Creak Of Ether

By Murtaza

Strap in for 'Creak of Ether,' a dark sci-fi rollercoaster that doesn't just push boundaries—it obliterates them. This book isn't your grandma's sci-fi. It's a raw, unfiltered dive into the abyss where the only light is the glint off a knife's edge. Expect no hand-holding on this trip through the cosmic dark side. It's all grit, shadows, and things best left unspoken but we're going there anyway. For those who like their reads as merciless as the void, 'Creak of Ether' delivers a gut punch to the norms of the genre. Get ready for a mind-f*ck of interstellar proportions. You've been warned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Village Publications
• Release date: Mar 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224247424

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Breaking Point

Emily Thompson stared out the window of her Brooklyn apartment, her eyes fixed on the dark, swirling vortex that had replaced the once-iconic Manhattan skyline. It had been three days since the Viziers of Vice had enacted whatever hellish ritual caused the phenomenon, and the city—no, the world—had been in freefall ever since.

The news cycle had become an apocalyptic ticker tape: governments destabilized, landmarks destroyed, and populations decimated. Emily, a journalist by trade, felt an obligation to document this cataclysmic period, but even she was paralyzed by the sheer scale of it all. Her laptop sat open on the dining table, a blank Word document mirroring the emptiness she felt.

Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Mark, her editor.

Any updates? People are desperate for real info. Rumors are wild.

Emily sighed. How could she write about something so much larger than herself, something that defied human comprehension?

She was about to type a non-committal reply when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye: a brief flicker in the vortex. She squinted, unsure if she had imagined it. Then it happened again—a pulse of light, like a heartbeat.

Across the city, in a makeshift command center set up in an abandoned subway station, General Sarah Mitchell reviewed the latest intel reports. Her eyes were bloodshot, her uniform stained with both mud and dried blood. The military's last-ditch efforts to fight off the demonic invasion had failed miserably. The prototype weapons had suddenly become useless, almost as if the enemy had flipped a switch and turned them off.

Sarah looked at the men and women in the room—brave, competent soldiers who had been reduced to mere spectators of humanity's downfall. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She had led troops through war zones, survived ambushes and IEDs, but nothing had prepared her for this.

Any word from the scientists? she asked, her voice tinged with desperation.

Captain Lewis, her second-in-command, shook his head. They're as lost as we are, General. The laws of physics are breaking down. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Sarah exhaled sharply, her eyes narrowing. Then we'll make our last stand not based on science, but on sheer human will.

Meanwhile, on the Collector ship orbiting Earth, Aisha felt the walls close in on her. The abductors had isolated her from the other women after their collective act of defiance. The room—cell—she found herself in was antiseptic, the air tinged with a scent that reminded her of bleach. They had taken her abaya, her final connection to her home and culture. She felt vulnerable but, paradoxically, also defiant.

Her mind raced through memories of Earth, of her family, of the community she had been ripped away from. The thought that she might never see them again was a heavy burden, but it also ignited a spark of rebellion within her.

She began to hum softly, a simple tune her grandmother had taught her as a child. The melody filled the sterile space, vibrating against the metallic walls, almost as if rejecting the very environment she was trapped in.

It was then that she felt it—a strange sensation, as if the ship itself were listening. The walls seemed to shimmer momentarily, the atmosphere growing tense.

Back on Earth, Emily's phone captured the pulse emanating from the vortex once again. This time, however, it was different. The pulsating light resonated at a specific frequency, one that matched the tune Aisha was humming on the Collector ship.

At the underground command center, Sarah looked up from the reports, feeling a sudden shift in the air. She couldn't explain it, but it felt as if the rules had changed, if only slightly.

In that moment, a fragile but undeniable link formed between Emily, Sarah, and Aisha—three women separated by insurmountable distances and dire circumstances, yet united by a shared sense of humanity and a refusal to surrender.

They didn't know it yet, but this delicate connection would become a lifeline, a thin thread of hope in a tapestry of despair. For even as the world teetered on the brink of the abyss, the seeds for a last, desperate stand were sown.

Hey, General, you need to see this, Captain Lewis beckoned Sarah over to a makeshift table littered with electronics and printed maps.

He played a video clip that had been uploaded to a dark web forum. It showed the pulsating light from the vortex over Manhattan. This isn't a glitch. That light is rhythmic, almost like it's sending a signal.

Sarah looked pensive. Or maybe someone is sending a signal to it.

What do you mean? Lewis questioned.

Get me a line to Emily Thompson, the journalist. If she's still out there, she might have more information.

Up in her Brooklyn apartment, Emily's phone buzzed with an incoming call labeled UNKNOWN. She hesitated for a moment before answering.

