Chthon

Interlog:

These are not our people.

The universe was clean in its conception:

Bright pure suns swept up the swirling dust,

Nebulae drifted eternally—until one fell from grace.

Our galaxy is ill:

It rots at the core, dissolves into decay, festers with putrid stench,

Diseased by the ultimate horror:

Life.

From this morass rises an unthinkable caricature of intellect,

Dedicating itself to the greater decimation of order,

Contaminating every particle.

Its guises are several, but our concern is with the nearest:

Man.

These are not our people.

The enemy is man.

This evil must be expunged, our galaxy sterilized.

No vestige of slime may remain.

Yet—the malady is far advanced;

The infection has greater resource than we.

Prematurity is defeat.

We control our revulsion; we study and are subtle.

We recruit the envoys of man’s doom from his own ranks.

We select an individual and tame him to fit our purpose.

This creature is less than sane

(His culture says),

He is ideal:

Aton.

Aton has a dream of union

Aton longs to embrace beauty

Aton seeks to murder evil…

Aton, Aton, child of illusion,

“Fair and foul are near of kin.”

Your strength rises from evil.

Look to your excrement;

Smear your face in truth

Forget ambition;

Return.

For these are not your people—

And we are not their god.