air of surreal normalcy to the landscape of Bixbus. It was a vivid reminder of the duality of our existence here in Clivilius, a blend of the extraordinary and the everyday.
Standing there, at the threshold of this new world, the weight of our recent escape began to fade, replaced by a burgeoning sense of belonging and purpose. The challenges we faced, the dangers we escaped, seemed to shrink in the face of the vibrant life that was beginning to pulse through Bixbus. Yet, beneath the surface, a current of apprehension remained—a silent acknowledgment of the unknowns that lay ahead.
We navigated the lively scene before us at a deliberate pace, each step measured, allowing ourselves to savour the moments of tranquility that punctuated the buzzing energy around us. The air was alive with the sounds of productivity and the gentle hum of conversation, a stark contrast to the adrenaline-fuelled silence of our recent escape.
Jerome, whose movements weaved with a dance of practiced efficiency, greeted us with a nod—a silent testament to the camaraderie and understanding that had long defined our relationship. “Good to see you, lil’ bro,” he said, his voice carrying over the din. His greeting was punctuated with a playful thump on Charles's shoulder, a gesture that spoke volumes of their bond.
Charles, who had been a silent observer until now, absorbed the spectacle with wide eyes, a mix of fascination and trepidation colouring his gaze. His eyes, constantly moving, betrayed the unspoken question that lingered on his mind – what sort of world had we entered? The sights and sounds of Clivilius, so vastly different from anything we had known, seemed to both allure and unsettle him.
Dad, momentarily detaching from the loading duties, approached us with open arms, enveloping Charles in a robust embrace that seemed to momentarily lift the weight of uncertainty from his shoulders. His words, laden with a touch of resigned humour, resonated deeply. "Stuck together as a family forever in this bizarre place." The sentiment, while humorous, carried an undercurrent of solemnity—a recognition of the strangeness of our new reality and the unbreakable bond that tied us together.
A pang of guilt flitted through me at Dad's words, the assumption that Paul had filled him in on the unsettling truth gnawing at the edges of my conscience. Clivilius isn't the New Jerusalem, a thought that had haunted my quieter moments, casting a shadow over the wonder of our new beginning. The reality of Clivilius, with its newness of life and daunting unknowns, was a far cry from the utopian dreams that had filled my father’s imagination.
Paul, ever attuned to the subtleties of our family dynamics, met my gaze across the bustling expanse. In that silent exchange, volumes were spoken—a mutual understanding that a private conversation was pending, one that promised to delve into the complexities of our current predicament. But for now, amidst the whirlwind of survival that had enveloped us since our arrival in Clivilius, we remained mere players in the intricate dance of establishing a foothold in this new world.
“Let’s take a short break,” Paul announced, halting the operation with a commanding presence that seemed to momentarily still the air itself. His words, simple yet authoritative, prompted collective sighs of relief from the group, as the work paused.
"You've cut yourself," Paul observed, his eyes briefly flickering towards the inconspicuous wound on my elbow. The casualness of his observation belied the concern lurking beneath the surface.
"Yeah," I admitted cautiously, feeling the tension escalate as unspoken words hovered in the air between us.
Dad seized the opportune moment, suggesting a retreat to the camp with an air of light-heartedness that only a parent can muster in times of stress. "Come on, let's get you to the camp. Mum will be wanting to interrogate you," he said to Charles, his tone imbued with a touch of resigned humour that hinted at the familiar rituals of family life. Paul readily endorsed the idea, his nod a silent agreement to the temporary division of the group.
As they departed, the space between Paul and me seemed to grow more pronounced, the weight of unresolved conversations hanging heavily between us. With the others moving towards the camp, a bubble of privacy formed around us, a rare commodity in the communal life taking shape in Clivilius.
"We need to talk, in private," I asserted, the urgency in my voice cutting through the ambient clamour of the Drop Zone. The words, spoken aloud, seemed to carve out a space for the forthcoming dialogue, a recognition of the need to address the swirling undercurrents of our situation.
Amidst the rhythmic clatter of barrels being loaded onto the ute, a backdrop of industrious sound that had become the heartbeat of Bixbus, I guided Paul away from the bustling activity. The air around us seemed thick with unspoken questions, a tangible tension that was mirrored in the mix of concern and curiosity in Paul's eyes. His gaze was sharp, dissecting, always seeking the deeper meaning behind words left unsaid.
