THE SIGN - 1984

Joseph Stipe, First Prophet of the Church of Celestial Consciousness, entered the tent. Two hundred people, all clad in plain white robes, stood in unison, waiting as he made his way to the podium.

It had been a rough year for the Prophet. The civil suit had cost the group their Arizona compound. Life on the road had not suited many of Stipe’s followers. His flock had been cut in half, and his hold on the remainder was tenuous.

That would all change tonight. When those assembled here saw the Sign, they would follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond.

Stipe regarded his followers in the dim light of the gas lanterns illuminating the tent. Most looked at him with dull eyes, sheep ready to be led.

But a few faces showed dissatisfaction, if not outright distrust. Stipe needed to nip this in the bud before it was too late.

“O my children,” Stipe intoned, his voice deep and assuring, filling the tent. “I know your hearts and your minds. Some of you doubt the Starbrothers.”

A murmur of denial rippled through the throng. “Do not deny it! The Brothers came to me last night. They told me of your distress. They told me faith was not enough for some of you.” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then: “I told them they were wrong!”

A collective gasp burst from the group. The Prophet had defied the Starbrothers? For them? “I told them my people had faith, that you were worthy of the rewards the Brothers will bring after the Last Days!”

“They told me I was wrong. And looking around here tonight, I see that they spoke the truth, as they always do. Some of you harbour doubts!”

The tension was palpable. “But!” he yelled abruptly, startling several. “Do not be afraid. The Starbrothers understand. This planet is rife with diseased mental waves, pressing in upon you. You are only human, the chosen few who will join with the Starbrothers when the time comes, but still human…for now.

“And so they sent me a sign!” Stipe reached beneath the podium and drew out the Sign. It gleamed dully in the greasy lamplight.

“This, my people, is the Starbrothers’ gift to us!” Stipe pointed it at the podium. A small popping sound announced a small metal pellet’s ejection from the object. The Celestials watched, fascinated, as it drifted, slowly, impossibly slowly to the podium.

It burst on contact. A gray substance appeared at the point of impact, growing quickly until it covered the entire podium in a hard shell.

“You see!” shouted Stipe. “Tell me you see the Sign!” Cries of joy erupted from the crowd. After a moment, Stipe waved them to silence.

Before he could speak another voice rang out. “And that is just the beginning!”

Stipe stumbled on the next line of the speech he’d practiced all day. He looked into the crowd, trying to find the one who dared interrupt him.

Excited whispers filled the tent. The sea of white robes parted, opening a path between The Prophet and…

Stipe’s eyes widened in disbelief. Standing among his followers, dressed in one of their robes, was a Starbrother.

It stepped forward on the same long legs Stipe had given the alien race when working out their design. Its eyes never left him. “The time has come, Brother Joseph. You and your flock will join us in Celestial Harmony.”

The tent exploded into chaos. The Starbrother ignored everyone but the Prophet. It moved swiftly towards him.

Looking into its cold, dark eyes, Stipe realized the last thing he wanted was for it to reach him. He pointed the device towards the creature. With every ounce of authority he could muster, he shouted, “Stop!”

It didn’t.

The binding setting was impressively alien, but slow. Stipe needed results quick. He adjusted the device’s control, activating the torch setting (the first one was the torch setting, wasn’t it?) and pressed the trigger.

The tent flew into the air, billowing around Stipe as he shot into the heavens. For a moment he was a ghost, then he was swallowed by the night sky.