Emily Thompson speaking.

This is General Sarah Mitchell. I believe you have footage of the vortex that we need to see.

Despite the dire circumstances, Emily couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement. How did you even find me?

It's my job to find people, Sarah replied tersely. Can we meet? Time is of the essence.

Emily quickly agreed, setting up a meeting point halfway between them. She grabbed her camera, her laptop, and donned a makeshift mask—a sad necessity given the toxic atmosphere the vortex had spewed out.

On the Collector ship, Aisha felt the room's walls shift again. This time, a hidden panel slid open, revealing a complex interface of alien technology. Her humming had triggered something, but what?

Taking a deep breath, she stepped closer and tentatively touched the panel. It responded with a cascade of colors and unfamiliar symbols. Words filled her mind, not in a language she knew, but in feelings and concepts. It was as if the ship were communicating directly with her consciousness.

Then she understood. This interface was how the Collectors controlled the ship. It was like a neural network, sensitive to emotional frequencies. That meant it was vulnerable to human emotions—emotions like defiance, courage, hope.

Sarah and Emily met in an abandoned coffee shop, its windows shattered, the espresso machines long since looted. Emily set her camera down and showed Sarah the footage.

Do you have any theories? Sarah asked after watching the pulsating light.

None that would make sense in a sane world, Emily replied. But my gut tells me this is not just random.

At that moment, both their phones buzzed with notifications. A new video had just been uploaded—a shaky cellphone clip of a spontaneous gathering in Tahrir Square, Cairo. Thousands were humming a tune in unison, their collective voice resonating in a hauntingly beautiful melody.

Sarah's eyes met Emily's. Do you recognize that tune?

Emily nodded, her voice tinged with disbelief. It's the same frequency as the pulsating light over Manhattan.

Back at the command center, Sarah received a secure message from one of her remaining contacts in the Pentagon. It was a single line, a question more chilling than any she had seen before:

Do we still have the nuclear launch codes?

Sarah looked at Lewis. They're considering the last resort.

That's madness, Lewis responded. That would mean—

It would mean Earth would die by our hand, not theirs, Sarah finished his sentence. I need another option.

Her eyes fell on Emily's camera, still recording. We need to tap into this frequency, whatever it is. We need to understand it before we turn to Armageddon.

Across these disparate scenes, the connections between Aisha, Sarah, and Emily strengthened. Unbeknownst to them, they were becoming the focal points of a resistance that defied conventional understanding, one that operated on frequencies beyond the visible spectrum.

It was a connection that transcended military rank, journalistic integrity, or even the cruel distance of interstellar space. It was the essence of humanity itself—defiant, resourceful, and inexplicably intertwined.

Sarah looked at the data streams in front of her. We need to find a way to tap into this frequency, to 'speak' to it, if you will. Lewis, get me our best comms people, now.

Lewis saluted and scurried away, barking orders into his headset as he went. Sarah turned to Emily. I never thought I'd say this, but we might need you to go live.

You want to broadcast this? Is that safe? Emily asked, skepticism edging her voice.

We're past the point of playing it safe, Sarah said, eyes locked onto Emily's. People are looking for something—anything—that gives them hope. This could be it.

Aboard the Collector ship, Aisha continued to experiment with the neural panel. As she hummed different tunes, different parts of the interface lit up. It was like playing an incredibly complex musical instrument, one that responded not just to sound but to emotion.

Then a series of symbols caught her eye. They seemed to pulsate in time with her humming, almost as if mimicking her. Her heart raced; was this how the Collectors communicated among themselves?

She had an idea: a very risky one.

Emily set up her equipment in the abandoned coffee shop, hands trembling as she dialed into her news network's emergency broadcast frequency. This is Emily Thompson, live from Brooklyn. If you can hear me, please listen carefully.

Her feed was picked up almost instantly, re-broadcast by dozens of pirate radio stations, shared on countless social media platforms. Her face, framed by the light of her laptop, became an unexpected beacon in a world starved for reliable news.

I'm here with General Sarah Mitchell, Emily gestured to Sarah who stepped into frame, and we have something you need to see.

She played the footage of the pulsating light, followed by the clip of the Cairo gathering. This is more than a coincidence; this is a connection. We don't know how or why, but humanity's emotional resonance is being picked up by these...forces.

Back at the command center, Lewis and his team had rigged a contraption to the comms system. It looked like a Frankensteinian mishmash of military tech and salvaged electronics.

Are we ready? Sarah asked, gripping the edge of the table.

As we'll ever be, General, Lewis responded.

Sarah took a deep breath and nodded at Emily. Go ahead, say it.

