Fiction

Flyboys

by Gary Ritter
10/13/14
Not For Sale
Author requests article critique

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Professor Eckridge toyed with the Bucky Ball set on his desk, his chin in his hand.  As he finished forming the object of his dreams, he looked at it longingly.

Across the desk from Eckridge sat Professor Cornel.  He said, “We have got to get a life.  Making flying saucers out of magnetic balls is not going to get us more funding.”

“The greenies have beat us.  You and I, we’re getting old.  I thought that when the New Age movement got momentum we’d be swept along with it.  But, no, here we are, simply an afterthought.”

“Bucky up, man.  Just because global cooling, global warming, and now climate change advocates have sucked in the gullible to their religion doesn’t mean we can’t make a comeback.”  Cornel grabbed the replica UFO from his compatriot and held it up to the light streaming in through the office window.  The reflection off the metal into the other man’s eyes caused him to wince and shield his face.  “Listen, my friend, we have the brilliance of the universe in our hands.  All creation is crying out for the answer asked eons ago: ‘Where did we come from?’  We’re at the center of the research that can spark a global awareness, if we only arouse the conscience of the world.”

“You think that because Roswell, New Mexico still has a mystique about it that we can grab back our share of headlines (and funding) from the socialists who run the green movement?  You’re dreaming.  They’ve got the politicians and the lobbyists.  All we’ve got is crop circles and the occasional sighting of a silvery something in the sky.  We’re toast.”  Eckridge snatched the Bucky UFO back and placed it on his desk.

“I have an idea,” Cornel said.  “You’ve heard of people selling their soul to the devil.”

Eckridge stared at Cornel in horror.  “You wouldn’t!”

“Why not?  What have I got to lose?  But I’m not doing it unless you do it, too.  Either we’re in this together for fame and fortune, or we continue traveling the long road to obscurity.”

“But what if something terrible happens?” Eckridge said.

Cornel laughed.  “What could possibly go wrong?”

***

Three months later headlines of every major newspaper and the dominant Internet media outlets screamed about the outbreak of UFO sightings.  Calls poured into the UFO Research Center headquartered in Roswell.  In the last week alone, three prominent politicians had promised huge increases in research grants.  Better yet, Professors Eckridge and Cornel were receiving a daily barrage of speaking requests.  They had teamed up with famous atheist Richard Dawkins to promulgate the theory that life on planet Earth had arisen through alien seeding, taking it the further step that alien “parents” had come back for their offspring.  Only the government, only the research center located in Roswell, and only Professors Eckridge and Cornel could make contact to prevent the worldwide catastrophe of invasion and decimation.  Life was good.

***

In the spiritual realm of the universe the lightbearers operating under Lucifer’s direction were having a great time.  In the economy dictated by the forces of hell, when someone sold his soul, funds became freely available to deceive the creatures of earth.  The orders given the lightbearers working on this project were to cobble together as many shiny objects as they could, make them mysterious, and fly them so all could see.  Milk this for all it was worth: Start UFO cults within the churches and make congregants believe these weren’t aliens, rather they were angels come to gather the elect.  And it worked.  Christians in Name Only, affectionately called ChINOs by the lightbearers, who had no true grounding in the Word gravitated toward the falsehoods.  Having had conversions that weren’t real, they were easy pickings.

As time passed the world turned from eco-religion to Alienism.  Professor Eckridge became high priest and Cornel his prophet.  Together they profited mightily.  When Cornel finally lay on his deathbed following this spectacular run, Eckridge at his side asked him if he had any regrets.  Cornel’s eyes closed and two words escaped his lips: “My soul.”  His body writhed in agony for a moment and grew still.

Eckridge looked up and asked in a quavering voice, “Can I have my soul back?”  The laugh he heard on the inside of his head confirmed the words that formed.

“It’s too late.  You’re mine.”