The Pole Shift

The Masters

Macka had never met his Masters. Within a minute a car pulled up.  They didn't drive far, just into Little Collins Street. A man opened a door in a high wall that led into a garden. Macka must have passed the door a thousand times, and yet it's existence had passed him by. The door closed and he was alone in the pristine garden. A palm tree rose a dozen meters above him, strangely out of place in the centre of a lawn, in the centre of a city.

                "What's going on." He asked Prophet, but there was no response. Shortly a door to a building that looked like it ran along Collins Street opened and another man dressed in a suit appeared. He smiled, gestured that Macka should follow and was led into a corridor then into a room painted  deep plum. Within the room sat four people, two men and two women. They seemed strangely familiar.

                "Ian McKenzie. Macka. We meet at the end of this age of men. Listen for a moment." Silence bloomed in the deeply coloured room.  Seconds passed. Outside a tram rattled up Collins Street, people shouted. Cars revved and horns sounded. The man continued:  "The sound of a city. There won't be a city like this for another ten thousand years." The man, tall, aged yet well-built, stood and shook Macka's hand, His grey hair was cut in an older fashion, and seemed to lock together as organized cowlicks. He's sporting a mullet thought Macka and nearly smirked. The taller of the two woman stood and said:

                "You have done a very good job for us Macka." She too shook his hand, she said: "I hope you don't find my hair amusing, I might take it to heart." There were slight smiles amongst the four. Macka's humour drowned in the surreal moment. There was a long pause, Macka said:

                "Have I done enough? Will they survive?"

                "They might, said the second woman. She seemed less friendly, she didn't stand nor shake his hand. Her hair had once been blonde, but was now streaked silver. Only a hint of flaxen remained. A man entered the room with tea, and Macka was asked to sit. They sipped the black leaf brew in silence, the aroma filling the room. Macka felt himself relax. At last he said:

                "So, what's it all about? Who are you? It's been twenty years and this is the first time we have met."

                "Yes." Said the man.  "Twenty years ago we were shown you. In the mountains, always muttering tarp and riffle. We liked that. We liked how you noticed things. You are a throwback male of our species. Not domesticated.  You saw the orange orb. Do you know there is an Ocean inside the Earth? It is bigger than all the surface Oceans put together." The comments were disconnected, as if he had been reading one of Sean's conspiracy websites. He continued:

                " You saw the last of the mountain Aborigines. They clung on for a long time, unnoticed.  Gone now though. " The man looked pained, remembering something. He went on:

                "Would it surprise you to know Sean is a throwback too? Not as capable as you of course, but neither is he domesticated. He is a prisoner of this time, of consumerism, that's all. If he gets through, he may surprise. " Macka had his doubts. He was thinking of the man he had spoken to twenty years ago. Someone like him, a servant to these people with snail shell curls. Fibonacci curls. Not police, not politicians, not priests. Not the military, or mums and dads or poets or scientists. These people that orchestrated civilisation, unseen.

                "What about the others? What about Lett? Mnem? Will Jimmy make it?" Macka realised he now cared for them, they weren't just assignments.

                "No need to worry about them now. Time to think of yourself." On the wall was a painting of a man, an early European of Australia. The face was careful, measured in expression. A wise face. The hair of the man in the painting had the same curled cowlicks as the man who had spoken to him first. controlled cowlicks, Macka looked closely at the curls, mathematical in their contour. He looked at the four people, their hair had the same cowlicks, although they varied in size. Perhaps they were all related.  He thought there must be something important to it but was reluctant to ask. Instead he resumed his appreciation of the painting and realised it was a depiction of the man that had not spoken.

                "How can that be? Your ancestor perhaps?" Macka motioned to the painting and the seated man. he spoke:

                "My name is Perez. You need not know much more about us other than what I am about to tell you. Twelve thousand years ago, our ancestors were singled out and helped through a Pole Shift. Our ancient fathers and mothers were given access to advanced science, and an interface to that science, much like Prophet is an interface today. With the use of that sophisticated technology, humans started again. That story repeats, as most things do. Your four, Lett, Mnem Jimmy and Sean will attempt to start new civilisations. They will be long lived, as we are. Don't look so panicked, they are not the only ones, there are others like you, helping people of today deemed, unique. There are many sets of four. They may meet up in the Post Pole Shift world, they may be friendly to each other, they may not. Some will die, some will fail, and some will succeed in starting a new age. Just as it has always been. "

                Macka was very thoughtful, he had only suspected he was a pawn of secret knowledge, secret technology and power.

                "Where do I fit in?" The four all paused, there was a sideways glance.

                "You don't."  Again, Macka had anticipated that once his role was complete he would be cast aside.

                "All I ask for is a tarp and riffle, I want my chance." There was a very long pause.

                "Give us your crystal." Macka was handed a razor, it was painful to cut into his earlobe and the scar tissue that had formed around the interface. He held their eyes as he did, then bloodily dropped the crystal on a table.

                 "Don't go above 1600 meters. Don't contact any of your assignments. " The four stood.  A man came and led him through the garden. He found himself completely alone on Little Collins street, one of the scared faces of a doomed city.