Emily looked into the camera, her eyes filled with a strange blend of uncertainty and hope. If you're watching this, we need you to do something. We need you to hum, to emit positive emotions, to focus every good thought you have toward breaking this dark spell that's gripped us.

She paused, swallowing hard. And we need you to do it now.

In Egypt, the video reached a young man huddled with others around a battery-powered TV. With a nod, he lifted his phone and forwarded the message to everyone in his contacts. Within minutes, the tune began, softly at first, but growing in strength and conviction, sweeping across Tahrir Square, across Cairo, and into the hearts of all who heard it.

Aboard the Collector ship, Aisha felt the ship shudder, the colors on the neural panel swirling in a dizzying pattern. It was working; the emotional surge from Earth was feeding into the ship's network. Summoning every ounce of courage, she focused her thoughts and hummed, her tune synchronizing with the emotional wave emanating from her home planet.

The panel flickered, symbols shifting rapidly, and then...it stopped. Aisha held her breath, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

Suddenly, the door to her cell slid open. She stepped out, cautiously at first, then with increasing confidence. She didn't know how, but she had done it; she had unlocked the door.

Sarah's eyes were glued to the comms interface. Data was streaming in, real-time measurements of the frequency fluctuations. And there it was—a spike, a significant one, right at the moment Emily had asked the world to hum.

For the first time in days, Sarah allowed herself a small smile. We've made contact.

Emily, eyes misty, nodded. We've given people a voice. Let's just hope it's loud enough to be heard.

In a secret bunker beneath the ruins of the Pentagon, Colonel Richard 'Rick' Mason stared at a bank of monitors, each showing various angles of the demonic entities overrunning Washington, D.C. The news of the humming event had reached him, but he remained skeptical. Emotional resonance seemed like a nebulous concept to hinge humanity's survival on.

His thoughts were interrupted by his second-in-command, Lieutenant Derek Wang. Sir, our outposts in Baltimore and Philly have gone dark. No comms.

Rick clenched his jaw. Get me an aerial view, now.

Derek swiftly complied, and a live drone feed popped up on the screen. It showed remnants of the outposts—smoldering ashes, twisted metal, and no signs of life.

Jack, for God's sake, answer your phone! In a dilapidated Brooklyn apartment, Jack Thompson, Emily's younger brother and a skilled hacker, saw the incoming call from an unknown number. He picked up reluctantly.

Who's this?

It's Colonel Mason. I need to speak with your sister.

Why?

Because, we're trying to triangulate the source of the vortex, and her footage has some data that could help.

Jack was intrigued. He may not have been a military man, but he understood the importance of data. I'll get her. But you owe us answers.

Meanwhile, aboard the Collector ship, Aisha had navigated her way to what appeared to be the ship's control room. The panel there was more complex than the one in her cell, its myriad symbols ever-shifting. It wasn't just waiting for an input; it seemed to be actively searching for something—or someone.

A terrible thought crossed her mind. What if the Collectors were also looking for the source of the emotional resonance? What if they intended to destroy it?

General Mitchell, are you seeing this? Rick's voice crackled over Sarah's radio. He had patched into her command center, sharing his aerial views.

Sarah stared at the devastation. Is this their retaliation for the humming event?

We can't rule it out, Rick said. The timing is too coincidental.

Emily, overhearing the conversation, felt her heart sink. So what you're saying is, we may have just painted a target on our own backs.

Rick's voice was steely. That's exactly what I'm saying.

In his makeshift hacker den, Jack connected with Emily via a secure line. Em, you need to talk to this Colonel Mason. He thinks your footage could help locate the vortex source.

Despite her reservations, Emily agreed. A new conference call was set up, this one including Sarah, Rick, and Jack.

After sharing their data and findings, it was Jack who finally spoke. Based on the frequency fluctuations and energy surges, I think I can pinpoint the vortex's origin. But it's going to be a one-shot attempt.

Rick was skeptical. And why should we trust your calculations?

Sarah intervened. Because we're out of options and time. Do it, Jack.

Aboard the Collector ship, Aisha realized that touching the control panel was a two-way conduit; she could feel the ship's intentions. And they were far from benign. A new set of symbols appeared, and she understood. They had located Earth's resonance point, and they were preparing to strike.

Summoning her courage, Aisha hummed—this time, a discordant, jarring tune. The panel flickered erratically. She was disrupting it, but she could feel her energy draining fast.

Jack's algorithm finished its calculations. Coordinates appeared on the screen. That's it; that's where it's coming from.

And that's where we strike, Rick declared. We can't wait any longer.

But what's the plan? Emily asked, anxiousness clear in her voice.

A small tactical team will infiltrate the point and plant an explosive device, Rick explained. It's a suicide mission, but if it closes the vortex...