Jerome trailed behind us. Just as I considered requesting some privacy, Paul intervened, his voice carrying an undertone of authority that demanded attention. "It's okay," he assured, his approval of Jerome's presence reinforcing the gravity of our situation. "Everyone here in Clivilius will need to pull more than their own weight if we stand any chance of surviving out here." His gaze then shifted to Jerome, firm and unyielding. "That makes you a man now, bro." The weight of his words seemed to settle on Jerome's shoulders, his face oscillating between awe and trepidation, caught in the liminal space between young adulthood and the mantle of responsibility now placed upon him.
"Paul," I began, my voice a hushed murmur designed to carry weight yet not travel far, "we had to leave the house in a hurry. It's not safe there anymore." The admission felt heavy, laden with implications of unknown dangers.
Paul's reaction was immediate, his brow furrowing in a silent inquiry, his face a canvas of concern and confusion. Taking a deep breath, I continued, my words measured and deliberate, each one chosen to convey the seriousness of our predicament. "The police showed up, seemingly out of nowhere. And there's a Detective Santos involved."
The mention of a detective, a figure of authority far removed from the routine patrols we might have anticipated, seemed to strike a chord with Paul. Surprise and alarm flitted across his features, his eyes widening in response. "Detective? That's no beat cop. What were they doing there?"
"I've got no idea," I confessed, the admission a heavy weight in the silence that followed. Meeting his gaze, I conveyed the depth of my uncertainty, the unease that gnawed at the edges of my resolve. "I can't risk going back right now. Something feels off about the whole situation." The words hung between us, a stark acknowledgment of the peril that had driven Charles and me from the family home.
Paul nodded, his expression mirroring the weight of our shared concerns. Then, suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, his demeanour changed, an idea igniting in his eyes. "Claire!" he blurted out, the name slicing through the tension like a knife.
I gasped, the implications of his outburst dawning on me with unsettling clarity. "You think Claire would have gone to the police?" The question tumbled out, heavy with disbelief and a burgeoning sense of betrayal.
Paul's response was a pout, condescending in its delivery, as if the answer should have been obvious to me from the start. "Well, I have been missing for almost ten days now," he stated, matter-of-factly.
My brow furrowed, the revelation sinking in. Had it truly been that long?
"Has it been that long already?" Jerome echoed my unspoken thoughts, his voice tinged with surprise and a hint of alarm.
"Apparently so," Paul answered, a touch of weariness in his voice. "To be honest, I'm struggling to keep track of time here."
"But a Detective?" I pressed, grappling with the notion. "Would anybody take Claire's claims seriously enough to warrant spending Detective resources on her?" The skepticism in my voice was palpable, a reflection of my struggle to reconcile the image of Claire with the expense of law enforcement's involvement.
"Oh, come on, Luke. You've met Claire. She's the most skilled manipulator I've ever met," Paul retorted, his words carrying a mixture of respect and wariness for the woman he had chosen as a partner.
"Lucky you married her, then," I joked, an attempt to lighten the mood, to find some semblance of levity in our predicament. However, the humour fell flat, the gravity of the situation cementing itself further with Paul's unamused reaction.
"So, what's the plan?" Paul shifted the conversation towards action, his face etched with seriousness, the moment for jest long passed.
"For now, I need to steer clear of the house," I advised, the decision a difficult but necessary concession to the dangers that now lurked within the once-safe haven.
Paul, ever the strategist, pressed further. "Can you try and dig deeper into it? See just how messy things are getting?"
"Oh, things are definitely messy," I said, half serious, half light-hearted, as I thought about my blood on the shed and the semen-soaked garment I had left on my parent’s bed.
"To lighten the mood," Jerome chimed in, his suggestion cutting through the heavy air with a hopeful note. "Let's have a celebration tonight at the bonfire. Welcome the Smith Clan properly. What do you think?" His eyes sparkled with the prospect of unity and joy, an antidote to the tension that had momentarily ensnared us.
A faint smile touched Paul's lips, softening the hardened lines of concern that had settled there. "That's a damn good idea. A celebration might be just what we all need." His voice, infused with a newfound warmth, acknowledged the weight of Jerome's proposal—not just as a diversion, but as a vital reaffirmation of our communal spirit and resilience.
With the three of us in agreement, a wave of relief washed over me, and I clapped my hand on Paul's shoulder in a gesture of brotherly camaraderie. "I'll leave the two of you to organise it. We should have plenty of supplies between the raid last night and the food storage I've managed to bring through." The mention of our preparedness, the tangible results of our efforts to secure our survival, bolstered my confidence in the plan.
