Theophany is the Weapon

By J. Sherwood Veith

Why did you kill daddy if it makes you cry?

The child trembles violently, and sobless tears tear from the corners of her eyes. An explosion outside ripples the pool of blood between mother and child. Intermittent bursts of static give momentary respite from the screams of the reporter on the television. Nearly everyone, everywhere, has been screaming since B’azthrat touched the minds of Earth. 

I’m not crying over Daddy, the mother replies, or at least, that’s not the main reason I’m crying. 

Wailing from the civil defense siren replaces the reporter’s screams. Text fills the screen, warning viewers to stay away from individuals who were asleep during the attack. The mother ignores the television and brushes the child’s hair gently, who winces from the warm blood trickling from the mother’s hand. The mother has never been particularly good at soothing the child. Daddy was much better suited to coaxing the child back to sleep after a scary dream, while the mother slept.

I’m crying because I don’t want to kill you. 

***

From the hallway, the door to the apartment buckles. Sharp thuds turn into prolonged heaves. When the particle board around the deadbolt finally gives way, it shoots splinters into the room like shrapnel. 

B’azthrat stands in the open doorway in glory — scales unblemished by wound, razor sharp pawcules, eyes immune to the sting of smoke.

He scans the room and finds the mother kneeling over the lifeless body of her child. With two loping strides, B’azthrat is at her side. He slides his bottom right pawcule under her arm and tugs with the universal gesture for departure. 

Your military throws itself against us. Time runs short.

Yet, instead of rising, the mother slumps into B’azthrat. I want to know why you commanded this.

Another explosion outside rattles the windows. 

The mother moans, I want to know why this — holding up the palms of her blood-drenched hands — had to happen. Won’t you tell me why? 

B’azthrat leans back and considers the mother’s prayer. You believe that you have earned some prize. However, I have never doubted your faith more than at this moment. 

This rebuke shakes the mother’s reality more than the army’s bombs, more than even the screams of her family. The lights in the apartment burn like small suns when the power momentarily surges. More screams echo through the neighbourhood as rejuvenated streetlamps expose B’azthrat’s brothers.

She wants to repent. But before she can, B’azthrat continues, You want me to assuage your guilt. But I ask you this: is not unquestioning loyalty manifest when the mere invitation of your god is reason enough?

***

B’azthrat leads the mother to the window and points at a tall, obsidian obelisk sitting in the street below. You are so close, he whispers. 

The mother sees the alien artifact and knows that it is a ship. It is the vessel whereby B’azthrat proselytizes from star to star. And, she also sees the ship for what it truly is, a temple, a place where the barrier between god and man is most permeable. 

B’azthrat exudes divine ecstasy. He tastes the mother’s revelation. She is beginning to see as one sees in dream, with sight and understanding. When the mother was a child, she dreamed about chasing a dog she had never met around a yard she had never stepped foot in. Even though the dog was the product of her imagination, she knew that the dog was her dog and that he was a good dog. The dream imbued her with genuine love for the dog in a way that experience never could. 

Now, awake, the mother sees and perceives simultaneously. The highways are the plaque-ridden arteries of a sick heart. The anemic pings of bullets hitting the ship’s hull testify of B’azthrat’s power. Humanity is standing elbow-to-elbow in an overcrowded landfill. The only way out is up, and the only way up is through B’azthrat. And, looking at the syrupy blood drying on her hands, she witnesses that, as dream vision imparts love for the imaginary, it can as easily annul love for the corporal…

I commanded you to kill your family because it amused me.

The mother basks in the joy of standing in the presence of her god.

About the Author

J. Sherwood Veith is an attorney and science fiction writer.

His work explores the intersection of law, ethics, and religion.

When he's not writing, he is bumming around North America on his motorcycle in search of the perfect chimichanga.

He lives north of Miami, Florida in the United States, with his wife and two daughters.

Follow him on X @JSherwoodWrites.