We'll finally have a fighting chance, Sarah finished.

Aboard the Collector ship, Aisha collapsed, her energy spent. The panel stabilized, its terrible mission back on track.

Just then, the ship quivered as if struck by some colossal force. The panel went dark. For a fleeting moment, Aisha felt a rush of hope.

Rick looked at the monitors; the vortex was shrinking. We did it. We actually did it.

But Sarah, staring at her own data, felt a chill. It's not gone; it's transforming. Into what, I don't know.

As they contemplated their pyrrhic victory, they received a message from Jack. You need to see this; there's another frequency emerging.

Rick looked at Sarah. Is this the end?

Sarah shook her head. No, Colonel, it's another beginning. And I'm afraid this one is far darker than what we've seen.

Rick Mason's eyes were fixed on the screen, the new frequency spike seeming almost malevolent. What does this mean, Jack? Talk to me.

Jack was flustered, his voice tinged with fear. I don't know, okay? This frequency—it's unlike anything we've ever seen. It's not just harmful; it's like it's actually... alive.

Alive? Sarah couldn't contain her disbelief. You're saying the vortex is sentient?

No, not the vortex, Jack clarified. Something on the other side of it.

Aboard the Collector ship, Aisha was now surrounded by Collectors. Yet strangely, they didn't seem hostile. Instead, they looked...confused? She seized the moment, touching the control panel, and projected a series of symbols she'd seen earlier, the ones closest to peace and negotiation she could find.

To her astonishment, one of the Collectors mimicked the symbols back at her.

We're getting real-time data from Cairo, Lewis informed Sarah. Whatever that new frequency is, it's affecting people differently—making them more aggressive, more... evil.

Emily, overhearing this, felt her stomach churn. Are you saying this frequency is corrupting people?

Sarah hesitated, choosing her words carefully. It might be worse than that. It could be controlling them.

In Brooklyn, strange occurrences were unfolding. Petty crimes escalated into violent outbreaks; simple disagreements transformed into deadly confrontations. Jack, glued to his social media feeds, was horrified.

This frequency is doing something to us, and I don't think we're going to like the outcome.

Rick had made up his mind. I'm going to that vortex point. If there's a malevolent force on the other side, I intend to meet it head-on.

Sarah couldn't believe what she was hearing. That's insane. We have no idea what you'd be walking into!

Rick's voice was steely as ever. Sometimes, insanity is the only sane response to an insane world.

Aisha felt the Collector ship suddenly change direction. Through her interactions, she learned they were now avoiding Earth. But why? Was it out of respect for her message, or something more sinister?

A new symbol appeared on the panel, one she hadn't seen before. It was complex, intricate, and gave her a sense of dread. Could it be that the Collectors were also afraid of this new frequency?

As Rick approached the vortex point, he was joined by a small, elite team, each member aware that this might be a one-way trip. But as they reached the coordinates, they found nothing. No vortex, no visual anomalies—just an empty space.

Is this some kind of joke? Rick growled into his comms.

Jack was frantically reviewing the data. The frequency is still there; I swear it. It's just...invisible.

That's when they heard it—a guttural sound, as if the air itself was growling at them. The men instinctively raised their weapons, but there was nothing to shoot at. That's when Rick felt it—an unseen hand gripping his heart, squeezing tighter and tighter.

Sarah was watching Rick's vitals plummet in real-time. Rick, talk to me! What's happening?

But he couldn't answer. He could only feel—as could his men—a darkness seeping into them, a malevolent force consuming their very souls.

In a last act of defiance, Rick activated the explosive charge he had brought, knowing it would consume him and his team.

Forgive me, he whispered, before everything went black.

Back at the command center, the screens displaying the vortex frequency suddenly flatlined. At the same moment, Aisha felt the Collector ship lurch, as if freed from an unseen burden.

It's gone, Sarah announced, her voice tinged with both relief and regret. But at what cost?

As they all took a moment to absorb the terrible reality, Jack's monitor beeped. A new message had come in—a series of complex symbols, sent directly from Aisha aboard the Collector ship.

We need to talk, it read.

Chapter 2: Dark Resonance

Sarah stared at the incoming message, a mixture of hope and disbelief in her eyes. Is this really from Aisha? How is this possible?

Jack was already decrypting the message, his fingers flying over the keyboard. I set up a secure backchannel, just in case. Whatever she's found, it's important.

As the translation completed, everyone held their breath. I've established a dialogue with the Collectors, the message read. They're more afraid of the new frequency than we are. We have a common enemy.

Aboard the Collector ship, Aisha stood surrounded by their intergalactic crew. Communicating through the panel, she had relayed information about Earth's desperate fight against the demonic entities and the dark frequency. The symbols