"Yeah, there's heaps here now," Paul responded, his smile broadening, the shadow of earlier conversations momentarily forgotten in the light of our collective resolve.
"I'll let Beatrix know too," I added, the logistics of the celebration beginning to take shape in my mind.
"And Jarod?" Paul couldn't resist adding, the gleam in his eye betraying his awareness of the complexities that lay within our interpersonal dynamics. My distaste for Beatrix choosing Jarod as a Guardian was no secret, a sore point that Paul, ever the observer, had not missed.
"Sure," I muttered, conceding to the necessity of inclusivity, even if it meant involving those I harboured reservations about. "I guess we should involve him too."
"This is going to be awesome!" Jerome's enthusiasm burst forth, untainted by the undercurrents that flowed beneath the surface of our planning. His cheer, genuine and infectious, elicited contagious smiles and chuckles from both Paul and me, a much-needed reminder of the joy and strength found in our collective spirit.
As our paths finally crossed by the Portals, Beatrix's energetic strides matched her lively greeting. "Hey, Luke!" she called out, the excitement evident in her voice. "This Guardian stuff is so much fun. I can jump between all these locations on Earth where we've registered Portal locations. It's awesome!"
"It is," I agreed, a subtle smile finding its way onto my face in response to Beatrix's infectious enthusiasm. Her ability to find joy in her responsibilities, to marvel at the capabilities bestowed upon her as a Guardian, offered a momentary reprieve from the weight of my own concerns. Her vibrant energy served as a beacon of light in the long and challenging day that had been consumed by the efforts of bringing my family to this new world.
Curiosity piqued by her interactions with my family, I ventured, "Have you met my family yet?" The question was tinged with a mix of hope and apprehension. The integration of my family into the fabric of Clivilius was paramount to me, and Beatrix's impressions would serve as a valuable gauge of their settling in.
"I've met your father. He seems to hang around the Drop Zone a lot with Paul," she shared, her chuckle resonating warmly in the air between us. "Oh, and Jerome. He's a cute one."
"Beatrix!" I snapped, the hint of protective older brother surfacing with a force that surprised even me. "He's only twenty-one. He's too young for you." The words spilled out, a reflexive defence, a barrier erected to shield Jerome from complications he didn't need.
Beatrix pouted playfully, undeterred by my warning. "That doesn't mean I can't enjoy his company," she retorted, her teasing smirk a challenge to my protective stance. Her ability to parry my concerns with humour was both frustrating and endearing, a testament to the complexity of our interactions.
"Don't even think about it," I warned, my tone firm and brooking no argument. "He's my younger brother." The declaration was more than a statement of fact; it was a line drawn in the sand, an assertion of my role in Jerome's life, even here in the uncertain terrain of Clivilius.
She scoffed in response, her expression a blend of defiance and playfulness that seemed to dance in her eyes. "He wouldn't go there, anyway," I continued, trying to lay the issue to rest with a fact I thought would deter any further teasing. "He's Mormon."
"Oh?" Beatrix probed, her eyebrow arching with curiosity, as if this piece of information added a new layer of intrigue rather than serving as a deterrent.
I chuckled, unable to resist the amusement that bubbled up at her persistence. Her curiosity, always as boundless as the worlds we could now traverse, had a way of making even the most steadfast facts seem like the beginning of a debate rather than the end. "He only dates other Mormons," I elaborated, hoping to paint a clearer picture of Jerome's world view, one steeped in faith and tradition.
"Give him time," Beatrix suggested, her voice laced with a confidence that suggested she saw this not as a barrier but as a temporary state of affairs. "Besides, I don't intend to bring any more Mormons to Clivilius. Do you?"
Her logic, flawed yet delivered with such unabashed assurance, drew a laugh from me, a sound that felt lighter than the air around us, but her question had planted a seed of thought. "Well, no, but..." I trailed off, the conversation veering into territory that was both familiar and foreign. The mention of Mormons in Clivilius, of integrating our Earthly identities and beliefs into this new world, evoked memories of Sunday School lessons and stories of the early pioneers. My mind wandered, drawn to tales of resilience, faith, and communal strength that had been ingrained in me since childhood.
As I stood there, lost in thought amidst the backdrop of Clivilius's bustling activity, the notion of a Mormon community in this extraterrestrial settlement took root in my mind with an unexpected clarity. Images of covered wagons and handcart treks flickered through my consciousness, vivid and compelling. The pioneers, those forebears who faced untold hardships and forged paths through uncharted territories, had clung to their faith and community for survival. Their narrative, one of perseverance, faith, and collective strength in the face of adversity, resonated deeply with me. It was a testament to the enduring importance of unity and shared beliefs, especially when confronted by the unknown.
The stories of those who had crossed the plains, seeking refuge and religious freedom, echoed in my thoughts, their echoes blending seamlessly with the sounds of Clivilius. Could Clivilius, this alien world that we were slowly making our own, become a new gathering place? A haven for those seeking not just refuge from Earth's challenges but also a different kind of sanctuary—a sanctuary of purpose, of shared vision?
The parallels between the pioneers' journey across daunting landscapes and our current quest for survival in this new environment were striking. Both were tales of leaving behind the familiar in search of something greater, of facing the vast unknown with little more than faith and each other.
Actually, I mused, my contemplation deepening in the silence that surrounded me, it might not be such a bad idea. The early pioneers, despite—or perhaps because of—their challenges, forged a community that was tightly knit, resilient, and imbued with a sense of higher purpose. They relied on each other, their shared values providing a compass through their trials. Maybe that's precisely what we need here in Clivilius—a sense of community that transcends mere survival, a shared purpose that binds us together not just as individuals fighting to adapt, but as a collective, united in our quest to thrive in this new world.
"Hello, Earth to Luke," Beatrix quipped, her voice slicing through my reverie like a beacon. Her fingers snapped in front of my face, an effective, albeit startling, method to reel me back from the depths of my contemplation.
Shaking off the remnants of my thoughts, I found myself momentarily disoriented by the abrupt return to the present. "We're not on Earth," I retorted, a half-smile playing on my lips as I anchored myself in the reality of Clivilius, not just geographically but metaphorically as well.
"Aren't we?" Beatrix fired back sharply, her quick wit a constant reminder of the complexity of our situation. Her question, though posed in jest, resonated with a deeper, more existential inquiry.
"I'm really not sure," I admitted with a gentle shrug, conceding to the ambiguity of our existence in Clivilius. It was a place that defied simple definitions, a world that was neither fully alien nor entirely reminiscent of Earth.
Beatrix chuckled, a sound that seemed to celebrate her banter victory, a playful acknowledgment of our ongoing verbal sparring. "Anyway," I redirected the conversation, eager to share the news of the impending celebration, "they're organising a big celebration at the bonfire tonight to welcome all the new people that have arrived in the last few days."
"That sounds like a great idea," Beatrix agreed cheerfully, her enthusiasm genuine.
"You'll be coming along then?" I asked, my question laced with an undercurrent of curiosity about her willingness to partake in community gatherings, especially given the Guardians' notorious tendency to avoid such events after dark.
"Yeah. Sounds like fun," Beatrix replied, her voice carrying a hint of something akin to relief. "Could do with a bit of fun."
"Oh, come on," I interjected, grinning, seizing the opportunity to tease her. "You loved plundering that Big W store last night." The memory of the raid, a blend of adrenaline and necessity, was a vivid one, marked by Beatrix's particular flair for the dramatic.
"It's my specialty," Beatrix acknowledged with a mischievous grin, her pride in her unique skills apparent. "Leave it to me, Luke. I'll make sure it's a night they won't forget." Her confidence was infectious, a beacon of optimism in the uncertain terrain of our new world.
"Let's make it memorable, Beatrix," I said, my voice imbued with a newfound determination. "A celebration to anchor them here, in the heart of Bixbus."
"Agreed," she said. "Anyway, there's Guardian work to be done,” she added, her tone shifting to one of resolve as she activated her Portal and disappeared, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.
"Shit," I muttered to myself, a twinge of frustration laced with concern bubbling up as I realised I had forgotten to ask her about Jarod. Beatrix's sudden departure through the Portal left me with a lingering unease. Jarod's silence since his arrival was troubling, a silent alarm bell that rang faintly in the back of my mind. My knowledge of Jarod was limited, but the bits and pieces I did know painted a picture of complexity and potential turmoil, especially in his interactions with Beatrix. Together, they formed a duo that was as dynamic as it was unpredictable, and the uncertainty of their influence on each other—and on Clivilius—was a puzzle I was yet to solve.
